Blacker

Someone was tapping lightly on the flimsy plastic panel of his door. MacGregor blinked and coughed. He was lying on top of his little bed. Back in the bedsit. He was waking from a blank, dreamless sleep. He didn’t open his eyes as he went to the door. He knew the route off by heart. Five years of practice. Still, he tripped over something that should not have been there. It felt like a poorly stuffed pillow with some brittle twigs wrapped up in it.

“I’m coming,” he said. “Jackie, is that you?”

“It’s me, of course!” The voice was light and cheery. “Don’t tell me you don’t remember me?”

The voice was familiar, but impossibly so. He was still waking up even as he found the handle of the door. With his right hand he rubbed his forehead. His eyes ached like the beginning or end of a migraine, or like he’d had far too much to drink. He struggled to find his bearings. He rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand as he pulled the door open. His memories were just beginning to flood back to him when the voice spoke again and he immediately recognized Carol Anne’s lilting Irish tones.

“Hi,” she chirped. “How are you feeling?”

He opened his eyes. He could see.

Her face was so young, like it had been the first time they’d met. Her blue grey eyes twinkled as he absorbed her innocent and wondrous expression. She looked precisely as he remembered her and it seemed the past ten years had never happened. He could see again and Carol Anne’s youth and innocence had returned. She was smiling and happy and vibrant like she’d been before the second and final failure of their relationship had killed the last of the energy in her soul. He didn’t say a word and, instead, slowly reached for her tiny chin as her smile widened even more. He brushed his hand gently against the side of her freckled cheek and pushed away a stray lock of her dark auburn hair. Her eyes closed as she kissed his fingers lightly.

“Welcome home.”

“I can see you,” he barely spoke. “I can… I can see you.”

“I know,” she tilted her head back and smiled brightly. “It’s my gift to you, John.”

He touched his own face, felt the skin around his right eye. Then, his face cracking into a smile, he reached to touch the hem of her dress.

“It’s yellow,” he said.

“Yes,” she smiled, “I know.”