D.O.A (And Then Some)

It was three in the morning, a week and a half before the Fourth of July barbecue the Pearson family always held, and I had the strangest feeling someone was watching me. Which was insane, because I was alone. I attributed it to the fact that I was still trying to figure out this life-without-Darwin thing and how he used to wake up at three in the morning just to watch me sleep. Strange, yes. But it was Darwin, so it never really bothered me.

But when your husband is dead, and you still feel like you’re being watched, it’s more than unnerving.

I pushed the covers back and walked downstairs. I had to do something or I would go mad. Or worse, postal. The endless silence was starting to eat at my sanity.

So I made a banana sour cream cake, Darwin’s favorite food. It was something to take my mind off of the nothingness that had migrated into my life.

As I folded in the flour to the wet ingredients, the perpetual exhaustion I suffered from returned with a vengeance. It reminded me that I was supposed to be asleep right now, not making a stupid cake.

After I took the Bundt pan out of the oven, then the cake out of the pan, I headed upstairs so I could fall back asleep. The light from the bedside table spilled through the crack in the door into the hallway. I didn’t remember turning it on, but I figured in my tired state, I could have done something far sillier than that. Like bake a cake.

I rubbed my eyes as I pushed the door open with my hip.

“Do I smell banana sour cream cake?”

I froze. There was no way, I had to remind myself; it wasn’t even plausible.

I breathed out and lowered my hands.

Darwin was sitting against the headboard, playing with the covers. “Did you make banana sour cream cake?” he asked again.

I covered my mouth. “I’m dreaming. I’ve got to be dreaming.” I tried pinching myself. “Oh shit, that hurt.”

Darwin stood from the bed and pushed past me. “If you’re hiding banana sour cream cake on me, I’m going to tickle you to death,” he threatened, stomping down the stairs.

“Wake up, Sahara,” I told myself. “Wake up, you dumb asshole.”

When the dream Darwin came back upstairs, he had a piece of the cake on a napkin. As he passed me, he kissed my cheek and smiled. He walked back to the bed and settled under the duvet.

“I’m dreaming. I’m dreaming, and I’m going to wake up tomorrow morning, alone. I’m dreaming,” I chanted, moving over to the bed.

I flicked the light off and listened to Darwin eat his piece of cake.

I’m dreaming. I’m going to wake up tomorrow, alone. This is all a dream.

And he wasn’t there when I woke up.

I breathed a little easier as I pushed the covers back. I was happy to know that it was just my mind playing tricks on me.

And playing tricks it liked to do. Because there were several instances where it happened.

As I went out for a run, a car passed and the passenger looked like my late husband: in the store, a customer buying Red Delicious apples next to me picked them out how Darwin did (by how waxy they felt): a neighbor walking their dog in the evening waved a little to enthusiastically when he passed.

I really was starting to go around the bend.