Three

THREE

I take Shania home, then I go to my place, where Libby and Jin will be waiting. Anton and I have a condo in downtown Toronto. It was stage one of "the plan" when we got married. We'd both owned condos in less central—and more affordable—neighborhoods. We sold them for a down payment on this because I dreamed of living right in the heart of the city, where I could walk everywhere, including along the shores of Lake Ontario. We planned to live here for a few years and then flip the condo and buy a house in the country, because I'd dreamed of that, too—rural living within easy driving distance to a CF center.

We'd been on the verge of selling last fall, as the housing-market bubble seemed prepared to burst. Sell at a profit, and then rent for a few months before taking advantage of the housing dip to buy. So smart, right? Yep, it was. And now the bubble has burst, and I'm still in this condo, barely able to face getting up in the morning much less moving.

I arrive at my door to find Jin and Libby in the hall.

"You have keys," I say with a sigh. " Both of you."

They don't comment. While Libby and Jin are very different, my brother does have a type, and it's the sort of person who'll happily take my condo key for emergencies or house-sitting, but will politely wait at the door instead of letting themselves in.

They are also the type who don't comment on the boxes in the front hall, dropped off by Anton's colleagues two weeks after his death. They've each separately offered once to help me deal with that, and they won't mention it again, knowing I'll accept that offer if and when I'm ready to unpack those boxes… and empty his closet and move the coffee cup he left on the counter that morning before work, the one he'd always only rinse out because he'd want a coffee when he got home. It sits there, gathering dust, waiting for him to need it.

Jin pauses by the hall table and silently scans the growing tablecloth of unopened mail. He knows there will be nothing urgent—I'm responsible enough to deal with all that. I mentally recite the contents of that pile as I pass it. Two cruise ship brochures I don't need. subscription magazines I can't read. And eight letters addressed to Anton. It's the last that Jin's looking for.

He spreads them and takes a photo, saying, "We'll deal with these."

He means he and Keith will notify the senders that Anton has died. I want to say I'll handle it. I want to be able to handle it. I tried, but even cutting and pasting a prewritten blurb into an email felt like being at that roadside again.

I regret to inform you that Anton Novak has died.

I could have handled that. What I couldn't handle were the replies that demanded additional proof. Additional proof? My husband is dead. Dead. You really think I'd lie about that?

Oh, I know people do lie about it, but that was the part I couldn't handle—demands to prove Anton was dead, as if I wouldn't give my right arm to say "Ha! No, I was just trying to scam you. He's fine."

Jin is walking away when Libby says, "Nic?"

I turn around to see her at that table, holding a letter to me. I march back, take it, and head straight into my office, where I feed it, unopened, into the shredder.

"Good riddance," Jin mutters from the doorway.

"He shouldn't be contacting you," Libby says.

I don't answer. What can I say? That I agree, but I lack the energy—or the will—to take more concrete action?

The letter is from the guy who hit us. After I blocked his email, he resorted to old-fashioned letter writing, which I suppose is also better than laying on my buzzer at two in the morning.

I've read a couple of the letters. He alternates between begging forgiveness and blaming me for ruining his life. After all, he hadn't been driving drunk or high. He'd just been going too fast, typical twenty-four-year-old guy confident in his skills, not about to be slowed down by a little snow.

Now his life is ruined because of a momentary lapse of judgment. And was it really his fault? Couldn't my husband have veered out of the way? What about the airbags? That's the real villain here—the airbags that didn't go off. I'm suing the company, right? Suing for millions, that's what he's heard. So what right do I have to complain? I'll be rich.

Anton didn't have time to veer. That was never questioned. Yes, I am suing the automaker, at Keith's urging, and it's not for millions, and that money will go to charity because I have enough and what we really wanted was the recall, which has been issued. But the kid who hit us isn't the only one who snarks about that.

Did you hear the widow is suing the car company, too—first that story about ghosts and now this. She's such an attention whore. Probably doesn't even have CF.

It doesn't stop. None of it stops.

Prove that your husband is dead.

Forgive the guy who killed him.

Don't you want to contact your husband's ghost? He's right there, waiting for you, like he said.

I turn sharply and brush past Libby and Jin. "Let me comb my hair and we'll go."

Jin drives to our favorite pub on Queen West. It's a little dive bar, the interior so dark you'd never know it's only late afternoon. Also dark enough that you can barely see the decor, which is a blessing. At this time of day, it's practically empty. We order at the bar, get our drinks, and take our usual table in the back.

"So…" Jin says. "Another séance."

I sink into the booth, cracked vinyl squeaking under me. "I screwed up."

"That depends," Libby says, folding her hands on the scarred table. "Do you really want to quit? Then yes, you screwed up. But is it possible you don't want to quit, and you're only saying that to get Keith off your back?"

I sigh. "I wouldn't do that to you guys. If I say I want help quitting, I really do. I don't know why I keep sabotaging myself. It's humiliating. I know they're all con artists. I just can't help…"

"Hoping," Libby murmurs.

I slump into my seat. "God, I'm pathetic."

" No. You're grieving, and they're taking advantage of that. I know you want to be stronger, Nic, but no one blames you. What happened was…" She sucks in breath. "The worst. Horrible and unfair. To both of you. You guys got married knowing you might not have much time left. Then you got on that new medicine, and suddenly, that timeline is shifting, giving you more of a future. But it's always been your timeline. That's the shittiest part of it. You and Anton were on your timeline. That's what counted."

How much more time I had left.

How much more time I had to be healthy.

How much more time I had to be alive.

I knock back my shot, and then make a face. "That'd be way more impressive if it wasn't a shooter."

"We know you're hard-core, Nic," Jin says. "Even if you drink like you're still in college."

"What's that one called again?" Libby says.

Jin grins. "Redheaded Slut. It's her favorite."

"Damn straight." I slam back a second test tube of J?germeister, peach schnapps, and cranberry juice. Then I hold out the shot glass. "Hit me again, bartender."

Jin sets it aside and shakes his head. Then he leans forward. "Look, I know what Keith thinks about this spiritualist stuff. It freaks him out."

For good reason. But Jin doesn't know that part. Neither does Libby. It's my secret. My family's secret.

Jin continues, "Keith is the one making you feel ashamed of what you're doing. I love the guy, but he can be judgy, and he's judging all over the place here, even if we know he's only worried about you."

"He's being overprotective," Libby says. "But yes, it feels like judgment, and it's driving you to hide what you're doing. Driving you to get help from Shania, who's a sweet kid but…"

"She wants to make contact even more than I do."

Both of us blinkered by our losses. Smart people doing things that our brains know are foolish, but when you're lost in the darkness of grief, the light of emotion is the one that guides you.

"Okay," I say. "So what's the solution? Keep blowing money on mediums until I get the answer I'm looking for? I'm already that old definition of insanity—doing the same damn thing over and over and expecting a different result."

"Which is why we're suggesting one last attempt," Libby says. "You agree to try one more time and only one more time, and we do it right. We find a good spiritualist who might actually be legit. We take every step to do this exactly right."

We're talking about a séance, not a dinner party. You can't plan something like that "exactly right" any more than you can plan a unicorn hunt exactly right.

Except this isn't like a unicorn hunt, because I don't believe in unicorns. I might not want to believe in ghosts either—and some days I don't, convinced I'd misinterpreted everything that happened twenty-two years ago. But deep down, I know there is something out there, and if it's contacted, things can go horribly, unspeakably wrong. Only this is Anton, who would never hurt me.

That voice from earlier whispers up from my memory.

Janica. Careful.

"Nic?" Jin says.

I shake myself. I imagined it. Imagined Anton warning me that I was being tricked because deep down, I already knew it.

I look from Jin to Libby. I don't think either of them believes in ghosts. Hell, they never thought I would either, and if asked, they'd say it's my grief opening me up to the possibility. I need ghosts to exist, so I believe they do.

Libby and Jin want to do this for me. Not because they really think I can contact Anton but because they know I need to try. That is friendship, and I am grateful for theirs, and even if a séance isn't the kind of thing you can do "exactly right," I need to let them try because I need to end this.

One last time. A time where I haven't half-assed it, allowing a medium to convince me to hire them rather than actually finding one I consider legitimate.

Get everything right. Then, when it fails, I can't seize on an oversight as an excuse to try again.

"And Keith?" I say.

Jin straightens. "We don't tell him. Libby and I will arrange everything. You can help if you like, but as far as Keith knows, we're arranging a much-needed getaway for the three of us. All he has to do is take the kids for a few days."

"So we lie to him? How's that going to make me less ashamed of what I'm doing?"

They glance at each other.

"Nic's right," Libby murmurs. She looks at me. "What do you suggest?"

"I tell him I'm doing this. You guys don't need to get involved. I say it's like having one last blowout party before embracing sobriety. He might not like it, but it's my life and my money."

Jin shakes his head. "No, we tell him we're doing this."

"You don't have to."

"I will. He'll understand, eventually, and he'd rather we were there with you." He looks from me to Libby. "Settled then?"

We nod.

Jin takes out his phone. "So where do we start?"

When someone knocks on my condo door that evening, I don't need to check through the peephole. There are a very limited number of people with my downstairs access code, and I know exactly which one this is.

I open the door. Keith stands there, looking like he rolled out of bed still dressed in his Bay Street banking exec suit. His top button is undone, his tie is askew, his hair is rumpled. Is it possible for a face to be rumpled, too? Then his is.

He looks like he's been up for three nights straight, and I'd feel terrible about that, if my brother hasn't looked like he missed a night of sleep since he was a teenager. That's just Keith, always slightly tired, slightly disheveled, and when he sees me, he sighs and leans on the doorframe, as if I'm responsible for his exhaustion. Which, to be fair, is usually accurate.

I used to envy Keith. Despite that perpetually tired look, he's obnoxiously healthy. He doesn't need to spend two hours a day in treatment for a chronic illness. He doesn't need to take pills before he eats. He didn't grow up needing to be hospitalized for infections once a year.

What I realize now is that it's not easy to be the healthy sibling of a chronically ill child. My parents were very careful to give Keith an equal share of their attention, but of course, there were the little things they didn't consider, the responsibilities they gave him from a young age.

Look out for your little sister. Make sure she's taking her enzyme pills at school. Keep her amused during her daily treatments. Entertain her when she's bedridden with an infection.

Even their will favored me. They wanted to be sure I had money for all possible care when my health failed. The bulk of their estate was to be held in trust, and whatever I don't need for my health will pass to Keith when I die.

Our father died of a stroke six years ago. Cancer claimed Mom almost exactly a year later. When the will was read, I wanted to give Keith half, no matter what our parents intended. Of course, Keith refused. So if he gives that long-suffering sigh at my doorstep, he's kinda earned the right to it.

My brother has spent his life playing a role thrust on him, however inadvertently. He learned to subsume his own needs and do what was expected. Which is why, even though I'd always suspected he was gay, he did what was expected. Found a woman he cared about, married her, and had two kids.

It was Libby who realized the truth and tugged him from the closet. That doesn't mean the breakup was easy on her. It can't be, under those circumstances. But they figured it out, and four years ago, she introduced him to Jin, a radiologist at the hospital where she's a psychologist.

Keith may not have been born onto the easiest path, but life has made up for it by giving him a loving husband, two amazing kids, and an ex-wife who still talks to him. So I won't feel too bad for the guy.

"Jin spoke to you, I presume," I say.

He sighs again.

"Oh, cut that out," I mutter. "Come in and have a beer. Or should I make it a coffee? You look like shit."

"I can always count on you to make me feel better."

"No, you can count on me to be honest. You're working too hard for corporate assholes who don't appreciate you."

"They pay me, though."

"Not enough. Coffee? Knowing you'll be leaving here and going home to work for another three hours?"

"Please and thank you."

I start the machine. I know I'm deflecting by bitching about his job. Doesn't stop me from doing it, though. Just like feeling guilty about dragging him into my madness doesn't stop me from saying, "I'm doing this last séance. I know you don't want me to, but I am."

He sighs again, and I resist the urge to whip a dish towel at his head and settle for wrapping it around my hand.

"Preparing for battle?" he says.

I look down to see that the dish towel does indeed make me look like a boxer taping up for a bout. I unwind it.

"I don't want to fight about this, Keith."

"Neither do I." He pulls out a table from the breakfast bar and sits. "Which is why I'm not going to try to talk you out of it. I'm just…" He rubs a hand over his mouth.

"Worried," I say.

"I don't want you to be disappointed, Nic. If I thought you could contact Anton, I'd have helped as soon as you started hiring these people."

He lowers his voice, as if we aren't alone in the condo. "I'm worried that you keep trying because of what happened the last time. You realize you girls didn't actually contact a ghost, right? Patrice just… She had problems, and those problems led to…" He trails off, unwilling to fill in the rest.

"That's not why I expect it to work," I say.

Liar.

"I don't even really know why I'm doing it."

Liar.

"It just feels like something I need to get past. I know that probably doesn't make sense."

"No, it does. Losing Anton was…" He sucks in a breath. "Devastating. But all that viral-story nonsense?"

"It messed me up?"

A quirked smile. "Nah, you were always messed up."

"You like sugar in your coffee, right?" I lift the bowl. "Lots and lots of sugar?"

He ignores the threat. "Yes, it messed you up. Interfered with the grieving process."

"You've been talking to Libby, haven't you?"

"The point is that I'm trying to accept that you need to do this. I trust Jin, and I trust Libby, and if they say this is the way to handle it, then maybe it is. I'm an economist. I don't know anything about how the mind works."

But you know how grieving works, Keith. You grieved for the end of your marriage to Libby, and we both grieved for our parents. We're still grieving for them, in our way. It felt as if I'd just buried my parents, and then I was burying my husband, too.

Keith continues, "Jin says he and Libby are setting this up, and Jin is going to be with you." They'd originally both wanted to be there, but Libby finally admitted that her skepticism would get in the way. "I'd like to be there, too."

"I don't think—"

"Please, Nic. I just… I want to watch out for you. I know Jin can do that, but he doesn't know what happened with Patrice, and I don't think you want to tell him, right?"

I tense instinctively. "No."

"I agree. So can I be there? Please?"

"All right."