Chapter 21 - The Husband I Buried

Now

I inhaled, the sound of my own breath too loud in my ears. I went to the kitchen and poured a glass of water, downing it fast.

Once, this kitchen had been my favorite place in the house. Full of noise and laughter as Luis and I cooked dinner together, music playing, wine glasses half full, the smell of sizzling garlic and butter in the air.

Now, it was somewhere to reheat leftovers.

I looked at the clock. I had to leave now if I wanted to make it on time.

If I was honest with myself, I was glad for an excuse to get out of the house, away from the silence.

The street outside was dark and damp, the air carrying the faint scent of rain. My shoes clicked against the pavement, the sound sharp and hollow. I kept my head down, walking fast, replaying the image of Luis. I had to keep reminding myself I could do this.

The stone steeple of St. Andrew’s rose ahead, its pointed roof silhouetted against the dark sky. The church always looked too big for the street, too solemn, as if it knew it was holding more grief than the people inside could contain.

If Luis was alive, I needed to know what could keep him from coming home. Why had he left me behind to bury him?

The streetlights blurred as I walked. My thoughts looped relentlessly, my lawyer brain kicking into overdrive, laying out the possibilities so I could turn them over until I saw something.

What if Luis didn’t want to be found?

I tightened my grip around the mace in my pocket.

The idea that Luis could have left on purpose made my stomach twist. The only thing worse was if he really was dead.

It didn’t seem possible that he could be alive and just not come back. That he’d leave. Not willingly. Not without a good reason. All marriages had complications. No one’s was perfect. Especially not ours. But Luis had loved me. Despite everything, I’d always believed that.

What we had was real. And if it wasn’t, then I’d rather chase a lie than live with a ghost.

If Luis was out there somewhere, I owed it to him to find out why he hadn’t come home.

*

The basement windows glowed yellow. People were already arriving. Their silhouettes moved inside, the folding chairs scraping against the linoleum floor.

My heart thudded. I stopped at the door, hand on the knob.

This was a terrible idea. I’d sit there, spill my insanity in front of a dozen people who’d lost parents, children, partners, and they’d look at me with that same pitying expression Jessica had worn when I talked about Luis.

With each step, doubt crept in a little deeper.

But I was already here.

I exhaled, squared my shoulders, and pushed the door open.

If I was losing my mind, at least I’d find out surrounded by people who would understand.

Inside, it always smelled faintly of dust and candle wax. Someone had tried to brighten the space with plastic flowers and laminated motivational quotes pinned to the corkboard. Healing takes time. You are not alone. But under the harsh fluorescent lights, the words looked sterile.

The room was filling.

I saw faces I already knew. The woman who lost her brother in a boating accident, the man who never stopped wringing his hands because he’d crashed the car, killing his wife. There were a couple of new ones since I’d last been here, sitting apart, eyes down, still processing their losses.

I would have turned back right then, but I’d already been spotted.

‘Mackenzie!’

Jill, the group facilitator, waved me over with her usual warm smile. ‘I wasn’t sure we’d see you again,’ she said as I took a seat.

‘Yeah,’ I muttered, clutching my bag. ‘Busy few weeks.’

Her eyes softened. ‘Well, I’m glad you’re here.’ She touched my shoulder lightly.

I gave a polite nod and looked away before she could dig deeper.

We began, as always, with introductions. Name, loss, how long it had been since it happened. I worried over what to say when it was my turn, my chest tight. I could feel the words pressing against my ribs, desperate to get out, but what could I say? Hi, I’m Mackenzie, and I think I saw my dead husband on the train.

I forced a small smile. ‘Mackenzie. I lost my husband, Luis, in a car accident. It’s been four months.’

There were murmurs of sympathy. Jill gave me the same encouraging nod she gave everyone.

Then the talking began.

The woman across from me, Brenda, spoke about how she’d lost her son to leukemia. She showed a photo of him before he got sick. I had never actually met Mason, but the way Brenda talked about him, recalling little moments from their time together, I felt like I knew him.

An older man picked at the cuff of his sleeve, waiting his turn. I knew it was hard for him to be patient and not interrupt, and it didn’t surprise me that he was struggling not to call out now.

Another man described dreaming of his wife every night. She was always at the kitchen table, always turning away when he tried to speak.

It was comforting in a way, and also deeply unnerving. I’d had dreams like that about Luis too. I listened to the attendees talk, their pain raw and out in the open. Not like mine, which I’d kept tightly locked away, pretending none of this was really happening.

Finally, when the silence settled and the group seemed ready to close, I heard myself say, ‘Has anyone ever . . . seen them?’

The words hung there, sharp and out of place. I instantly regretted them.

Jill rested her hands in her lap. ‘Can you tell us what you mean by that, Mackenzie?’

I swallowed hard. My fingers twisted in my lap. ‘I mean . . . really seen them. After they died. Like, you know they’re gone, but you see them anyway. Out in public. Or somewhere familiar.’

There were a few nods. A few uneasy glances. Murmurs from those who’d been there.

Finally, the older man cleared his throat. ‘It’s just grief,’ he said gently. ‘I used to see my wife all the time. A glimpse of her coat, the back of her head. Always exactly like her, until I got closer and realized it was someone who had her eyes, or her laugh.’

He dropped his head, saddened by the disappointment grief brought with it.

Was that all my sighting of Luis had been? A few similar details sewn together?

No, there were too many of them to be coincidence.

Brenda nodded. ‘Me too. In the grocery store one day I thought I heard Mason laughing. I nearly dropped everything to run after him, after that sound. Then I saw a little boy come around the corner, grinning. When he saw me, he stopped laughing. He was frightened by me, by my reaction. He ran back the other way, and I cried right there in front of everyone in the store.’

‘That’s actually more common than you might think,’ Jill said gently. ‘Many people experience memories—’

I could imagine Jessica agreeing, lecturing me about ‘projection’ and ‘visual misidentification’.

I swallowed and pushed on. ‘No. It wasn’t a memory, or just a resemblance.’ I looked from the man to Brenda apologetically. ‘I mean . . . I really saw him.’

Now the air changed. The room went quieter.

The man with the restless hands stopped fidgeting. Brenda frowned.

Jill’s expression flickered with surprise. ‘What makes you think it was him?’

My throat tightened. I told her what I’d told Jess. ‘Because it was him. Same face. Same hair. Same walk. He looked right at me.’

I didn’t mean for my voice to crack, but it did. ‘He looked right at me, and then he just got on a train like I was no one, so I followed him.’

Someone cleared their throat. A chair creaked.

‘It could have been a stranger who—’ Jill began, but another voice cut through.

‘I’ve seen the same.’

The room stilled.

It came from the back – a man I hadn’t noticed before. Mid-forties, sharp jaw, dark jacket zipped to his throat. He sat apart from everyone else, one leg crossed over the other, his expression unreadable.

Jill blinked. ‘Would you like to share, uh . . . Sorry, I don’t think we caught your name?’

He smiled faintly. ‘Evan.’

Something about the way he said it made my skin prickle.

Jill nodded, hesitant. ‘Go ahead, Evan.’

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. ‘I saw my wife a few weeks after the funeral. Standing outside our old house. She didn’t speak, just . . . watched. Like she was sleepwalking. Then, she just wandered off.’

A tremor went through me.

‘What did you do?’ I asked.

He looked at me then, directly at me, and his gaze was steady, unblinking. ‘I followed her,’ he said softly. ‘Like you did. I wanted to talk to her. I thought something must be wrong, that she wouldn’t just let me think she was dead if she was alive.’

The blood drained from my face. ‘How do you—’

He smiled, just a little. ‘You said he got on a train, right?’

I nodded, my breath catching.

‘Sometimes,’ Evan said, voice low, ‘they don’t want to be found. They want to disappear.’

Jill shifted uncomfortably. ‘Evan, maybe we could—’

But he wasn’t looking at her. His eyes stayed on me.

‘I think you should be careful, Mackenzie,’ he said. ‘If you really saw him . . . he might not be the guy you knew. Just like Annette. It damn near ruined me.’

The air in the room turned heavy, pressing in. I could hear my pulse in my ears.

Jill’s voice broke the silence, soft but firm. ‘Let’s take a short break, everyone.’

Chairs scraped. People rose, murmuring. I got up, turning to find Evan. I had to talk to him.

He might not be who he used to be.

But Evan was gone.