Exactly twenty years since she died and Kim stood before me looking almost the same as she did in her obituary portrait. She swayed gently with the balmy summer breeze and I couldn’t help feeling self conscious.
I was no longer a willowy girl, time had rounded out all my sharp edges. I never managed to lose the pregnancy weight after having my son, my curls thinned and hair dye could only obscure so many grey hairs. I had crows feet and she stood at my doorstep, eternally sixteen.
She was dead, I knew she was. I was in the car when it had happened, I had spoken at her funeral, I had cried for her. My brain seemed to pause, overcome with an instinctual urge to hug her, to touch her.
As I moved to embrace, her eyes widened and she recoiled. Were the whites of her eyes always so yellow?
“Kim?” I slowly sounded out the single syllable of her name, reacquainting myself with the feel of it on my tongue. She whimpered in recognition and I drew closer with open palms.
I moved my hand slowly, careful not to startle her, “Mel. I’m Mel.”
There was something humorous about it all. In highschool, she had always been so much smarter than me. She was a flawless student, the recipient of academic awards and scholarships and now here we were: Me speaking to her slowly, adopting the same tone of voice I used when I taught my son how to say Mama and Dada. I scoured her eyes for any flash of understanding.
Her brow furrowed in concentration as she opened her chapped lips, stray bits cemetery dirt spilling from her mouth. The noise she produced was a guttural thing, her dry vocal chords chafing as she grunted. I winced, fearful that the howl of my undead best friend would alert the neighborhood to her presence.
“Yes Kim, it’s me. It’s Mel,” I whispered. Tears stung my eyes as I reached out, cradling he peeling flesh of her cheek. After a moment of becoming accustomed with the gesture, she leaned into the touch. I couldn’t help being reminded of the stray cats that my mother used to tend to and how difficult it was to win their trust. I wouldn’t have been surprised if she had started purring.
Unlike the feral cat, she moved to mirrored me as she lifted her own hand to my face. I found myself caught in the intimacy of the moment, in the intimacy of this unexpected reunion. The sensations of the world seemed to fall away, save for the song of summer cicadas and the feeling of her, cold and clammy, on me, warm and sweaty. A mascara-black teardrop streaked down my cheek and with a gnarled finger, she traced the path left in it’s wake.
We stood like this, illuminated by the lone porch light, a sight for all the cul-de-sac to see. I inhaled sharply through my nose as I gathered my courage, “Kim, I- I am so sor-”
My words were cut short by my husband’s yell from the kitchen, “Melanie? Who’s at the door?”
Anticipating her skittishness, I firmly grabbed her shoulders, holding her in place as she moved to flee.
“Kim, stay here,” I commanded, willing her to focus on only me as her eyes darted, looking for an escape.
My husband’s voice continued from the kitchen, “Mel, I really need your help in here, I think I burned the halibut!”
I persisted, “Kim listen to me. He won’t see you, he won’t find you. I’ve got you.” Those three words seemed to bring her back to me as she met my gaze. “Kim, I need you to go to the garage and hide, I will come to you as soon as I can.”
She seemed as unsure as a corpse could be but nonetheless, I continued and pulled her in even closer, “Please don’t leave me again.” My voice shook with this plea as I held her there, praying my words would sink in.
Her only response was a jerky attempt at a nod and a soft grunt. Standing at the open front door I watched her lumber towards the slightly ajar garage door as I yelled to my husband, “Sorry Hun, it was just some salesman. I’ll be there in a second!”
I went inside, closing the front door behind me and taking a minute to inspect myself in the mudroom mirror. I wiped away the black streaks of mascara and the grime left behind by Kim with the sleeve of my blouse. I took a deep breath after applying a new coat of lipstick and fluffing up my bangs.
I watched in the reflection as Chris entered the mudroom and sidled up behind me, wrapping me in a hug. I smiled at the image of us in the mirror and he gently pressed a kiss into the crown of my head. I smelled the smoke of the burnt dinner wafting from the kitchen.
“Happy anniversary Baby,” He murmured into my hair, “Here’s to another ten years.”