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After: Mr. Conspiracy Theory


Ashley

That night, I laid in bed staring up at the ceiling. The kids were all up in Leslie's room right next door; I could hear them discussing everything through paper-thin walls, especially Oliver's booming voice, which loomed over the girls' smaller ones. "I just don't think we're getting the whole story from Mum," he was saying when they first moved from the living room into Leslie's room, "I just feel like there's something being... held back, like she doesn't trust us knowing everything or something."

"Maybe some things are just private, Oliver," Zoey said.

"He was my father," Oliver said, "I deserve to know exactly what happened."

"Maybe you only think you do," Zoey answered.

Leslie's voice was firm, "I agree with Oliver, I want to know what happened. Exactly what happened."

"Maybe mummy really doesn't know," Presley said.

"Of course she knows," Leslie said. "Don't be stupid."

"I'm not being stupid," Presley snapped.

"She talks to you almost every day," Oliver said, "She tells you everything."

"She hardly tells me everything," Zoey answered.

"She does so," Oliver replied.

"Don't exaggerate."

"I work with the doctor that performed the autopsy on Dad," Leslie said, "And he said the bullet shifted and that's what killed him."

"I want to know who put the bullet in him to begin with is what I wanna know," Oliver said.

There was a long pause, and I imagined them all sitting, staring at Zoey. I hugged Nick's shirt closer to my face. The shirt was beginning to lose his smell. At least I think it was. It was either fading or I was forgetting that it was the smell that belonged to him. One of the two. I closed my eyes.

"It doesn't matter," Zoey said, "The bullet was there, that's all that matters. Dad died, that's all that matters. Mumma's in pieces, that's what matters."

"I feel so bad," Presley said.

"Mum is strong," Oliver said.

"She's old, Oliver, if you haven't noticed," Zoey said. "Do you know how many people die after losing their soulmate like this just from a broken heart?"

"Oh Zoey don't talk about mummy dying," pleaded Presley.

"Zoey's right. A lot of people pine to death once they've lost the love of their life. Mum and Dad were so close, it's hard to imagine them not together. Mum's pining." Leslie's voice was authoritative.

"She's not gonna die, stop being dramatic," Oliver said.

"You stop being dramatic, Mr. Conspiracy Theory," said Zoey hotly.

Oliver sighed. "Why don't you just tell us whatever it is she's keeping from us?" he demanded.

Zoey's voice was really heated now. "Because, somethings are just mum's to tell and it's none of your damn business if she doesn't tell you herself. That's why." There was a thumping of angry footfalls, then the bedroom door creaked open and slammed shut and I heard Zoey walk down the hall and slam her own bedroom door.

"Like I said, dramatic," said Oliver.

I rolled out of bed and slid on my slippers and pulled Nick's old robe around my shoulders. It took me a couple moments to sneak out of the room, not wanting the kids to know I'd been listening in, and I tip toed quietly down the hallway to Zoey's room. When I got there, I found her on the window seat, hugging her knees. It'd been years since Zoey had sat at that window seat. It was still covered with the same stuffed animals and the same quilt that Rochelle had bought for her as a little girl. She looked up as I came in the room, tears glistened in her eyes. I walked over and lowered myself onto the window seat beside her.

She looked up at me. "I miss him, mummy," she whispered.

"I know," I said, and I held out my arms and she scooted over, her body so much larger and more filled out than she'd been last time we'd done this. She laid her head on my chest and her eyes streamed into my neck. "I know, I feel the same way." I rubbed her back gently.

Zoey looked up at me, the rims of her eyes bright red. "Do you think he can see us, mumma?"

"Yes," I said without even a moment's pause, "Yes I do."

Zoey sniffled. Then, pulling away, her eyes solemn with fear, she asked, "When Daddy was shot," she said slowly, "Was it because of me?"

I shook my head.

Although that wasn't entirely true.




Nick

I couldn't feel hurt or pain or anything akin to it. I couldn't feel that I missed Ashley, but I knew it. I knew that things would be better with her there, though I couldn't feel that they were not good without her. But again, I knew it.

Once I'd realized what was wrong with me, where I was, what was happening, I didn't go out on the stage again. I didn't have the performance in me. I didn't even want to sing. Not without Ashley. So I sat on the tour bus, the figment of my imagination tour bus, and spent my time trying to disprove it. I opened every drawer, every cupboard, even the tank of the toilet, trying to find some place there was a worm hole, some place that I forgot the detail on that would be nothing. But every part of the "heaven" I inhabited was finely constructed.

I wondered how far my heaven would go, if I could control where my tour bus was.

I wondered if there was a place that I could go in this heavenly tour bus that could afford me a view of Ashley, the way peering through the mists of Niagra Falls had allowed me to see her. It seemed that the more I wondered it, the stronger my need became, the more urgent. I didn't know why or how or when, I just knew that I had to see her.

That was the day that I started heading home.

Home to Ashley.