Between Lives
Milo woke to Anna saying, “You’re going to be late.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
Daniel joined in.
She’s right.
Milo kept his eyes closed.
“Both of you are unbearable.”
Anna laughed.
By nine he was at work.
Hale disliked his proposal. Leila liked it. Daniel warned him not to interrupt.
I’m not interrupting.
Three times.
“Two.”
Leila looked at him. “What?”
“Nothing.”
At lunch Anna met him by the river.
“I want a child,” she said.
“You hate children.”
“I hate other people’s children.”
“That’s reassuring.”
They walked beneath the trees.
“You’d be a good father,” she said.
“Based on what?”
“I know you.”
“So does Daniel. He thinks I shouldn’t be trusted with plants.”
Tropical plants, Daniel said.
Anna smiled.
Years passed.
They had a daughter.
Anna left him when the girl was twelve.
Later he married Elise.
His mother died.
His daughter stopped speaking to him for nearly three years, then called one evening as though nothing had happened.
Daniel grew old beside him.
So did Milo.
At seventy-eight, they sat by the river watching children throw stones into the water.
“You had a good life,” Daniel said.
“Mostly.”
“Mostly is good.”
Milo smiled.
“You always say that.”
Daniel looked at him.
“Do I?”
Then came the tone.
Milo’s smile disappeared.
“No.”
The river held for another second.
Then it was gone.
Daniel too.
There was no dark, no room, no body.
Only himself.
Milo hated this part.
The life returned to him all at once, stripped of days and weather and excuses.
Seventy-eight years reduced to what had mattered.
Anna leaving.
His daughter crying behind a locked door.
His mother’s last call, unanswered.
Elise asleep beside him.
The afternoon by the river.
Regret first.
It always seemed to come first.
Then the counting.
Things done.
Things avoided.
People hurt.
People loved.
Things learned too late to be useful.
Milo tried not to listen.
“Keep Daniel.”
Of course.
“The river too.”
Yes.
“Anna.”
A pause.
You kept Anna before.
“I know.”
Silence again.
He could feel the old lives somewhere behind this one, not quite memories, more like weight.
“How long?”
As long as you need.
“I don’t need any longer.”
There are still—
“I know.”
Another silence.
He hated the silence most.
Here there was no one to answer for him, no rain, no hunger, no work to do, no face to look at.
Only Milo.
And beyond that, faintly, the others.
Billions of them.
Each elsewhere.
Each between lives or safely inside one.
He never thought about them when he was living.
Here, he could not quite avoid them.
“Another,” he said.
Same world?
“No.”
Memory?
“None.”
Are you sure?
“Yes.”
You said that last time.
Milo felt something tighten, though he had no chest.
“Please.”
A pause.
Then:
Ready?
“Yes.”
Too quickly.
“Yes.”
The pressure vanished.
Rain appeared against a bedroom window.
Someone beside him stirred beneath the sheets.
Milo opened his eyes.
“You’re going to be late,” she said.
He turned toward her.
For a moment he simply looked at her face.
Then he smiled.
“I’m not.”