Layla
: Chapter 11

The way a person wakes up in the morning reveals a lot about the stage they’re at in life. Before I met Layla, I was a hard wake. I’d hit snooze on my alarm five times if there was somewhere I was meant to be. And if there wasn’t, I’d sleep until my body ached; then I’d roll myself out of bed like a deadweight and drag my feet all the way to the shower. I lived a life with very little that excited me.

After I first met Layla, I was eager to wake up. My eyes would open and immediately search her out. If the alarm was set, I’d silence it at the first sound, fearful it would wake her because I wanted to be the thing that woke her. I’d kiss her cheek or drag my fingers up her arm until she smiled.

I wanted to see her before she saw me, but I also wanted to be what she woke up to.

Today, I wake up in a similar, yet entirely new way—my skin already buzzing with anticipation before I’m fully alert. My eyes pop open, and I immediately search out Layla, but not because I want to be the thing that wakes her. I want the opposite. I want to slip out of our bed undetected so I can hide in the bathroom and rewatch footage from last night.

I lock the bathroom door, turn on the shower to drown out the noise from my phone, and then I lean against the counter. I skip the footage back to the moment Willow walked into the kitchen and sat at the table. I rewatch my entire conversation with Willow, just to make sure it actually happened and I didn’t dream the whole thing.

I didn’t dream it at all.

I close my phone app and stare into the bathroom mirror. It’s insane how two mornings ago, I woke up confident in my view of the world. But now that confidence has vanished and has been replaced by curiosity,

fascination, and a new, intense need to uncover everything else in this universe that I’m unaware of.

Knowing there’s more to this life than meets the eye makes everything around me feel insignificant. My career feels insignificant. My love for Layla feels like it matters less to the timeline of my life than it did two days ago.

Most of the things that have ever caused me stress all seem so unimportant now that I know there’s so much more out there than what I’ve led myself to believe.

My own existence feels less important to me now.

My priorities have shifted in the last twenty-four hours, yet I have no idea what my new priority is. It’s been Layla for so long now, but even everything Layla and I have been through feels less traumatic when you consider the possibility that not only do other humans have it worse than we do—but other realms of existence have it worse than we do.

I always tell Layla everything, but I’m still not sure I want to bring this up to her. But there’s a part of me that believes Layla knowing the truth about this could somehow help her. If she knew for a fact that there were other planes of existence than the one we’re currently in, maybe what happened to us would feel less significant. Maybe, in some warped way, this would be just as intriguing to her as it is to me, and it could possibly help with everything she’s been struggling through.

It has certainly freed me from the emptiness I’ve been feeling lately.

I’m not sure what it is I’m filled with now, maybe just curiosity and a shit ton of questions. But it’s been a while since I’ve woken up with this much enthusiasm for the day.

I’m ready to speak to Willow again.

I look around the bathroom, wondering if Willow is in here right now.

Does she watch us all the time? What does she do all night if she doesn’t sleep? What is she doing right now?

I have so many questions for her; I don’t even want to waste time on a shower. I turn off the water and slip out of the bathroom. Layla is still asleep on her stomach.

I leave her in bed and go down to the kitchen. I start a pot of coffee and look around the kitchen, wondering if she’s here. We need a way to communicate when she’s not using Layla.

“Are you in here?” I ask.

I say it quietly because I’m not sure it’ll ever feel normal—talking to nothing.

I don’t get any type of response, so I repeat myself. “Willow? Are you here?”

I spin around when the water in the sink faucet begins to drip. I turn and observe the drips of water until they change into a steady flow, then a heavy stream.

Then the water turns itself off completely.

I realize fear should be coursing through me, but the only thing I feel right now is eagerness. I want to continue where we left off in our conversation last night. I look around the kitchen—wondering how we can do that. I have a phone in my hands. I can use my phone. Willow can use my laptop.

I retrieve my laptop and sit at the kitchen table. “I don’t know if you know much about technology,” I say out loud. “But since I know you can type, we can use the messenger app.” I open it and point to the screen, assuming she’s following along if she’s in the room. “I’ll use my cell. You can use the laptop.” I slide it to the left of me and then rest my elbows on the table, holding my phone in my hands. I’m staring at the keys on my laptop as they begin to depress, quickly, several letters in rapid succession.

She types fast. That could be a clue as to what she did in her past life.

A message appears on my phone. I’m very good with technology.

I can’t help but smile at the message.

This is surreal. It is so much bigger than anything I’ve ever imagined would happen in the span of my lifetime. The idea of marriage, having kids, building a music career—it all seems like filler now. What if I have some sort of sixth sense? What if I’m supposed to do something with that? What if I’m meant to be something else besides a musician?

The keys on my laptop are being pressed again. She’s typing something else.

I know things—like how to cook. How to use a computer. How to use a cell phone. But I have no idea how I know those things.

I don’t use my phone to respond to her. I just speak out loud since Layla is still asleep upstairs. “I wonder if that could be a clue to how recently you died. I would assume if your death happened decades ago, you’d speak differently, or act differently.”

You seem so sure that I used to be alive. What if I’ve just always been here?

“Maybe you have, and you’ve just picked knowledge up along the way. You say you watch television sometimes, right?”

Yes.

“There are things we could do to try and pinpoint a timeline.”

Is that important to you? Knowing if I was once alive?

“Is it not important to you?”

I don’t know. Not really, I guess. What would it matter?

“If you knew what your life was like, maybe you could figure out why you’re stuck here.”

I don’t necessarily feel stuck.

“But are you happy?”

No. I already told you what it’s like here. You and Layla showing up is the most exciting thing to happen to me.

“What if I’m here to help you? Do you even want help figuring this out?”

That’s pretty egocentric of you to assume I’m the one who needs the help. What if I’m here to help you?

I stare at that comment for a moment, allowing it to get tangled up in all my other thoughts. “I’ve never thought of it like that.” I lean forward on the table, bringing my fingers to a point against my chin. “Maybe you’re right—maybe we’re both where we belong. But if that were the case, why would you be crossing into this world? You’re the one who misses things I still have. Food. Water. Sleep. You’re never satiated where you’re at.

Everything tangible is in this realm, and it seems like you miss those things, which means maybe you had them at some point in the past.”

My laptop slides several inches across the table until it’s sitting directly in front of me. The sudden movement causes me to flinch.

“Why’d you let me sleep so late?” Layla asks. My eyes dart up, and she’s standing in the doorway to the kitchen, stretching her arms above her head. She yawns as she heads for the coffeepot.

“It’s not that late,” I say, slowly closing the lid to my laptop.

Layla pours coffee into a mug. “It’s eleven o’clock.”

“The deadliest time of day,” I say teasingly.

She eyes me curiously. “It’s what?” She has both hands wrapped around her coffee mug now as she sips from it. I walk over to her and kiss

her on the forehead.

“Eleven in the morning—the deadliest time of day,” I say, repeating one of the many facts she’s told me.

Her eyes squint in confusion. “Weird. You’d think it would be nighttime.”

A blanket of guilt feels like it drapes over my shoulders. There are so many things I take for granted that Layla is still slowly recovering—the conversations we’ve had, the memories we’ve made, all the perfect moments we’ve spent together. It’s like someone took a pair of craft scissors and cut slivers of her life out of her mind, leaving them in scraps on the table.

I feel like I sometimes don’t appreciate the severity of her injuries.

I’ve spent the last six months since it happened walking on eggshells, trying not to point out the obvious, not wanting her to feel like she’s lost as much as she has. But what if indulging her desire to avoid talk of that night has inadvertently made it all worse?

A brain injury has to be similar to a physical injury. You exercise a physical injury. You work harder to gain back all the strength you lost. I went through three months of physical therapy for the wound to my shoulder, but we did the exact opposite with Layla’s injury.

We didn’t exercise her brain . . . we put it on bed rest.

We’ve avoided the damage—put her wounds on respite in the hopes everything would heal on its own. But it hasn’t. Physically, yes. But mentally—I’m not so sure.

“Were you on the phone just now?” she asks.

“No. Why?”

“I thought I heard you talking when I was coming downstairs.”

“I was,” I say quickly. “To myself. Not on the phone.”

She buys my explanation and walks to the refrigerator and opens it.

She stares at the shelves, but grabs nothing before closing the door.

“Want me to make you some breakfast?” I ask her.

She groans. “I’ve gained two pounds this week. I’m not eating breakfast anymore.”

“We’re on vacation. You still have at least eight more pounds left to gain before we can even consider this a successful trip.”

She smiles. “You’re sweet. But eight more pounds on me would mean no more naked pool days. I wouldn’t be able to look at myself.”

I walk over to her and pull her against me. I don’t like hearing her talk like this. I don’t like that something as simple as a little weight gain on vacation would even stress her out. I try to think back on our relationship—

recall anything I might have said that would make her think I care about her body more than I do her. I do tell her she’s sexy a lot, but I mean that in a positive way. But maybe reinforcing my attraction to her looks is causing her to put more importance on her appearance than she should.

I take her face in my hands. “I love you, Layla. That love doesn’t fluctuate with numbers on a scale.”

She smiles, but her smile doesn’t reach her eyes. “I know that. But I still want to be healthy.”

“Skipping meals isn’t being healthy.”

“Neither are Pop-Tarts or Twinkies, but this kitchen is full of nothing but junk food.”

“It’s vacation,” I say. “That’s what you do on vacation. You eat crap that’s bad for you while being lazy and sleeping too late.” I kiss her. “You need to get in vacation mode before our vacation is over.”

She wraps her arms around my waist and presses her forehead against my shoulder. “You’re right. I need to relax and enjoy this next week.” She pulls back. “You know what I can’t say no to? Mexican food. Specifically tacos.”

“Tacos sound good.”

“And margaritas. Where can we go around here to get tacos and margaritas?”

I fill with hesitation when she suggests leaving the house. I do want to get her out of here, and I like that she seems excited about the idea of tacos, but I also have fifty thousand questions left for Willow. I won’t be able to ask her those questions if we leave and I’m driving and preoccupied with Layla.

“You sure you want to leave? It’s at least sixty miles to the nearest restaurant.”

Layla nods emphatically. “Yes. I need out of this house.” She stands on her tiptoes and kisses me. “I’m gonna go shower.”

She walks out of the kitchen, and I head straight for my laptop and open it.

“Are you still here?” I ask, hoping to get some kind of response.

I stare at my laptop, but nothing happens. I wait patiently until I hear the shower running upstairs. I repeat my question. “Willow? Are you still here?”

The seconds are slow as they pass without action. But then the keys begin to press down, and I breathe a sigh of relief as she types something out.

Sorry. I’m here now. I left the room when Layla got down here. It feels weird watching the two of you without your permission, so I don’t.

“Where do you go when you leave the room?”

I was in the Grand Room.

“Do you ever go upstairs?”

Sometimes. Not when you’re both up there, though.

That’s not entirely accurate. “You were upstairs the night you slipped into her and got out of bed to look in the mirror.”

I thought you were both asleep. I try not to spy on you when you’re together. It feels wrong. But I have weaknesses . . . like when I smell the food you’re eating.

“But you spy on us when we’re alone?”

Spy is a strong term. I’m curious. Lonely. So yes, sometimes I watch you live your lives. There’s nothing else to do around here.

“What will you do when we leave next week?”

Sulk. Maybe try to beat my eight-day record of staring at the clock.

I don’t laugh at her self-deprecating joke. The thought of her being completely alone makes me feel bad for her. It’s weird—feeling sorry for a ghost. A spirit. Whatever she is.

I wonder what happened in my childhood that makes me take on so much guilt, even when I’m not responsible for whatever is wrong. I take on the weight of Layla’s sorrows. Now I’m taking on the weight of Willow’s.

Maybe I should buy this house. I know Layla wouldn’t want to live here full-time, but we could come here for vacations. That way Willow wouldn’t always be alone.

“We’re leaving soon, but we’ll be back this evening.”

Where are you going?

I guess she really wasn’t in here for Layla’s and my conversation. I replace it humorous that a ghost has morals in the same way humans do. She doesn’t want to be intrusive, even though we wouldn’t be aware of her presence.

“Layla wants tacos. And I’m sure she’ll want to shop while we’re in town. We’ll be gone all afternoon.”

Tacos sound so good.

“Want me to bring you some?”

It’s a nice gesture, but I think you forget that I can’t eat.

“You could tonight. After Layla goes to sleep.” There’s a moment of stillness before she begins typing again.

You’re okay with me using Layla again?

I shouldn’t be okay with it, but it doesn’t seem to be harming Layla in any way. If anything, she’s getting some much-needed calories from it.

“Sure. Tacos are important. You want beef or chicken?”

Surprise me.

I close the laptop and head upstairs, skipping every other step. I’m looking forward to spending the day with Layla. But I think I’m looking more forward to talking to Willow again tonight.

There’s definitely some deceit going on here—I’m fully aware of that.

But it’s hard to know where to draw the line when the lines aren’t even in the same world.