By Roland Goity

I awake to a series of tugs, totally disoriented. Somewhat regaining my senses, I see Abigail. Only, she isn’t old and weathered like me anymore. She’s wearing a floral-patterned summer dress, and is as slim and pretty as when we first met, her tawny hair teased the way she liked. And she’s mumbling something, but I can’t make out what she’s saying other than my name: Albert, Albert, over and over. Then, just like that, she’s gone. 

*

“I’m sorry about the fever dreams, Mr. Parsons,” the doctor tells me, “but your fever is under control now with the Tylenol and you seem reasonably okay otherwise.” 

“These strange visions. They aren’t just fever dreams—they’re something more!” However, I continue to avoid telling her about what I’ve seen: my late wife. 

She gives me a bit of a side-eye, and hesitates before answering. “Covid-19 in extremely rare cases has been linked to new-onset psychosis, tricking your mind in relation to what you see and hear. I wouldn’t worry about it, however. You’ll be in the free and clear very soon.”

*

It’s late October. Driving from the hospital after my appointment, my eyes are drawn to the spectacular orange, yellow, and red colors of the Japanese maples that line every path and street in and out of the complex. They remind me so much of the vividly bright cocktail dresses Abigail used to wear. My mind fixes on the beauty and despair of these same trees as their leaves fell in early November, four years ago. 

I am seventy-one now, nearly eight years older than my wife was then. We both occupied hospital beds the year the virus engulfed us. Only, I was never put on a ventilator, and she was. I returned home a week later, navigating the stops and turns of these little streets every day right before and after visiting hours until it was too late for even the ventilator to keep her alive. 

When I arrive home I consider the doctor’s skepticism about my condition. It’s true that my fever is minimal, my coughing fits have largely passed, and I just feel a little achy and off. Maybe she’s right—I’ll soon “be in the free and clear.” 

I make a BLT that’s nothing like the wonderful ones Abigail would make for us—mine use bacon bits from a package.  I mindlessly eat the sandwich as I watch the television news. Then, I settle in for a nap on the couch. 

I only fade off for a few minutes this time before I snap awake suddenly and find Abigail, the young version again, straddling me in a see-through nightgown. She lifts its skirt and rubs her belly in the dim light of the room. Her face carries a sunset glow. 

“We’re going to have a baby,” she says. “You’re going to be a father.” Identical words to those she told me one evening in bed, more than forty years ago.

Then, just as in those recent appearances, she abruptly disappears, and I’m alone again. 

Despite the virus, I feel a brief surge of energy, amazed at getting to relive the moment I first learned of our daughter’s pending arrival. Abigail’s visit has triggered so many beautiful remembrances of our life together. I picture us dancing to “Night Fever” under a brightly it disco ball, doing the Times’ Sunday crossword in the park on the bench by the fountain, and, not long before she died, standing side-by-side across the net from our friends in pickleball dink rallies once our bodies were no longer cut out for tennis. I want to keep awake and let these memories, these feelings, linger. But I am so drowsy and exhausted, I just can’t. 

When I finally rouse myself off the couch, birds are singing on the back porch and the next day’s sunlight has made its way across the hardwood floor. There’s no evidence of anything supernatural having occurred. Not that I expected any. 

*

Raindrops in the wind crash against the restaurant window on the wharf where my daughter and I are having lunch. It used to be her mother’s and my favorite spot, where we’d dine whenever we wanted to celebrate something, or just have a really nice time. The “seafarer’s special” is my favorite meal in the world, and Iris is treating. Today’s celebration is for the fact that I tested negative ten days ago and have regained my strength. Only, while I feel better physically, I’ve undergone a strange sense of loss that I’m still trying to understand. Iris, who’s happier than I am about my renewed health, thinks I’m nuts. 

“You need to forget about what you think you saw, Pop,” she says, waving a forked scallop before setting it in her mouth. Iris looks a bit like Abigail, with the same hazelnut eyes and cute little nose. Unluckily for her, she got stuck with my thin, flat lips and child-size teeth. When the little scallop’s gone down the hatch, Iris says, “Grief can be a powerful thing, but you can’t let it control you. I mean, it’s very touching that you got to share another special moment or two with Mom again in this unusual way. Appreciate that, but don’t dwell on it. It will hold you back and be painful in the long run.”

“You’re right,” I say with a smile, not correcting her that it wasn’t just once or twice but nearly a dozen times. I reach over and put my hand on hers. “Thank you.”

We enjoy the rest of our lunch and she drives me back home. We have tea at my kitchen table before she gets up to head home. We hug and say farewells at the door.

“Glad you’re doing fine again, Pop,” she says, before kissing my cheek. “I know it’s hard. We both miss Mom so much, but you need to refocus, okay?” 

“I will,” I say, as she dashes to the car in a hunched position, her unhooded jacket pulled up over her head to avoid the downpour. Just the way she used to do when she was late for school as a child and her mother was already in the car, behind the wheel. 

Is it bad luck for one not to put their hands behind them and cross their fingers when telling a lie? I hope not, as I neglected to do so, one hand warm in my jacket pocket, the other waving adieu. For, while I’m sure “refocusing” is admirable, I have another plan in mind. 

*

A month passes. Travel spikes as people around the globe begin to celebrate the holidays. There’s a new variant afoot, and the CDC warns everyone to use extreme caution—mask when out in public, employ best hygiene practices, test themselves should any symptoms occur. That’s my cue. I head to the airport nearly every day for a week, then another. I eat my lunches there, have drinks with travelers in the terminal bars, even do a little shopping in the semi-chic chains and mingle with others whenever I can. 

I feel generally good, aside from the typical sneezes and aches that come with the December cold. Then one day, I feel a little worse. The next day, worse still. I pull out an antigen test from my bathroom drawer, unseal the packaging, take a swab and prepare the solution. Within minutes I’m extremely relieved: Both lines have quickly filled solid on the testing device. 

“I’m positive again,” I tell my daughter on the phone. 

“Oh, no!” Iris says, saying how sorry she is, explaining how they can’t afford to have me stay with them now, as her husband’s parents will be there too, and it would be too risky to possibly jeopardize their health, not to mention everyone else’s. “We can Zoom, though!” she says, trying to sound upbeat. “You won’t be totally alone over the holidays. At least we’ll see each other’s face, hear each other’s voice.” 

“That’s okay,” I say. “A simple phone call works best.”  It takes a minute or two, but I assure her that I’ll be fine. 

 What I didn’t tell Iris, of course, is that I won’t be alone. With a huge grin on my face, I pick things up off the floor, wipe down the tables, and prepare to spend another Christmas with Abigail. 

*   *   *

Roland Goity lives in Issaquah, WA, where the summers are spectacular and the winters are made for writing. Recent stories of his appear or are forthcoming in Poor Yorick, Litbreak, the Scop, Freshwater Literary Journal, and the Literary Hatchet.