Another Woman

It was a Thursday to remember when Angela returned home to find her husband was leaving her for a woman that did not exist.

Near midnight, she stepped inside the condo’s foyer and was surprised to see Sam wide awake, sitting in one of the loveseats, his upturned right hand drooping awkwardly over his left knee.

“You didn’t have to wait up, baby,” she said, kicking off her shoes and crossing into the living room.

“We should talk.”

She swallowed a sigh, having just endured a 13-hour flight. “Can it wait until morning?”

He shook his head. “We have to talk now. The three of us.”

She noticed his eyes were bloodshot; the hair on the back of her neck stood up. “Who else is here?”

He gently nodded toward the adjacent loveseat where his hand was extending. “This is Claire.”

A frown. “Sam, I’m not in the mood for games.”

“It’s not a game. We met a few months ago at book club. We’re in love.”

Angela blinked. The seat was empty, totally bare except for the faint wine stain they had never gotten out. “Right. I’m going to check my email real quick and then go to bed before I lose my temper.”

She stepped into the office. Her computer was not there nor was her desk, her filing cabinet, or bookshelves filled with binders and manuscripts on matters of state and federal law. There was no indication half this office had ever belonged to her.

“I think we both knew this was coming,” she heard him say.

She stormed back into the living room, throwing her carry-on to the floor. “Are you seriously fucking with me right now?”

He looked up at her, glaring now, the flaccid sadness in him giving way to anger. “I’ve had all your things shipped over to your love nest. I…we would very much prefer that you left tonight. Nothing of yours is here anyway. I can call you an Uber.”

She mindlessly scratched the side of her face, and felt a brief but hot sensation of pain scrawled there. This had to be a nightmare.

“I would prefer that we handle this like adults,” Sam said. “There’s a lot I admire about you in spite of how badly you’ve treated me the last few years. I’d like to make this transition as easy as possible for us.”

“Save that shit for your patients,” she spat. “What if I don’t go? This condo is in both our names.”

“I can’t make you do anything,” he acknowledged. “But do you really want to stay somewhere you are merely tolerated instead of loved?” He stood up before she could answer, reaching out awkwardly, mimicking the taking of someone else’s hand as his fingers closed around nothing but air. “Claire and I are going to bed. We’ll sleep in the guest room.”

Her face went red. “What are you blabbering about? Who is Claire?”

“This is Claire,” he said. “Claire Evans. She already introduced herself to you, not two minutes ago.”

“Sam, if you’re serious, we need to get you checked out at a hospital. There’s no one there.”

“I’ve asked Dennis Malcolm to start filing the paperwork. He’ll reach out shortly. I’d prefer this to be as quick and clean as possible – for both our sakes.”

He turned. She called his name again but he, and supposedly his invisible woman, were already stepping inside the guest room. The click of the lock echoed through the condo.

She knew she should be outraged, that she should whip his laptop through the window or carve the walls with power tools, but shock had hit her with the force of a trebuchet. She stepped into the bedroom, clocked that her dresser drawers were gone, and looked down at the bed, which seemed so much smaller now.

Eventually she collected her luggage, slipped on her shoes, and called an Uber.

***

“I think this might be about his mother,” Angela was saying. They were sipping from comically-sized margaritas at this little pier restaurant in Manhattan Beach, her and Heather. It was their rendezvous spot when one of them needed to trauma dump.

Heather nodded. “Grief will make a person lose it. This last year was hard for him.”

Angela looked out at the sea, turned back to her friend. “I thought he’d never have the courage to do it. Good for him. I mean fuck him, but good for him too, y’know? Takes the onus off me at least.”

“That’s an awfully adult way to see things,” Heather said, one eye on her phone.

“An invisible woman of all things. At first, I thought he was just playing some kind of pathetic joke to get even, but I think he really believes this Claire Evans is an actual person he has a relationship with.”

“Look at this.” Heather turned her phone around to show Angela a Facebook post starring her ex-husband. To new beginnings…and love, the post said, featuring a photo of him sitting at a table in an upscale restaurant, raising his glass to the empty seat across from him.

“I guess he asked the waiter to take a picture,” Heather said.

“That’s just sad,” Angela answered. “Honestly, it’d be less pathetic if he was hooking up with one of his patients or a mail-order bride. Also, it’s only been two weeks. I can’t believe he’s just throwing our business out there on the internet. What a dick.” Angela took a big sip, continued. “I could be savage about this whole thing, y’know? Drag it out in court. Make it real nasty.”

“But you’re the bigger person.”

“Exactly. Besides, if she was real, she could have him. He ain’t much. Man’s never said an interesting word in his life.”

“He’s balding like a motherfucker,” Heather added.

“He rips the most toxic farts in his sleep, clips his toenails in the shower. She can have that. Good for her. Here’s to you, Claire Evans.”

Heather laughed as Angela’s glass touched hers. “Honestly, I think you’re handling all of this in a really healthy way.”

“Thank you.”

“So what are you going to do now though, for real?”

“Well, by 9:00 PM, there will be a handsome and nude paralegal in my bed, so I believe I’ll start there.”

***

Midnight. Marlowe in all his young, naked glory snoozed next to her as she stared at her laptop in quiet dread. One of her and Sam’s mutual friends, Ted Harris, had posted pictures on Facebook of him, his wife Lauren, and Sam at a concert happening in a botanic garden. They were all sitting at a table. There was a fourth, empty chair there as well, with a bowl of salad and a glass of water in front of it. A lovely night out with the ladies, Ted’s post said.

She called him the next day while driving to the firm.

“I guess I should have been expecting this,” Ted answered. “I need you to know that I love you both and I’m absolutely not taking sides.”

“Ted, just tell me what the hell you’re getting at, feeding that delusion of his.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I saw your Facebook post. I’m talking about Claire Evans, the woman that does not exist. Why are you humoring whatever mental crisis my hus– … Sam is going through?”

There was a long pause. “I’m not quite sure how to say this, Angie, but Claire is real.”

“No, she is not,” Angela said, the volume of her voice rising as she turned onto the highway. “There was no one in the pictures you posted. There’s been no one in the pictures he’s posted.”

“Claire is a very nice woman.”

“What the fuck does she look like then?”

“Hey, Angela, I know this is a tough time for you but it’s not acceptable for you to be cursing at me.”

She lowered her voice. “I’m sorry. Can you please tell me what she looks like?”

But Ted had already hung up.

***

She was trying to get the words out. She knew Marlowe was the wrong person for this. He was hot and knew all the right places to touch her, yes, but exceptionally useless in any other context. Heather was out of town, so he was all she had to work with.

“I just don’t understand why it’s a big deal,” he said, standing in her kitchen, mouth full of BLT. “You don’t want to be with him. Who cares if he’s lost his mind?”

“Other people have seen her too.”

“So they’re going crazy too. Plenty of crazy people in the world. The important thing is we’re not the crazy ones.” He scratched his navel.

“Ted and his wife are not crazy. I’ve known them for five years. They’re very funny, very smart people. They’re scientists, for god’s sake.”

He stared at her like a loyal, stupid dog. “Baby, I’m sorry your ex-husband has gone insane but hey, we don’t have to sneak around anymore. This is a win.”

She pulled out her phone and showed him Ted’s post. “What do you see there?

He peered. “Your ex-husband, a man I’m assuming is Ted, and a woman all sitting at a table.”

“You don’t see another woman there, a second woman?”

“I don’t.”

She nodded, earnestly relieved. “That’s good to know.”

He leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. “Why don’t we get dressed up real nice and go out? We can have a nice dinner somewhere and take your mind off all this shit.”

“I’m sorry, I need time to myself tonight.” She turned away so she didn’t have to see the disappointment in his face.

“I’ll go get dressed,” he said tonelessly.

20 minutes later, she was alone. She poured herself some coffee and had a think on things as she watched episodes of The O.C. This whole thing with Claire Evans had to be a setup at her expense. Sam had somehow roped Ted and Lauren into this prank to make her feel like she was going crazy. Yes. A week – two weeks, tops – from now the jig would be up, the pranksters, bored with their labors, would unveil the truth to her. Maybe, she admitted to herself, she deserved a hardy joke at her expense. She had treated him badly; she had no illusions to the contrary. She could own up to her behavior, yes.

In any case, the charade would be up soon. Then she and Sam could have an honest talk about things, see if their futures were still intertwined or if divorce really was a needed remedy.

Yes. The world would right itself and then she and everyone she knew could go back to behaving like logical adults.

***

A week later, Angela had just finished a shopping trip for new shoes in Manhattan Beach when she decided to grab a burger and cocktail at The Strand House on the way home. She was sitting in a booth and had just opened the drink menu when she heard a voice – Sam’s voice – say, “It’s rare to meet someone who prefers The Idiot over Brothers K.”

Oh god. He was here and he was flirting. He only ever talked about old literature when he was flirting. For a second, she thought she should leave. There were plenty of other places in the neighborhood to have a good meal – Love & Salt, Nick’s, Tin Roof. She rose. Her feet took several steps in the direction of the exit before coming to a halt.

No, something within her said firmly. Why should I have to leave? This is my neighborhood. She’s the invader. A couple of seconds went by and she chuckled. For a second, she had thought of the non-existent woman as an actual person.

She turned on her heels and walked down the other aisle, with bold purpose pushing her forward, the shopping bag bouncing into her hip. Sure enough, Sam was there, sitting in a booth and talking to someone who was not there. That non-person was apparently enjoying a glass of Merlot and a plate of baked salmon.

“Seems a shame to waste such good food, Sam.”

He looked up at her and went red in the face. “Oh…Angie.”

“This isn’t funny anymore,” she found herself announcing decisively. “Maybe it was funny once. I can admit that, but the bit has overstayed its welcome.”

“I’m so sorry, Claire,” Sam said to the empty seat.

“This is ridiculous. If you want to get a divorce, fine, but stop with this fucking nonsense.” Her voice was loud. The conversational murmur of the restaurant ceased. People were listening.

“Angela, this is completely inappropriate.”

“No, inappropriate is pulling our friends into this. Dragging private parts of our personal life online for everyone to see. Continuing this performance in our neighborhood, just to what – torment me?”

“My life, not yours,” Sam said tersely. “You’re not part of my life anymore.”

The remark – uttered by a man she thought she had long stopped loving – struck like a bullet. “Eat shit, Sam,” she fumed. “Seven years doesn’t mean anything to you?”

“Not when you started fooling around with your boy toy, no.” He turned once more to the empty seat. “It’s okay, Claire. Angela will realize how foolish she’s being in a moment and then she’ll leave.”

Angela opened her mouth to say something but the waiter stepped between her and the table. “Ma’am,” he started.

“Nope, I get it,” she interrupted, suddenly feeling everyone’s eyes upon her as she turned toward the exit. “I’m that bitch right now. I’m good. I’m leaving. Sorry for ruining everyone’s evening,” she said loudly.

Angela stepped outside and the cold night air hit her in the face. She savagely wiped away the tears trickling down her face, unable to bear the burden of such revolting weakness.

***

Her therapist, one Sophia Cunningham, didn’t have much to say about all of this at their monthly appointment.

The woman’s blue eyes appraised her from behind horn-rimmed glasses. “I just find it interesting you’ve been so unhappy in your marriage – even going so far as to initiate an affair – and now that your husband has left, you’re upset.”

Angela fidgeted beneath the gaze of her therapist, briefly looked down at her shoe as she spoke. “But don’t you think it’s sad, him living in this fantasy?”

Cunningham shrugged. “I don’t see who his preoccupation is harming.”

“Himself.”

“Angela, you’ve been trying to free yourself of this loveless relationship for two years now. As strange as it is, this feels like an out, no?”

“I guess.”

“Then let yourself be free. Do you know how many unsatisfied women and men would kill for this sort of chance? You should see this as an opportunity.”

“An opportunity?”

“Yes. Get your divorce. Rediscover yourself, figure out your boundaries. You’re already in the process of having what’s probably a passionate but doomed summer romance with a younger man. Use it as inspiration to write a New York Times Bestseller.” Cunningham cracked a smile. “This is your new beginning.”

Angela nodded slowly. “Thank you for the encouragement but…I just can’t get past Ted and Lauren. At first, I thought they were just going along with it, but I think they might actually see her. Claire Evans, I mean. I think they think she’s real.”

Cunningham shrugged, the calm smile never leaving her face. “You know what I’m going to say.”

Angela repeated the maxim she had heard in this office a thousand times over the past three years. “We can only control ourselves, not the people around us.”

A handclap. “Exactly.”

“But what happens when we ignore the things that control other people and then they come around to control us too?”

Cunningham sighed. “Understandably, I think you just have a lot to work through emotionally. I’d recommend making your weekly meditation regiment daily for a while. Just really think about what’s bothering you. Is it the invisible woman or the possibility that freedom is right in front of you and you don’t know what to do with it?”

“Doctor, I think it’s the invisible woman.”

Her therapist continued as though she had not heard her. “Listen, the door is open, Angela. You just have to go through it.”

“You said that already.”

Cunningham flashed the front of her cellphone to show the time. “I meant literally. Our hour’s up. There’s another patient in the lobby.”

***

Margaritas again at the pier. Sundown. Angela was talking. She had been talking a lot. Heather was scrolling on her phone.

“I don’t even know why I pay her. She never tells me anything useful.”

“California therapists are a scam. CBD does everything I’d ever need a therapist to do.”

“Pay no attention to the invisible woman,” Angela said, imitating Cunningham’s nasally voice. “Their delusions are their problem, not yours.”

“Well,” Heather started to say but stopped herself. Too late.

“Well what,” Angela answered before downing the rest of her margarita.

“It’s nothing.”

“No, you were going to say something. I want to hear it, Heather.”

Her best friend looked up at her. “Maybe she has a point.”

Angela scoffed. “What the hell does that mean?’

“I mean, who does it hurt? So Sam’s gone crazy. And so have Ted and Lauren.”

“And the Olsens. And the Barnetts. And Bill Hardy. Sam’s taking her around to all our…my friends…and they’re just going along with it.”

Or maybe they’re just supporting him.”

“It’s called enabling.”

Heather put her phone down and fiercely locked eyes with her best friend. “Whatever. Look, I know maybe your pride is wounded a little but you’ve got a hot fucking boyfriend. You’ve got a nice job. You’ll probably get a nice cut in the divorce.”

Angela stared down into the empty belly of her glass. “All these things are true.”

“Then let it be. Move on with your life.”

Suddenly Angela felt embarrassed. “I’ve been acting crazy lately haven’t I?’

“A little, just a bit. Yeah.”

She sighed. “I’m just tired of having it in my face, y’know? I see her on my social media now. I see her at the restaurants I go to.”

“You see her, huh?”

“Don’t be a jerk, you know what I mean. She’s showing up at all the places we used to go to, she’s taking all my friends. None of them call me anymore but I see pictures of them with Sam and her.”

“Do you call them?”

“Well, no. They should call me.”

Heather reached over delicately and lightly patted her shoulder. “You realize you’re being the biggest baby in the universe right now?”

Angela didn’t realize until she laughed that she had been crying for the past minute. “Shut up. I’m getting a divorce; you have to be nice to me.”

“Fair enough. How about we start with me paying for this dinner and then we go grab some greasy-ass fries at Rock & Brews to sober up.”

She burped up some margarita. “I need a lot of fries.”

“We’ll get a fleet of baskets.”

Angela felt herself overcome with gratitude and deep, unfathomable sorrow. “I’m so sad,” she said, putting her head on Heather’s shoulder as she scooched to the adjacent chair. She started to cry harder.

“You’re drunk, Ang.”

“But also sad.”

“That’s okay. You can cry.”

“I’m making your shoulder wet.”

“Just get it out. Would rather you cry here instead of into my french fries. We’ll go when you’re ready.”

“Thank you for being my friend,” she said, before bursting into another sob.

***

A month after her husband left her, Angela was asked by her law firm to take a vacation. The partners were concerned about the stress of her personal life affecting the quality of her work. After the two of them had gently conveyed the request to her in a boardroom behind closed doors, she admitted to herself that maybe they had a point.

Her mind had been drifting, sure. Her stamina and eloquence in the court wasn’t up to her standards. And yes, perhaps instead of filing injunctions and diligently reviewing documents, she had spent hours monitoring social media to see if Claire Evans actually existed in any tangible form outside the many, many pictures of Sam and his supposed invisible woman circulating amongst her circle.

The mystery gnawed at her mind, even when she wasn’t awake. One night she dreamed she was in the condo and had risen from her morning slumber. She had crossed the hall to the bathroom and flipped on the light, put brush and paste to her teeth only to gaze into the mirror and discover no reflection.

She was recounting this dream to Marlowe when he broke up with her.

“You’re what,” she said, taken aback.

He gently placed the keys on the counter. “I just can’t take it anymore,” he said. “All you do is talk about your husband and his stupid invisible woman. You’re still in love with him.”

“I’m not,” she answered firmly.

He raised his voice in response. “Then why the hell do you keep talking about this shit!?”

“Because it doesn’t make any sense!” she screamed, the vestiges of her calm falling away. “Because this is not the way the world works. If someone falls in love with an imaginary person, you get them help! You send them to a doctor or a mental hospital! It’s not healthy, it’s insane and it’s even more insane that the two-faced fucks I call friends are pretending she’s real! That they’re acting like she’s the real person and I’m not, that I’m worth less than some dog shit they stepped in. She’s taken them, all of them!”

A terrifying thought struck her. “Has she taken you too, Marlowe?”

He was backing away from her now, grabbing his laptop bag from the floor. “You’re not well, Angela.”

“Answer the question, Marlowe. Have you seen her!?”

“I don’t know who you’re talking about!” he screeched as she advanced, his arm flailing for the doorknob.

“I’m talking about fucking Claire Evans!”

But Marlowe was gone, the door ajar and vibrating in his wake.

***

Despite the sudden stage-left exit of her young amant, Angela tried her best to make the most of her PTO. Maybe she had gone crazy in some fashion. Some kind of nervous breakdown. Perhaps, rather than accept the reality of her husband leaving her, her mind had snapped like a twig and she had been checked into one of Los Angeles’ finest padded room resorts. Maybe all of this was just one of those lucid dreams that seem to go on for eternity before you finally wake up. Nothing to do but ride this shit out.

The first day went well enough. She had a pint of ice cream and a pepperoni pizza delivered and spent the afternoon watching the entire first season of Lucifer. After a warm bath, she went to bed slightly bloated but warm and content, thinking that yes, this was the turning point. Things would be okay. She could handle whatever came her way.

The next morning she stepped outside of her apartment complex to grab breakfast. Two blocks from her favorite greasy spoon, she spotted a man walking down the street in her direction. He was not a threatening figure – a young, handsome gangly type – but as he came closer, she realized he had his left hand outstretched like he was holding someone’s hand. But no one was there.

She nearly stumbled into the street but kept on course. “You’re seeing things,” she whispered to herself harshly as she brushed past the man and his invisible lover. “Just your mind playing tricks. You can cope with this.”

She made her way to the diner and took a seat at the bar. She put in an order for straight black coffee but before she could consult the menu to figure out what she wanted, she noticed two – no, three – people sitting by themselves at various booths. That in and of itself was nothing special, of course, but the fact that all three of them were seemingly speaking to an empty seat in front of them nauseated her.

She left without paying for her coffee and sprinted back to her apartment, sweat dripping down her scalp. She slammed and locked the door behind her. Sinking to the floor, she covered her head and screamed into her bare arms. It wasn’t just Claire Evans anymore.

She called Heather. Her friend picked up on the second ring.

“Hey girl.”

“Heather, I need to see you.”

“What’s wrong? You sound rough.”

“I just…we have to talk. In person.”

“Okay, uh. I’m at the Olsens’ party.”

“The Olsens threw a party?”

“Yeah, it’s Viviane’s birthday. Weren’t you invited?”

“I don’t think so, no.”

A pause.

“It must have been a mistake. Just come over. It’s chill. Everyone’s having fun.”

“I don’t know if I should, Heather. I think I might be having some kind of breakdown.”

“Just take a shower, relax a little, and come over. You’ll feel better once you’re here, trust me.”

Angela closed her eyes, fighting back tears. “Okay,” she said, surrendering to the calm of her friend’s reassurances.

An hour later, she had showered, changed, and was in an Uber heading toward Venice.

***

The Olsens, both lawyers themselves, lived in a two-story with a spacious backyard over on Wavecrest Avenue, just a hop and skip away from the beach. For years it had been a monthly occasion that they would invite their friends – including Sam and Angela – over for cookouts. Angela had not been back to their house nor spoken to the Olsens since Claire had entered the picture.

She left the car and stepped to the front door. Standing on the porch, she could hear people talking and laughing within the house. She knocked once, twice, and then Viviane Olsen herself appeared. Vivi’s smile flickered as she registered who was on her porch, her voice cracking at a high pitch, “Oh! Angela, it’s so good to see you.” Vivi embraced her but Angela knew what kind of hug she was receiving, for she had given the same one many times to hide her own disgust and annoyance.

“I’m sorry, Vivi. I just need to talk to Heather and then I’ll be out of your hair.”

“What do you mean? You’re more than welcome to stay as long as you want. But just uh, you should know–”

“Claire is here, isn’t she?”

Vivi nodded. “Yeah.”

“I figured as much. I’ll behave.”

Vivi finally gave a true smile, a smile of relief. “Come on in. There’s drinks in the kitchen. We’ll start grilling soon.”

Angela stepped inside and immediately noticed around 15 people. They were all leaning against the walls in the hall or over the island counter in the kitchen or standing about in the living room. But some of them seemed to be having conversations with people who simply were not there. They would say something, pause, and laugh at whatever their imaginary cohort had said.

Angela did not scream or panic. Instead, she felt a low hum of unease spread down her spine and through her arms into the pit of her stomach. She moved slowly through the crowd until she found Heather. Somehow she was not surprised to see her laughing and talking with Sam on the couch. When betrayal happens so frequently, the expectation of it becomes as easy as breathing.

“Sam, Heather,” she said.

Sam looked up nervously. “Hello Angie.”

“Hey girl,” Heather said, wrapping her arms around her friend in a tight embrace. “Let’s find a place to talk.”

Things inside Angela were shutting down. The volume of the party was lowering, the world narrowing to a tunnel as Heather gently pulled her through the crowd. The last thing she saw before Heather pulled her up the stairs was none other than fresh-faced Marlowe standing in the hallway, holding conversation with someone who wasn't there, failing to notice Angela as she went past. This did not surprise her either.

At some point, she felt herself being pulled into a walk-in closet. “You’re part of it too,” Angela whimpered to Heather as the closet’s light bulb clicked on.

“Angie, look –”

“Everyone hates me. They’ve created this lie just to make me go crazy and now you’re part of it. What have ever I done to you?”

“I know you’ve suffered, okay, and that’s not fair, but Claire and all her people – ”

“Stop.”

“They’re real, Angela.”

“This isn’t funny you asshole,” Angela hissed. “This is my life.”

Heather suddenly grabbed Angela’s hands. “Look at me,” she said sharply. Angela looked up into Heather’s face and saw tears streaming above a twisted, broken smile. She saw joy and pain intertwined in an ecstasy foreign to her.

“I’ve seen them. They’re so beautiful, Angela. I can’t describe it. They’re here and they’re real.” Heather was biting her lip.

Angela could feel a tear sliding down her own face now. She was afraid. She had never seen Heather like this, not in all the years they’ve known each other. “What are they?” she whispered.

Heather didn’t answer, her smile only grew wider as she gave a little chuckle. “They say we can be just like them one day. They’ll show us the way.”

“Heather, please, you’re scaring me,” she said, wriggling free of her grasp but unable to move from the spot.

“Claire feels really bad about everything,” Heather told her. “She knows she’s made things hard for you, but she really does love Sam, and she loves you too. She loves all of us.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“You should go talk to Claire. I think she’s still out on the porch down the hall. You guys should hash it out. I’m tired of seeing you suffer.”

“Hea–”

“Just do it, okay? Just do it and then we can all move on. It’s not our world anymore, Angela. You need to understand that. Maybe it never was.”

Without another word, Heather opened the closet door and stepped out into the hall. Angela tried to call after her but her only friend was already descending the stairs to rejoin the party. She was alone.

Angela peered down the hallway and into the guest room, which led out to a screened-in deck overlooking the sand of the beach and the blue beyond. She had spent many afternoons there, drinking a beer and watching the whitecaps with her husband. And now the woman who had taken everything from her was on that little balcony.

She took a breath and crossed the hall, stepped into the guest room, and with great trepidation slid open the door separating her from Claire Evans.

She stepped onto the deck.

The gulls were crying as the afternoon heat settled in. She could hear the sizzle of hamburgers from the yard below. Looking around, she saw no one. Just two chairs, a small table with a stack of magazines, and the screen fitted around the three viewports of the porch.

Angela’s lip quivered in equal parts fear and anger. She could not believe she was doing this but what course of action was left?

“Claire,” she said to the porch. “I’ve come to talk, Claire. Heather said we should.”

Nothing.

“You took my husband, Claire. That’s fucked up. I mean, I guess I’m not too upset about that. He’s stupid, you can have him. But all the other things, my friends, the places I go, my sanity.”

No response.

“I just want things to go back to normal,” she said. She was crying again. She hated that. Her weakness disgusted her, which made her cry even harder. “Whatever I’ve done,” she said, uncertain of who she was talking to at that moment, “I’m so sorry.”

And then she saw it. A brief, tiny explosion of light and color just out of the corner of her eye. Her heart raced, her pupils dilated. She could see something – a form.

Suddenly her body was attuned to a thousand little vibrations of different intensities all around her. She realized that these vibrations happened all the time, had been happening since the world was ushered into existence, and they would keep on happening long after she was dead. None of us were ever truly alone.

She turned her head to look at the form, a blurry mass that was slowly but surely taking shape.

Angela’s legs buckled as she fell to her knees. The mass, still forming, was whispering to her.

“Claire, is that you?” she whispered back.

The thing told her that she was beautiful. It told her it was sorry it had hurt her. That it wanted to make things better. It wanted to be her friend in spite of all the harm it had done.

Angela quietly watched the form above her continue to thread itself – strands whirling together to form an arm, the barest resemblance of a face peeking out with a soft smile just for her.

She bowed her head, as if in prayer. With a surrendered heart and tears welling in her eyes, she asked the thing that was called Claire Evans one simple question.

“Can you make me invisible too?”