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I fill my lungs with the earthy, foresty air. It’s a great day for outdoor activities – sunny, warm, fresh.
“I’m seeing the neurologist on Tuesday,” Nick says, breaking the silence, “for my headaches and…”
“Headaches?” I cut in. “You didn’t say.”
“Well, we don’t really talk much these days, do we?” I stare at my feet rustling in the leaves. I knew I should’ve worn my wellies instead of these pointed knee-high L.K. Bennet boots – a gift from Daniel. He still buys me shoes, by the way, says it’s an emblem of our union. I wonder how he’s feeling now, distraught, no doubt. But at least tomorrow he’ll have the opportunity to explain everything, put it all to bed. Then we can both move on, get on with our lives. “Anyway,” Nick’s voice wipes Daniel from my thoughts, “they started after the accident, they’re quite bad sometimes.” He rubs his temple.
I’m about to ask if he’s having one now when a man’s voice calls out “Spike! Spike, where are you?” A little grey, curly haired dog appears from the depths of the woods, lifts its leg up against a huge root exposed tree and wees all over the moss before bounding towards its owner. “Oh, there you are, Spike,” the man bellows in the distance, “good boy.”
“I told them all about my out of body experiences,” Nick continues, as Spike totters off with his owner, “and they want to run tests.”
“But you don’t have them anymore, do you?”
“Wellll…” I stop walking and look at him. “I still astral project sometimes. But I just float close to the ceiling.” He hovers his hand in mid-air, “Sometimes I go outside but I can’t travel at will, like I did when I was in a coma. Like when I came to you in Cyprus.” I don’t answer. The last thing I want to do is encourage him.
We start walking again. “So what does that mean?” I clear my throat, trying to sound supportive.
“They reckon I’m hallucinating.” Now that sounds more like it. “That the blow to the head has rattled things around. They probably think I’m bonkers,” he laughs, throwing a glance at me. “Seriously, though, my consultant thinks I’m having something called sleep paralysis. Do you know what that is?” I shake my head. “Okay.” He licks his lips. “At a point during REM sleep, our brain stops sending signals to our voluntary muscles and they become paralysed, just so that we don’t act out our dreams. For example, if your limbs weren’t paralysed and you were dreaming that you were strangling someone you could actually wrap your hands around Daniel’s neck,” he chuckles, clearly enjoying the joke at Daniel’s expense. “Well, with sleep paralysis you wake up during this state, and because your muscles are still paralysed you can’t move or speak. They say that some people have hallucinations during these episodes, too.”
“It sounds horrifying.” We bear to the right, the path ahead is carpeted in crisp golden and amber leaves, the branches above us woven together like a heavenly arc, hissing in the wind to the warble of birds. “Will you be okay?”
“Yeah, course I will.” He pulls his signature puzzled expression, but it doesn’t irritate me this time, “It’s nothing serious,” he assures me, grinning kindly. He knows I still care.
We continue our trail in silence. I can’t help wondering why he thought that telling me about his neurology appointment and dreams was so urgent, perhaps, he was just a bit frightened, wanted a friendly ear. The leaves are falling like snowflakes. It’s all so peaceful, so beautiful, so calm, and then suddenly I feel something crawling on the top of my head.
“Arghhh, arghhh,” I flap my hands about hysterically, an enormous spider making its way across my skull. “Get it off, get it off, arghhh.”
Nick is convulsing with laughter. “Come here.” He gently picks a twig out of my hair. “You’re such a girl.” He taps the tip of my nose endearingly and for a few moments, our eyes lock.
I smooth down the static mop on my head. “I didn’t know what that was,” I say defensively, looking away.
“A bat,” Nick teases, while I protest that we are in the middle of the woods and that anything could be lurking around in here.
I tug at the collar of my top, “I’m hot,” I complain.
“I’ve been telling you that for years.”
“Oh, you know what I mean.” I unbutton my mac, letting in the cool breeze.
“I’ll get my shorts and flip flips out then, shall I? You know, cos I’ve got two left feet. That’s what you always told me whenever we hit the dancefloor.”
“Ha ha.” I give him a playful slap on the arm and call him a numpty. I really miss our banter, his humour. Daniel is great company but his demeanour is more serious.
“I’m not hallucinating, you know,” Nick says after a while, “I don’t care how many tests they run. It really is happening. My spirit leaves my body. I can feel it, Foxy.”
I laugh lightly. “Will someone please take away this imposter and bring back the real Nick Byrne?”
“I know,” he sighs, as a dog barks in the distance, “bit rich coming from a cynic like me, isn’t it?”
“Just a bit,” I grin, scrunching my nose. “I suppose you’re going to write a book next. I can just see it.” I wave my hand across the air, “There is Life After Death (even for cynics) by Nick Byrne.”
“You’re not taking this seriously, are you?” he complains.
“Well, what do you expect?” We walk past a crowd of people at the kiosk. A little black dog looks up at Nick; a choccy Labrador trails around me.
Patting the dog’s head, Nick smiles up at the owner, and then suddenly his eyes light up. “Oh wow, look at this table.” He’s spotted a photo opportunity, I recognise that eager look in his eyes, “What a beauty.” He lets out a low whistle, stroking the wood. “It’s made out of railway sleepers, you know.”
I stop and look at the table. It’s dark and stout with long bench seats on either side. There’s an electric blue grubby thermos plonked in the middle that someone must’ve left behind, and, for all its beauty, it’s smeared in mud and dried coffee.
