Don’t Go Home

“Don’t go home.”

We were watching old reruns of Star Trek: Deep Space Nine, laughing about how all of the ads on this channel targeted our aging bodies: Nugenics for that flagging penis, a Hurrycane, to help with that bum hip, and term life insurance, in case of sudden death.

            “Don’t go home.” Laura said it suddenly, mid-Consumer-Cellular commercial.

            “What?” I watched the smile drop away from my friend’s face.

            Laura sat with her long legs tucked under her on the couch, cradling a wine glass in both hands. She set the glass on the coffee table with a deliberate slowness to accentuate her message, “Don’t go home.”

            I waited for her to say more while the “1-8-7-7-Kars for Kids song” blared through the awkward silence.

            She finally reached for the remote, hit the “mute” button, and continued to stare at her wine glass.

            “Are you OK?”  In 25 years of friendship, I’d never seen Laura at a loss for words. I found myself bracing for the worst.

            “Jan,” she started, then fell back into silence. I’ve learned that if someone begins a statement with my name, nothing good is coming.

            “I just got a message.” She kept her eyes on her wine glass.

            “Just now? What kind of message? I don’t understand.” Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Quark dragging Odo up a mountain. The familiarity of the episode provided an anchor in the strangeness of the moment.

            We’d watched countless episodes like this, every Friday night. At first as a couple’s night, with Laura and Jack, me and Rob. Rob was the kind of man who didn’t believe in institutions—felt that living together was enough. We never married. After 6 years, Rob had had enough togetherness.

            And then we were three.

            Laura and Jack were kind, and easy. They never made me feel like a third wheel. So we kept our Friday night tradition. I’d bring wine and something for dessert. Laura and Jack would cook dinner, and we’d eat, chat, and nerd out on Star Trek until it was time for me to go home.

            And then we were two.

            The driver of the Suburban sustained only minor injuries when he T-boned Jack’s car. We were told that Jack died instantly.

            In the depth of our shock and grief, we clung to our tiny island of routine. Just now, I wanted to hide in an episode I’d seen too many times to count—to pretend my friend wasn’t about to rupture our serenity. I turned off the TV, looked her in the eye and said, “Just tell me.”

            The words came flooding out, “It’s hard to explain, but sometimes I’ll just hear a voice in my head. Not all the time—not like split personality or anything, but just a clear statement. It doesn’t sound like me when I’m trying to work something out, more like a message from someone else. The first time it happened, I was walking home from school and the message said ‘turn right.’ It was the wrong way to go home, but I turned right and there was a dog that had been hit by a car. I found an address on his collar and his owner got him to the vet before he bled out.”

            “Well, that could’ve been a coincid—”

            “I know, I know. But then I picked up a lottery card in college. I heard this message with 5 repeating numbers, so I played them.”

            “And?”

            “I won a thousand dollars.”

            “Still…”

            “Remember when we met? I’d just moved to town and I was actually on my way to the mall and the message said ‘get coffee.’ So, I stopped at the first coffee shop I saw, and you were there, remember? You were writing something, and I asked what it was and—”

            “The rest was history.” We’d often shared the story of how we met, but she’d never told me the first part. “So what are you saying?”

            “There was one more message. It was for Jack.” She fell silent again. I reached for the wine bottle and filled our glasses.

            “What was the message?”

            She took a sip and met my eyes for the first time. “Stay home.” She shook with silent sobs.

            “Oh, honey. How could you have known what that meant? I mean, how were you supposed to have any idea of WHEN he even should’ve stayed home?”

            “I did, though. I knew it was an urgent message. It meant, stay home now!”

            “Did you tell him?”

            “Yes. But you know Jack—always Mr. Skeptic. He thought I had just been watching too many episodes of Outer Limits.”

            Guilt, regret, and fear poured out with her tears. I handed her a box of tissues from the coffee table. “You always were a nose crier!” She blotted away the mess and even managed a small laugh.

            “Please. Humor me,” she said.

            “All right. I’ll stay. Move over though, you’re in my bed!” She unfolded her legs, and I swung my feet into her lap. The air grew lighter as we both let out a collective held-breath. The end credits for Deep Space Nine scrolled by, and we settled in for the next show in the “All Star Trek” block. Halfway through Voyager, she sat up, sharply.

            “What is it?”

            “New message. She handed me the remote and said “press two.”

            On the local news station, helicopter footage showed the roof of a building collapsing under flames as three crews of firefighters tried to drown the conflagration. A gas explosion in the fourplex had shattered windows for two blocks.

            We stared, open-mouthed, at each other. I raised my glass and silently toasted the voice in her head. Then we turned back to the screen to watch my apartment complex crumble into the fire.

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