Issue 3:1 | Fiction | Melissa Mitchell

Stella and William Walk
Melissa Mitchell

Heat rose from the pavement in foggy waves, quickly dispersed by the cool breeze rushing across the hillside and dipping onto the road.  Tipped with green needles, the pine trees remained almost still.  The crispness in the air cut the blue sky in pieces so little wisps of clouds could sneak through the lighter blues.  The sun that shined clearly and brightly fooled those that thought it might be warm outside. 

            "Sometimes I feel like I'm on fire," she said.  "You ever feel like that?"  She looked over to the driver, her eyes squinting in the sunlight.  The window was down and her hand flew out the window, buffeted by the speeding air blowing by the car.

            "I'm not sure I know what you mean," he said, keeping his eyes on the road.  He was also squinting so he reached up and pulled down the visor, adjusting his butt in the seat of the car.  He looked over at her.  "You mean, like, when you're tingly all over?  Like a fever?"

            "Yeah, but not."  She looked away and out to the open air falling off the mountainside. 

This mountain road wound slowly around the valley, mostly rising, and not turning so much; it was more of a climb than a wind.  They had reached a height that made William sweat and Stella lose her breath.  It was altitude that set them so high.  The vastness was filled with trees and was only magnified by the mountains across the way.  Stella felt it in the pit of her lungs. 

"Will, have you ever just wanted to keep on driving?"

"That's what we're doing."

"No, I don't mean about that.  Have you ever just wanted to keep on driving out of here—out of this place—this life?  Did you ever just want to disappear?"  She said it with emphasis.  Stella wanted him to understand what she was saying.  She knew he was on her wavelength, and knew that sometimes he pretended not to be because when they were, it would almost be too much for him.  His stomach would fill with butterflies. 

William took a moment to respond and rolled down his window.  He recognized the irony in her statement; after all that's what he was doing. 

"Yeah, sure I have," he said, glancing quickly to Stella and back to the road.  "I do."  Stella's pleading look subsided and she nodded her head. 

"Yeah," she said.  Stella was cynical.  And her cynicism often times turned people off, but for William it only gave him a desire to help her see things more positively.  Although he was often cynical himself.

The previous year Stella had stepped into a hot room containing a scene that changed her life.  Her feet were cold in her sandals, but the air outside was heavy with heat.  The sky was bland and filled with the glow of an orange sun at midday.  The driveway she walked down belonged to her friend, David.  The pavement seemed to be undulating; it's shape, like a flowing river, only exaggerated the feel of movement. 

The flip-flops she wore flopped back and forth against her heels with each step she took.  Approaching the gray-colored house, shrouded by trees, happened every day for her.  Today was not different in its beginning. 

David's parents were out of town, leaving David alone to watch the house.  Stella had spoken with him the night before.  They had planned on making grape popsicles that afternoon.  It was their tradition the day before the 4^th of July.  But this year it was only the two of them.  Normally his parents were home (they had decided to go to Alaska for an anniversary trip) as well as his sister, Susie (she was off to orientation for her first year at college).  Stella and David had other friends that normally accompanied them, but lately they had taken a disliking for David that was unexplained for the most part.  It's been said that David had taken a road less traveled and was no longer popular with other students at high school.  It was said that he enjoyed the company of men, with dissipated interests towards traditional aspects of life. 

Stella knocked on the sliding glass door three times with no answer.  She opened the locked door.  It was the first time she ever entered the house without someone answering first. 

"David," she said.  The air was dead.  The phone started ringing, startling Stella.  After five rings she yelled, "David!" 

David's room was hot—on the second floor.  The air was red inside.  Red globs stuck to the walls in the corner; some splatters offered up a contrast to the whiteness of the paint.  Stella entered his room, the air hitting her in the face, which scrunched up before she even knew what she saw. 

Lying on David's bed was a body resembling his former self.  The back, right side of his skull was missing.  Blood had run enough to soak his sheets, his clothes, and his shoulders.  His hair looked sticky and poked out at peculiar, matted angles.  Stella saw his eyes and matched their gaze—dry and almost bright, an orange gleam to them.  Nothing more than a gurgle and choked words left Stella's mouth.  The phone rang again. 

Stella came back to the moment in the car with William.  Back then she was mortified by David's suicide.  He could have been something—accomplished something.  It was senseless to her.  The road leveled-off, revealing a small pull-off.  The sun sunk to the point when everything is green and blue and yellow all at the same time; shadows grew everywhere.  William pulled off on the dirt patch and rolled to a stop.  The door opened letting cool air rush around Stella's body.  For longer than she could remember, starting from an indiscernible point, every sense and experience was somehow opened up raw.  Every sensation was to the point of over-exposure.  Breathing in and out was loud in her head; when she smiled the corners of her mouth seemed to poke her ears; when she coughed, her heart would try to leap out of her chest; when she cried, her body went dry.  These sensations made her feel like life was swallowing her up.   

"I'm going to take off my shoes," she said.  Stella wanted to feel the ground on the soles of her feet.  She did not want to miss any detail.  By now William was standing in front of her.  He smiled, a grimace hidden behind his lips.   

"Sounds good to me.  I'll keep mine on—don't want to stub my toe or cut my feet."  Stella looked at William.  He was tall looking, but really not much taller than she was.  She noted the peculiar bend of his arms—always bent at the elbows like an action figure.  After tucking her shoes underneath the car and next to the back tire she grabbed the backpack from the back seat.  Stella took a deep breath and let it out through her nose. 

"Will," she said.  She looked at William sideways, then fully forward and stopped. 

"Stella, it's going to be fine.  It'll be fine."  The shear solemnity of this trek smothered any emotion. 

Stella clenched her teeth and started walking, following after William's lead.  She watched every step he took, fading into the woods, along an invisible path.  Both he and Stella knew where the path was—both had taken many walks there.  He wore sneakers; they were blue mesh with white sole and red laces.  Each step picked up the gray dirt, powdering the mesh.  Above his sneakers sat tidy sweat pants.  They were a faded forest green.  As they walked their feet shuffled and stepped along. William's feet crunched; Stella's were silent.  Stella wore her sweat pants as well.  They were navy blue and a little torn around the knees and ankles.  They wanted to wear comfortable clothes. 

Stella could feel the grass and pine needles on the bottoms of her feet.  An occasional rock poked her hard, but she repressed a yelp every time.  Stella and William's walk was silent but beautiful.  The breeze created their silence, as did the swaying needles, the birds squawking.  The crisp air cradled their silence.  It all felt blue to Stella—very blue—like free floating water had splashed the scenery and dyed everything with its own hue. 

"I'm getting kind of giddy," William said, startling Stella out of her silence.  He was breathing heavily.  Stella's lips quivered and she panted through her nose unexpectedly.  Her upper lip was wetted by the mucous that came out so she wiped her sleeve across her face and sniffed.  William looked back.  Stella looked up. 

"Yeah?" she said.  The edge of the woods was approaching. 

In San Francisco, when Stella was nine, she and her father had ventured on a trip to see Grandma in Oregon with a stopover in the San Francisco airport.  Stella walked down the hallway, full of others with suitcases, the occasional person with a suitcase on wheels.  Her father walked quickly in front of her; the hallway slanted downhill, causing her to almost have to run to keep up.  It smelled like stale sandwiches, Stella suspected the carpet was giving off the smell.  When she looked up to the walls she saw cardboard cutouts of random people flying with suitcases.  This was her favorite part of the airport.  They were all smiling, but only a handful of them were looking right at Stella. 

One lady wore a purple blouse and a taupe skirt, holding a brown bag; another woman wore a pilot's hat and uniform; a man wore a suit and tie with a tan mustache.  The one person Stella always remembered was a black woman with tight curly black hair, a red bow tie, and a white button up shirt. 

"Dad, can we get pizza?" Stella asked when she finally caught up to her dad.

"Well, sure," he said.

Through a small doorway opened up a large room holding over one hundred tables.  It looked like a cafeteria and at the head of the room was a kitchen with a buffet-like set up.  Stella enjoyed the pizza.  Each piece was soaked with grease; it only crossed her mind once that it might be too much grease, but because she was so young, she decided it didn't matter.  They sat at the table eating their food; Stella chewed on her pizza—pepperoni and cheese. 

"My favorite," she said, smiling, her cheeks full of pizza.

"Oh," William muttered.  "We're almost there," he said, pointing across the field to where the woods started again.   

Stella wondered if he wished he could be in his warm bed, back home, his puffy comforter in a yellow cloud around him.  Things had changed so much in those few months, even days.  He was determined, however.  He wasn't just going to fade out of existence and be struggling for remembrance when all people wanted to do was be able to take a deep sigh of relief when he was finally dead, trying to forget the misery.  William often wondered if there was some way he could have changed his own outcome—if he could've done something different.  But no, there was no point—the past cannot be changed.  The only plausible way was to change it in his head and that just made him feel hopeless and crazy.  No, his life was it.  That was all there was that he knew for sure.  Whatever came before happened, and whatever comes next happens; and right now, what was happening was that he was dying, soon to be dead.  But Ôdead' is such a final word.  It sounds like the something that has died is now smelly and pale and rotting away.  William would be free—or finished.  He would soon be finished, but he hoped that his finish in this life was only the beginning of something else.

It was his choice and Stella was ready for it.  She wasn't ready to hear it, but when William first discussed it with her, he thought she received the news like she had always expected it.      

              "I want you to help me end my life," he said, after beating around the bush (Stella had kept pushing him, asking, "What is it you're trying to say, Will?").

"Oh," she said, pausing for a moment.  "Okay."  Stella said nothing more for a long time.  They only looked at each other.  William would take care of the arrangements and the supplies he needed.  His job at the hospital only made it easier, involving as few people as possible.  A terminal illness only amplifies the mind's ability to see what needs to be done, and then allowing one to accomplish the task at hand—if you know soon enough, anyway.   

The fire was burning and crackling.  Heat made her face glow orange.  Through the flickering yellow tips she could see William lying there in his sleeping bag.  He is so young, she thought.  The heat and the flames obscured his body.  Stella could almost feel the cold through the warm bubble floating around their campsite.  She could hear nothing but crackling wood and silent air. 

"Will," she said quietly.  There was no answer.  "Will," she aid again.  She whimpered slightly, almost sounding like a stifled laugh.  Tears were filling her lids, making them heavy and cold.  Each drop slid over the edge, releasing a weight from them, until finally she began to sob. 

            The sun rose at 6:39 am.  Stella was shivering.  The fire had long since gone out, and the logs and broken branches from the night's fire were blackened and charred, ready to turn to dust at the slightest touch.  Stella gathered her things and walked over to William. 

"Goodbye, love," she aid.  She kneeled next to his body and kissed his forehead.  She walked from their campsite and down their invisible trail back to Will's car.  She leaned down and sat next to the car putting on her shoes.  Taking a look around she rose and walked on down the road.  It was supposed to look like he was by himself—alone.  No accomplice, otherwise there would be a trial.     

            It was brisk outside.  Stella breathed in the cool air, feeling it rush thought her nostrils, then her lungs, and out again through her mouth.  She licked her chapped lips and began to hum the tune to a song she heard on the radio on her way to meet William in his car.  Soon her humming turned to singing.

            " . . . The rain washes you clean . . ." she sang.  It was soft but loud enough to rouse a bird in a branch in a tree by the road.  It chirped her on her way.  On down the road she went, looking out on the valley, taking in the vastness that she could feel in the pit of her lungs.  It engulfed her. Overwhelmed by the open air she felt insignificant but somehow more profound. Images from the night came back to her, swirling, but peaceful. It replayed like a song.

.

"I used to fear it, Stella.  And when I was younger I tried to come to terms with it.  But that didn't work because I realized you're not supposed to come to terms with it that young—only once you need to.  I mean I was ready to die back then.  There was nothing making me remember how to live or that I wanted to live—wanted to keep going.  So that's when I started to fear it again, and so I lived my life, I suppose.  Lately, coming to terms was a little easier.  Now's my time to go—and I'm ready . . . to die, so there's nothing more I need to do; no more life to live; no more goodbyes to say—just death."  William said this with determination—always the certainty.  "You should fear death, and not in a bad way, but not until you're ready to go, Stella.  You don't want your living to feel pointless."  Stella wondered at William.  He sounded like an old man ready to die.  She wondered at how death ages someone so rapidly—in their mind, anyway.  Just last year, William was a goofy guy.  Now he's so wise, she thought.

"When David died I thought it was unfair," she said, the corner of her mouth curling up at the obviousness of her statement.  "But I wasn't angry, at first.  I was just heart broken . . . and embarrassed, I guess, because everyone else had already given up on him.  It seems like the ones that could make the most difference in the world are too fragile to survive . . . they get . . . snuffed out."  She stared into the flames, and then looked up at William, turning her face towards him.  "Kind of like you."  She smiled.  William looked down at her squarely and smiled back.

"I've done all I can," he said, then turned and stared into the flames.  Stella's mouth flattened and her eyes squeezed shut; a tear almost escaped, but she held it in and took a deep breath. 

"You know that—I'm going to live—" she stopped, embarrassed for what she said.  "You'll always be in my heart.  And so, I guess in a way, you haven't done all you can.  Right?  What you've done, what you've changed already—that won't ever go away."  She nodded to herself. 

William turned back to Stella.  His eyes were glossy.  "I suppose you're right.  They'll never get rid of me," he said, laughing a bit stifled.

"I'm not going to be okay with this later.  I know that—but I will be and I am now."

"I know."  William clenched his teeth, his jaw muscles showing.  "I know."  Stella reached her arm around William and kissed him on the forehead, her mouth wet with emotion.  She held his face in her hand, the other arm around his back, and looked into his eyes.  Tears slipped down his face as he tried the best he could not to lose it.  He nodded slowly to himself, and smiled the best he could into Stella's face.  Leaning closer, he kissed her cheek and rested his chin on her shoulder.  Their arms wrapped around one another's bodies, holding tightly.  Stella held on without a single tear falling.  She was his rock for now.   

"It's okay," Stella said.  They pulled apart briefly and William began to speak.  His lips parted for a moment before words came out, a calm spreading over his features. 

"I'm ready," he said.  "Mix it up."