Just Like the Ones He Used to Know: Part VIII

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[Being the eighth and final installment of Robert J Wiersema's original holiday tale of the ghostly and the miraculous. To read the previous installment go here; to read the first go here.]

“Don’t you look smashing,” his mother said, swanning into his bedroom as Dustin was finishing tying his tie.

“I was a bit worried,” he said, rolling his shoulders to let the suit fall right. “I thought it might not fit.”

She ran her hand over his lapel, straightened his pocket square.

“I’ve lost a lot of weight since the last time I wore it,” he continued. “But it still seems to fit.”

She stopped, and he could almost hear her holding her breath.

“It’s all right,” he said quietly. “I know.”

He hadn’t been surprised when he had opened the closet to find a charcoal suit on a wooden hanger, a crisp linen shirt, a charcoal tie and pocket square.

It was the suit he had worn for Stan’s funeral. He had known it would fit, even though he was fifty pounds lighter than he had been that day.

And he had known that she would come for him, as soon as he was ready.

She looked into his face, then stepped forward and he took her in his arms. They stood like that for a long moment, and Dustin tried to freeze the feeling in his memory.

When she stepped away, she was dabbing at her eyes, subtly, trying not to let him see.

“When…when did you….”

“When did I figure it out?” he asked.

She nodded.

“When you came to see me at the hospice, yesterday,” he said. Then he smiled. “I don’t have many good days, but even at my worst, I still know how much I’ve missed you. How long you’ve been gone.”

She nodded slowly, biting her lips to keep from crying. “We should….” She gestured at the door. “Everyone’s waiting.”

He turned away and went to the window. Outside, it was a world of white. The snow rolled unbroken as far as he could see, vanishing into the haze of the storm. There were no cars in the driveway, no driveway at all, in fact, just the house, floating in an eternity of white, an ember of warmth in a universe of cold. From downstairs, he could hear the sound of voices, laughter, and it reminded him of being a child again, falling asleep in the warmth of joy rising up from the stairwell.

He wiped at his own eyes.

“Okay,” he said, taking his mother’s hand.

The voices got louder as they went down the stairs, a glorious bubble buoyed by laughter. He could almost recognize some of the tones, and he squeezed his mother’s hand.

His father came from the kitchen, and smiled sadly when he saw Dustin. “So,” he said, taking him by the shoulder. “Are you ready?”

Dustin nodded. He was.

The air was heavy and rich. It smelled of spiced wine and roast turkey, of fresh pine and candles. And people. All those people. All those voices.

Dustin stopped.

Graham was waiting for them around the corner, just outside the living room.

When he saw Dustin, he shook his head and tried to look exasperated, but the expression didn’t take, and he broke into a wide smile.

As the brothers embraced, their parents looked at one another, smiling sadly and reaching out for one another’s hands.

Dustin wanted to apologize, wanted to thank Graham for coming for him, wanted to explain, but as he started to speak Graham said, “Shh. It’s all right.”

Which was what he always said.

And it always was.

As they embraced, the bubble of voices, the bursts of laughter, seemed to still, as if a whole room of people had been brought to attention, and were waiting, watching.

Dustin stepped back from Graham and turned toward the room, curious to see why everyone was so quiet all of a sudden.

“Hello, Dustin,” Stan said.

He was standing in the doorway, close enough to touch, ever dapper in his dark suit, the bright swath of his red scarf, the rakish smile going all the way to his eyes, which seemed to glisten, even in the brightness of the room.

It felt suddenly like Dustin had been holding his breath, like he had been holding it since Stan had died, and now, seeing him again, he could let the breath go. It broke from him like a sob, like a laugh, an undifferentiated sound of pure emotion that seemed to echo in the still room.

“You’re here,” Dustin said, in a voice of quiet wonder.

Stan shook his head. “No,” he said. “You’re here.”

Dustin could feel tears burning behind his eyes, and a thrumming in his chest. “You came for me,” he said. “Last night, in the storm.”

Stan nodded, his lips tight, clearly holding back his own tears. “I wanted you to know I was there,” he said, his voice halting. “I wanted you to know that you weren’t alone.”

And then Dustin was in his lover’s arms, holding tight to his scarf as they kissed under the mistletoe, both of them laughing, and crying, as the voices rose up around them, and carried them away.

[The End]