Alive in the Real World

Summer Hammond

“You didn’t want me to come tonight.”

Jess takes the air out of the space between us. You can almost hear the hiss, like one of the tires sprung a leak.

“What?” I tighten my grip on the steering wheel. “I never said that.”

“You in-boxed me.”

I compose my face, focusing on the road, although it doesn’t require much attention. We’re on one of those coastal North Carolina roads, an asphalt arrow pointed straight to the sea, flanked by thick stands of pine. The pines here are like alien creatures, not at all like the ones we left behind in upstate New York. Upstate pines are thick and solid, iconic Christmas card types. North Carolina pines are skinny, bare, until they branch at the top, a cloudlike poof of needles. Longleafs, they’re called.

“What are you thinking about, Daniel?”

“The pines,” I say. “Three years here, and I’m still not used to them.”

“Ah.” She turns to the window.

In-box. A term she coined while enduring a dead-end job hunt. She says, with the Master of Fine Arts on her resumé, employers expect a young woman, an arty and hip twenty-something with a sleek ponytail and black frame glasses. When Jess walks in, forty-five with smile lines and her wild mane of salt and pepper curls, she says their eyes go wide. Even as they stand, shake her hand, ask questions about her teaching background and writing pursuits, respond with warmth, interest, taking notes, nodding and smiling as she speaks, they in-box her: Not you.

Jess says, it’s not just hiring managers, almost everyone does it, says one thing while feeling another. According to her, our guts are the in-box where we receive the truth. We’re all psychic, Jess says. We know what people are thinking, whether we admit it to ourselves or not.

I can’t say if she’s onto something with this theory, or if it’s her way to make sense of the relentless rejection she’s faced these past few months. Or maybe it’s magical thinking, a seemingly unshakeable product of our upbringing in fundamentalist religion, something that will forever mess with our heads.

She’s right though, about one thing.

I didn’t want her to come tonight.

“This place has almost 1300 reviews and 4.5 stars.” Jess peers at her phone as we’re ushered past the flowered-and-neon line of beachy tourists waiting for a table at Bangkok by the Sea. “How come we’ve never been here?”

“No idea,” I answer. Then I side-eye her, wary. Ping! Did her gut receive it? First you were wrapped up in grad school and writing your book, then lately, all the disappointment, the despair, a millstone tied to your neck — ours.

The restaurant is a sensory deluge, like one of those flea markets crammed with knick-knacks, only here, it’s like everything has been pilfered from a Buddhist temple. Fat golden gods smile out from every nook and cranny, cross-legged, serenely watching college girls in tank tops shake up cocktails. Tourists in various degrees of swimwear cram together at long, candlelit tables, their kids dashing around, flip flops slapping at their heels. Sand on the floor, under the tables, gritty beneath my shoes.

“Your party is seated in the garden.” The host glances at us as we follow him past wooden booths painted scarlet, candles flickering behind bamboo dividers, and more gods and goddesses, an endless parade of them. Ganesha, Shiva, Kali pressed shoulder to shoulder in frozen poses, an awkward clique. Even they are dusted in sand. Someone’s dressed Kali in a bikini and painted the human head she holds bright pink, so she looks, with her wheeling arms, like the goddess of death, destruction, and beach volleyball.

These days, I can appreciate the humor. But there was a time when I could not have stomached this place, believing a demon attached to every false idol.

I check with Jess. She’s looking up and around, her eyes wide and bright, lips parted. Twenty years ago when we met, me a divinity student in Albany, and Jess, packing her bags for Guatemala and a lifetime of missionary work, we would have swiveled in unison at the first sight of Buddha and walked out.

We were the kids who did not doubt, did not rebel, completely bought into our faith — gung-ho zealots.

You never stop feeling the shock waves when your whole world is exposed as an elaborate yet hollow monument, carved in deception. And every new freedom, rippling down through the years, is a revelation.

The garden is even more flamboyant, if that’s possible: orange, red, and purple paper lanterns strung between palm trees, light shimmering on table tops, faces, leaves, and a commotion of flowering tropical plants, the kind that thrive here on the coast, wide and spiky flowers, vivid yellows and pinks, matching the table where the host motions for us to sit. My coworkers scoot over to make room. “Daniel!” “Hey, Daniel!” “Daniel, over here!”

I feel like the cool kid arriving to the party, fist bumps all around. The warmth in feeling seen, known, welcomed, and embraced floods my chest. I don’t have to wonder the last time I experienced this level of belonging. Kingdom Gate Assemblies of God, the 1990’s, when I was youth leader, on my way to becoming pastor.

Rob says, “Here, buddy, sit!” pulling out a chair beside him. He’s the senior estimator at Coastal Waterwork Supply. Tonight, he’s decked out in a hibiscus print shirt and pink flamingo shorts. I have never seen him wear shorts and, in truth, didn’t think it was possible. His long gray beard swishes in the breeze and even it looks relaxed and festive, like it could jump up and salsa down the middle of the restaurant.

Jess sits, and her trademark natural curls glow in lantern light, her skin like a warm fire. In three years, this is the first time she’s accompanied me to a work function. While writing her book, she could not be persuaded to leave her desk. It was strange, awkward, to show up without her, but as I explained to my colleagues on multiple occasions, my wife was committed, totally engrossed in the pursuit of her dream. While they’d smiled, said polite things, I was in-boxed: what kind of wife lets her husband go by himself to a company dinner?

Tonight, they finally get to find out. I take a breath.

Jess leans in, shaking hands, introducing herself. She wears her most radiant smile, looking happy, almost content. I cast an eye around for Josh Owens, and when I don’t see him — exhale.

“Cool place, eh?” Rob says, taking a sip from a frozen martini. It’s purple. The glass rim is sugared and even the sugar is purple. The last thing I’d expect Rob to have — aside from pink flamingo shorts. Almost sixty, he lives with his mother, and while he’s an immense asset to the company, he complains about every breath he takes, each one, pressing on one of his many pains: the kidney stones, his blood pressure, misaligned vertebrae, the moronic engineers, stupid people in general. When I tell Jess about him, she says, “Does he ever talk about what’s really going on?” No — God no. And I sure don’t ask, though Jess probably would.

Rob tugs his beard, tilts his head to the side. “We got the best view. Lakeside!” He gestures to the left.

The moment I look over, a koi jumps from a pond, body arcing, a brilliant orange flash. Everyone laughs as another jumps, then another. Each splash, sending up a spray of water.

“It’s like SeaWorld over here!” Martin bellows, removing his glasses, wiping them with the edge of his shirt.

“They must know we’re in the waterworks biz.” Pat winks, to a flurry of groans.

“Nice one,” I say.

Pat slides Jess and I a menu. “May I recommend the fish?”

Another laugh, and it’s shaping up to be a nice night after all.

Martin clears his throat, sets his glasses on his nose. “There now, let me get a look at Daniel’s young lady. Jess, is it?” Martin’s the company truck driver, spends most of the day on the road, hauling pipe and hydrants. He leans back, pats what he refers to as his tanker tummy. Though he drives a flatbed, not a tanker, flat would not be the right adjective to describe his abdominal dimensions. “So, Miss Jess, what do you think? You dig this place?”

“I love it. It’s beautiful!” Jess opens her menu. “Can’t wait to try the food.”

Martin flashes me a thumbs up, an approving grin.

After we order, Pat, who’s been champing at the bit, presses her palms into the tabletop and leans toward Jess. “Finally we get to meet Daniel’s better half. What’s it been? Only three years?” She shakes her head. “You were MIA at every company dinner. We thought Daniel was making you up!”

Jess smiles. “Grad school was intense.”

“Sure it was. Grad school is a feat at any age but — our age?” Pat shakes her head, her short silver hair shining like a crown of tinsel. “I don’t know how you did it. I’d never do it.”

I brace, expecting Jess to launch into an impassioned speech about the ageism she’s encountered since moving here. First, the nontraditional student label, which drove home the message that she was outside the norm. Indeed, she was the oldest woman in a very youthful cohort. Which would’ve been cool, if she hadn’t attracted a hostile brand of curiosity. A few of her cohorts wouldn’t lay off, insisting that she reveal her age, trying to make it a game — can we guess? — and when she refused to play, their reactions bordered on aggression. “We’ll look you up online. We’ll find out!” Jess said she never saw the two older men in her program harassed the same way. What she was in-boxed: a woman’s body, including her age, belongs to the group.

God, I hope she doesn’t tell them all this.

Jess glances at me. I take a sip of my water, trying not to in-box her my discomfort. Still, the moment she decides to bite back her stories, I feel her choice in my own body, and relax. She tucks her hair behind her ear, chuckles, says to Pat, “Grad school as a middle-aged woman is not for the timid. Gives a whole new meaning to sweating over exams.”

Pat laughs, big and rollicking. She’s our district’s top internal sales rep, well-liked for her effervescence, her ready supply of sarcasm and jokes, lightening up an otherwise rigid industry. “Cheers to the hot flash life!” Pat raises her water glass, and she and Jess clink. “What’d you study?”

“Nuclear Engineering.”

Pat’s jaw drops. “Wow, what a woman!”

Martin elbows me. “You didn’t tell us that.”

“Dang.” Rob whistles. “Smart lady.”

“Just kidding,” Jess says, with a laugh. “Creative writing.”

Silence.

And then — “Oooh! Hahaha! You got us good!”

The three gaze at her, enamored.

Jess is on tonight.

Not sure what she’s on, but whatever it is, I’ll take it.

“So you’ve published a book? Do I know it? Is it a best-seller? Won any awards?” Brad, who up until now has kept to himself, is suddenly alert, sitting forward, phone out, poised to look her up — should she prove to be someone worth knowing. He’s a new hire, twenty-four, just graduated with his MBA. He started in the warehouse in May, and now, at the end of August, he’s already been promoted to outside sales, given a big desk and an even bigger truck. He’s the kind of guy who could succeed with ease anywhere in this country. White, tall, blond, good-looking, big smile, pronounced canines. He could walk into any business, any office, for any job anywhere, and no one would even ask for his resumé. The red carpet would just magically appear.

“I wrote a book,” Jess says, “but it’s not published.” Am I the only one who hears the pain curled up inside her words? She’s been sending her book out for a year. Agents tell her that her manuscript is heartfelt and meaningful — but it won’t sell.

“Oh.” Brad drops his phone, looks elsewhere.

“What’s the book about?” Martin leans in, eyes shining. “Do tell.” My stomach roils. I know what Jess’ book is about, and I know, Martin would hate it. Martin’s life revolves around church. He likes me, stops by my office now and then to chat, but other than that, he leaves me alone. I’m thankful for that because when it comes to his religious beliefs, he can be a terror. And Jess’ book is based on our shared journey out of the church. Once we stopped believing, our family and friends cut us off. With no money and no support, just each other, we had to figure out a new path in life, one that didn’t involve Jesus and following a complex rule system. It was a profoundly lonely, gut-wrenching time, an unraveling that often felt like death. That’s the dark side of leaving a group — any group — knit together by beliefs. The losses pile up, and don’t quit. You wonder sometimes if you should’ve just shut your mouth, sucked it up, lied about believing in Jesus — just to keep a community. My coworkers don’t know this story. They don’t know I was almost Pastor Dan.

I mop my forehead with a napkin, awaiting Jess’ book summary, and Martin’s outrage.

Rob elbows me. “Humid out here, eh, buddy?” He takes a swig of that garish purple drink.

I crane for a server. Maybe, for once, I need to get something stronger than water.

Jess waves her hand. “My book? Oh, you know, the usual — just sex with centaurs, nothing too crazy.”

Pat thunks her drink down. “That hasn’t sold yet? You’re kidding me. That’s my kinda book!”

Everyone chuckles, even Martin, who loves dirty jokes, but loses his mind when someone swears. The Old Testament may have ten commandments but Martin only has one — thou shalt not have a potty mouth. He actually has this printed on his key chain.

“Daniel said you were a teacher up in New York.” Martin smiles at Jess, leans back, folds his hands on his tanker tummy. “You still looking to teach?”

Jess glances at me again. “No,” she says, and that’s all.

“Oh, Lord, that’s another thing you’d never find me doing,” Pat says. “Wrangling kids all day, paid peanuts to put up with endless nonsense. No thanks! Can’t understand the people who stay in that madness. Especially at our age. Am I right?” She winks at Jess.

Jess half smiles, swirls her straw around, ice clinking. I can tell she’s on the brink. She’s about to confess her job hunt failures. Her growing fear that she gave her best years to religion, to missionary work, to perpetuating a belief system she no longer even believes. I’m scared it’s too late now, she’ll tell them. Too late to figure out another career. Or become a writer. Yet she can’t go back to teaching.

Again, she stays quiet.

Her silence, to me, is the loudest thing in this restaurant. Thing is, even as the others enjoy Jess’ banter, think she’s cute, funny, offbeat, they’re not getting the real Jess. None of the powerful feelings, the passionate thinking, the hard truths. I’m relieved, and unsettled.

“My niece teaches,” Martin says. “Teaching is a calling. That’s why she stays.” He tilts his head at Jess. “Is that how you feel?”

I almost laugh. He’s hoping for some feel-good teacher story straight from Hallmark. That’s not Jess’ story.

Jess answers, “I thought it was a calling.” The sadness on her face, in her voice, is naked, unmistakable. Impossible not to see. But if they see it, they act like they don’t.

And then the food arrives.

Three servers parade our way, bearing steaming plates, trays perched on fingertips. They set down the plates, saying the name of the meal, almost singing it. Grilled salmon with Asian fruit salsa! Lemon grass sweet pork! Hot and spicy coconut noodle soup! Braised catfish!

We immediately dig in, but Martin insists everyone lay down their forks and spoons. “Friends,” he says, with gravity, “we will thank our Lord.” He makes stern eye contact with each of us, like we’re his kids at the dinner table, and his Lord is ours. Or better be.

No one is comfortable with this, and also, no one is honest.

Next to me, Rob grumbles, and I catch Pat rolling her eyes. Brad sighs, bows his head — directly over his Instagram feed.

Jess in-boxes me. This sucks.

I in-box her back. In the real world, you do what you have to do, pretend all day long, to keep the peace.

And Jess responds. Funny, isn’t it? In the real world, nothing is real.

God. I’ve lost my mind.

Like hostages released from Martin’s prayer, we scramble back to our food, and as we eat, conversation slows. Yet, I can’t stifle my mental chatter.

Jess refrained from telling her teaching story, but it plays in my head.

Back in New York, Jess taught high school for five years until she was pretty much fired. Her crime? She brought inappropriate books for her students. Inappropriate ranks high on her list of most hated words. She thinks it is too often used as an easy substitute for does not conform. But no one wants to sweat through the really hard and honest conversation, so they just use inappropriate to get you out — fast.

Jess taught reading intervention classes to students who had failed the state test. Jess didn’t care about the state test. Her work was about serving her students, not the state, not the school. She threw out the test prep workbooks administration forced on her, and instead, used her own money to buy books — real books — for her students. Books she thought they’d connect with, based on the stories they shared with her about their lives. Jess gave her students books on self-harm, addiction, abuse, and eating disorders. Sexuality, contraceptives, abortion.

All the books she herself was raised to see as evil. The books she, as a missionary, fought to keep from people, believing they were devil-inspired. She had to come to terms with her past, her own indoctrination, and the remnants of fear she still had about these topics…so she could bring her students the books they needed. Her work and courage paid off. Her students started reading for the first time in years. Some of them, for the first time ever.

The book that got her in trouble was a queer love story. A novel so popular with her students, she had to buy five copies. Jess described the book as gorgeous, intimate, and sensual — profound. The parent who found her daughter reading the book described it as disgusting, degrading, vile — trash. Jess’ principal, when he called her into his office to scream at her, described it as a betrayal of her students, school, and parents’ trust!

Jess was told to denounce the book and apologize to everyone involved. She refused, arguing that to denounce the book was to denounce her students, their lives, their love stories. Her principal pulled her from reading and forced her to teach geography, where she had no credentials. Devastated, cut off from her students and the ability to do the work that mattered to her, Jess applied for her Master’s in creative writing.

She thought maybe she could write the truth, if she wasn’t allowed to teach it.

I look around at my colleagues, everyone absorbed in their meal.

Much as they like me, they know nothing real about me, even though as senior buyer, I’m now a key player in the company’s ranking as top branch in the nation. I’ve played it close to the chest, and climbed the ladder. I understand now that religion is everywhere. You can’t get away from the beliefs that rule a place — every place. And if you don’t adapt, you’re either eaten, or outcast. That’s why I tell Jess, take the MFA off your resumé if hiring managers see it as a liability instead of an asset. I tell her, apply for another teaching position and this time, if you’re hired, keep your head down, bring the kids bland books, nice books that won’t rile anyone up. I tell her, if what you’re writing isn’t marketable, figure out what is, then write something that’s not so heavy, not so confronting, isn’t so complicated, doesn’t think so much. I tell her, success in the real world is driven by one question — what sells?

Jess’ problem is, she wears her heart on her sleeve like a badge of honor — and now it’s full of arrows.

“Hey y’all! Sorry I’m late. Life of the party — in the house! Did you miss me?”

Of course. Something has to go rotten. I set down my fork.

Next to me, Rob mutters, “Time for another drink.”

I haven’t succumbed to the temptation, but now, I’m real close.

In a Gen X edgy move, Josh Owens swings out a chair, turns it around, straddles it. He even wears his ball cap backward, completing the Saved By the Bell rebel look. Josh Owens is our operations manager, and he’s unbearable on his best days. On this, almost everyone agrees. If he doesn’t respect you, you become sport, someone to taunt and harass like you’re back in middle school, and he’s the guy with the smirk, in your face, pushing you up against the lockers. He’ll back off as long as you pass his tests. He has to know you’re tough and intelligent, which to him means, you can take his abuse, and pick up the technology fast.

Of course, we all banter with him like we have no idea we hate him.

I succumb. I order a whiskey. I haven’t fully recovered from the Pentecostal pearl clutching over alcohol. I’m plagued by flashbacks, like the time my dad visited my apartment unannounced, scanned the leftovers from a dinner date with Jess, including the bottle of wine we’d shared. The way my father looked at me — like I’d killed someone. He’d said, you want to pastor a church? What kind of example are you? That look, his words, the hellfire of shame he unleashed in my veins, I’ve never gotten over. When I order the whiskey, Jess leans into me, looks up at me, her eyes full. She knows what no one else does. Twenty years later, this is another piece of freedom.

“Hey, Josh,” Pat says. “Look who decided to join us! Daniel’s better half. She’s been MIA so long, we all thought he was making her up!”

Martin winks. “I’m still not convinced he didn’t hire her. One of those rent-a-date things. She’s much too pretty for Daniel.” He grins, his eyes fixed on Jess. He very nearly smacks his lips. The thing about Martin, he’ll pitch a fit if someone cusses. He’ll rant and rave about ‘the evils’ of abortion and homosexuality — but finds no issue with being a class A letch. I’ve watched him eyeball high school girls, heard him make comments far cruder, far more disturbing and damaging than the f-bomb. But he doesn’t even notice the disconnect, his lack of integrity, the harm he causes in the world.

My whiskey arrives in the nick of time. I take the smallest sip, let it burn on my tongue before swallowing. Last thing I need is to cough and choke, alert them to the fact I’m a newbie. Josh, always on the prowl for a fresh target, skewering me with jokes.

Josh switches chairs, plants himself across from Jess. “Still teaching?” he asks her, taking a swig of water.

I’m surprised he remembers that. It’s the one thing I told him about her.

“Not anymore.”

“Yeah? What now?”

“Job seeking.”

“Skills?” He gives his order to the waiter, then leans toward her, eyes narrowed.

“Um. Mentoring, coaching. Communication?”

“Tech skills?”

“Basic.”

“Ah.” Josh leans back, crosses his arms over his chest. “That’s why you can’t get hired.”

“Oh?”

“You can make a spreadsheet at least, right?”

“Damn, Josh,” Pat says, “not everyone has to be tech savvy.”

“Hey! No cussing!” Martin shakes his fork at her and a noodle flies off, lands on the table. “Remember, Patricia? We talked about this.”

Pat salutes. “Aye aye, Captain Commandments.” She swipes the noodle off the table with a napkin, muttering, “Watch where you fling your limp little noodle.”

“You kidding me? Nowadays, you’d better be tech savvy — if you want to eat! Everyone needs to get on board with AI or they’ll be left munching dust, while the rest of us feast. Listen, girl, please tell me you aren’t going to interviews trying to sell your ‘soft skills’,” Josh makes air quotes and flashes his famous smirk. “I’ll tell you right now. Managers don’t care. Trust me on this. As soon as I hear someone say, ‘soft skills,’ I stop them right there, and vomit.” He swivels to me. “Right, Daniel? Daniel here made a whole system from scratch. Have you guys seen it?” He looks around the table. “Stop by his office, take a look, if you haven’t. Super impressive.”

Jess leans down, grabs her purse, plunks it onto the table. She’s about to leave. My palms sweat. I’m already in my head, explaining her behavior, inventing excuses. Oh, she has a medical issue, not serious, but she has to take care of it.

But she doesn’t leave. She digs through her purse, pulls out a lipstick and compact.

I say, “Thanks, Josh. I actually love doing that stuff though.”

The truth is, I made ‘my system’ as camouflage, to keep him off my back. I figured out what impressed him, and it worked. What sells?

Josh ignores me, glued to his soap box. “I mean, why should I care that people have empathy if they’re not skilled enough to enter a sale correctly? Take Harmon, right?” He looks around the table and everyone nods because this is the correct response, the one he wants. Harmon is our warehouse lead. He’s slow and shy — and the antithesis of tech savvy. He’s also a walking universe of knowledge about the warehouse, can recite by heart all the pipe elbow dimensions, and the names of our customer’s wives, kids, and in-laws, along with all their birthdays, anniversaries, and graduations. Josh cuts Harmon down, uses him as a model of failure at every meeting or dinner, which Harmon — for obvious reasons — now mostly avoids. “Harmon’s a good guy, but so what? What does that matter when he can’t work the computer for shit?”

“Hey!” Martin slams his water down so hard it sloshes over the sides. “No potty mouth, Joshua. I mean it.”

“Jeez, Martin, chill.” Josh turns to Jess again. “I’m just saying, you want to get hired? Acquire those hard skills. Whatever you do, never tell an interviewer, I’m authentic. I’m a people person. I care.” His voice high-pitched, he puts his hand to his heart, flutters his eyelashes.

Jess throws her lipstick back in her purse, zips it fierce, like her lips.

Josh Owens arrives and in five seconds flat, he’s sniffed out what Jess now worries about the most, that who she is in the world is a problem, one that will always hold her back. That’s Josh’s hard skill. Hacking weakness.

“All right, Josh, we get it, sport, you don’t like feelings or the people who feel them.” Pat pushes a hand through her hair, rolls her eyes as the server shows up. “Oh, look! Here’s your food. Now shut up and eat.”

Josh grins and punches her shoulder. Pat can get away with back talk because of her status. And actually — she’s wrong. Josh loves feelings. As long as they’re fear, insecurity, and intimidation. And he’s the one causing them.

I turn my attention to Rob, ask him about the current construction jobs he’s estimating. Rob complains. Another mattress store. Another storage unit. Another Dollar General. Same old same old. This town never changes.

Martin laments about the hydrants that took hours getting unloaded and how he gave those workers a piece of his mind. He puffs up when he says, they’ll never pull a stunt like that with me again.

Brad, now that I’ve gotten endorsement from Josh, a status bump, leans in, asks about “my system” — says he’ll stop by next week to take a look.

Jess tilts her head close to mine, whispers, “Let’s share the coconut cake.”

I agree, thankful and relieved.

And the cake is what brings the downfall.

When it arrives, Jess knocks over her purse, reaching for the plate.

Lipsticks roll, and Pat rescues them, with a flourish, “Ta da!” handing them to Jess.

And a book slides out. Jess always has a book.

In a flash, Josh seizes it. His eyes fly open. “Wow! What’s this? Your idea of a beach read?”

He displays the book like a school librarian, moving it left to right so everyone gets a view. The cover shows a sky with clouds edged in gold and pink. Dying Dreams.

“Dang, sis. Should we be worried?” Josh slides the book across the table. Jess catches it, tucks it back in her purse. “Job hunt going that bad?”

Jess gives a laugh, but it’s nervous. “It’s a collection of stories from hospice care workers. About their patients.”

Martin says, gently, “Honey, hospice care is a noble profession. With your sweet disposition, you’d make an angel of a nurse.”

Oh, boy. I take another swallow of whiskey.

“I’m not going into nursing,” Jess says. “Not every interesting thing has to be monetized.” She lifts her head, tries to conjure a winning smile. “Right?”

Brad squints, dubious about that.

Pat exclaims, “Amen! Can you imagine starting over as a nurse? At our age? No way. Once you get this old, all you want is a job where you can sit.”

Josh pushes his plate away. “Oh, so you’re interested in croaking? What a hobby!”

Jess takes a forkful of cake, studies it. “I’m doing research for a piece I’m writing.” She stops, considers, then says with firmness, “I’m interested in end-of-life dreams and visions.”

“Say what?” Josh’s laugh has a little snort attached.

“You might be surprised — I was — by how many terminal patients report deceased loved ones, including pets, coming to visit them, in dreams and visions preceding death.”

Brad attempts to bury a laugh in his fist, pretending to cough.

I grit my teeth. The kid can’t drop his cool act for a minute to get curious. Maybe if he asked some questions, instead of fake-coughing, he’d have to engage with something real that matters. Maybe, for instance, a true story about me and Jess. How the two of us were born into families with all the answers to life, in the form of one Big Book that knew everything so we didn’t have to wonder or ask. How comforting that was, to be handed a whole narrative. Now we don’t have that. Now it’s like we’re constantly falling backward in life, nothing to catch us. Sometimes, it’s so frightening, we still look for a net. Some hope, some meaning, some promise out there. Especially when life gets rough.

Martin says, “You mean ghosts? When my mother-in-law had late stage Alzheimer’s, she claimed she saw ghosts in the house. She was freaked out. Cried a lot. My wife had to hold her like a baby, reassure her over and over, there aren’t any ghosts, Mom.”

Jess says, “This book is based on stories and data collected from thousands of hospice patients. The research draws clear, science-based distinctions between delusions and hallucinations, which render the patient disoriented and distressed, and end-of-life dreams and visions — which flood the patient with an immense feeling of peace, calm, and joy.”

“Wait, let me guess. The doctor behind this ‘research’ is Deepak Chopra.” With his incisive humor — Brad elicits a chuckle.

Jess remains serious. “The doctor driving this research is a medical doctor and Ph.D. in neurobiology who works at the bedside of dying patients, including children. He wants their stories and experiences to be heard and affirmed.”

Brad shrugs. “Sorry but, the visions thing is throwing me off. Sounds like something out of the Book of Revelation.”

“Nothing wrong with Revelation, son,” Martin says, turning to him. “Would do your soul good to get out your Bible, give it another look-see.”

“His patients use the word vision to try to give language to what they experience. They report that when their loved ones appear to them, it’s realer than a dream. Realer than reality.”

“What’s realer than reality?” Brad’s face. His barely concealed scoff. He just finds this — Jess — ridiculous.

“I don’t know. Those who work closely with the dying encourage us just to hear their experiences, be open, be present, without trying to explain it.”

And on cue, everyone starts trying to explain it.

“Most likely neurochemical,” Rob says. “Lack of oxygen, maybe? The brain shutting down as the end approaches. Some chemical released before death.”

“Tripping.” Brad laughs. “The brain gives us a little fun time before the final curtain lowers.”

“Medication,” Martin chimes in. “Crazy side effects, those meds.”

Jess’ eyes flash, and my muscles clench. Here we go.

“Some patients are weeks, even months from death. Even patients not taking medication report recurring and hyperreal dreams and visions of deceased loved ones. And the themes are rivetingly consistent. The deceased return with a message, a promise of travel. Get ready, I’m coming for you soon.”

“I am not buzzed enough for this conversation.” Pat gives her head a shake.

“I’m sorry, but no.” Brad picks up his phone, gives it a glance. “When they start seeing dead people, hearing voices, that’s the time to pump them with meds. My dad’s a doctor and he’d agree. It’s just merciful, for patients and their family.”

Josh, who’s been strangely quiet, startles us all, swinging around to face Brad. “Merciful? What’s the matter with you, you little punk? Are you that much of a moron?”

Brad freezes. We all do.

Josh turns to Jess. His upper lip is trembling. “My old man passed when I was twelve. Cancer ate up his colon. He was only thirty-eight. Thing is, I wasn’t close to him. No one was close to him. My mom was the closest, but he hit her, too.”

I suck in a breath, glance around at the others. Pat investigates a spoonful of sticky rice pudding as though it’s a science experiment. Martin subtly checks his watch. Brad remains motionless, staring and pale, like a statue of himself. Rob swirls what’s left of his purple drink.

Jess holds Josh’s gaze. “Did your father have them? The dreams and visions?”

Josh blinks. “I’ve never told anyone this. Seemed crazy. My dad was a Vietnam vet. He was at Hamburger Hill. I was told by my mom, my grandma, my aunt, everyone, never ask your dad what he saw over there. No one asked, and he never told. Well, he told the stories with his fists, I guess.”

Rob motions for a server, whispers for the check. Pat’s abandoned her dessert and is now scrolling on her phone. Martin’s unclasped his watch, appears to be repairing it. All at once, Brad hops up and takes off, head lowered, like a bull charging for the nearest exit.

“Dad refused to go to a hospital. Mom got him set up in a hospital bed in our living room. She tried her best to take care of him, mean as he was. We had a hospice nurse coming in and out, too. Live or die, I didn’t care what he did. My heart was a ball of ice towards him. I didn’t expect anything from him. I’m proud of you, son. No bullshit like that.”

My eyes dart to Martin, watch parts scattered around his plate now. He picks up a tiny screw, examining it under the light. His face twitches, and that’s all.

“One night, about a week before he passed, I was coming in from playing baseball, sweaty, dirty. I’m on my way to the shower and he calls for me as I pass by the living room. I’m like hell, what does he want. I decide that if I’m in trouble, and he tries swinging at me from his hospital bed, I’ll just step back and laugh, right in his face. He wasn’t on meds or anything. Live tough, die tough. That was his motto. I go in, ready for a fight, and see right away, he’s different. He's got a strange look about him. I’d never seen him look at me like that. Soft face and eyes. He tells me to pull up a chair. I do it, even though the sweet way he’s looking at me scares me more than anything. He says, I’m going to tell you about ‘Nam. The first thing I did was jump up and go look, make sure mom wasn’t around. No way she’d have me hearing about all that. The things he told me that night made me want to throw up, but hearing what he went through, the worst of it, was better, way better, than being punched by him.”

Jess speaks quietly. “From what I’ve read, that happens a lot at end-of-life. The person tells stories they’ve suppressed. They confront trauma. They want to share the truth with the people around them, make amends.”

Josh says, “He told me about his best friend over there, Steven May. Said they were blood brothers. Said, look here, son, at my hand. I didn’t want to look. I was afraid of his damned old skeleton hand, but I forced myself to look because he wanted me to so bad.” Here, Josh’s voice breaks.

The server scoots over, assesses the situation, deposits the check without a word.

“There, on his palm, right under his thumb, is this scar, a pale line, like a ghost. And I realize, all the times I’ve been up close and personal with dad’s hand, I’ve never seen that scar. He told me how Steven died. They were fleeing sniper fire. Steven was shot in the mouth. Dad watched his friend take his last breath, nothing he could do. And later, he found a tooth in his pocket. ” Josh guffaws, pounding the table so the plates, the glasses, the silverware jumps. “I swear to you. I am not making this up!”

Pat finally puts her phone down. She stares into the middle distance, glassy eyed, arms crossed over her chest. Martin’s put his watch back together. His elbows sit on the table, his forehead pushed into steepled hands.

Rob’s gone. He slipped out after the check came.

“Dad told me the tooth in his pocket was a parting gift from Steven. Steven was always playing pranks. And now they were tooth brothers. He tells me that and he laughs. That’s a big deal because he never laughed. He screamed, he swore, he was sullen for days. Never laughed. Yet there he was, so close to death, laughing his ass off. So here’s the thing,” Josh looks Jess right in the eye, “he told me that Steven kept showing up in his dreams, or standing by his bedside, or one time, sitting in the chair where I was sitting. He swore these weren’t dreams. He knew all about dreams. Steven was there, he said. And he told dad, Brother, get packed, I’m coming for you. Steven said, Brother, don’t be afraid, I’ve got your back. He said, By the way, man, you still got my tooth? After all these years? You know when I come get you, I’m taking my tooth back. I’m telling you, I never in my life saw my dad smile like that, happy, so at peace.”

I look up. Pat’s gone now.

And then there were three.

“What happened?” Jess asks.

Josh shakes his head, face growing hard. “I was an idiot. I told my mom about Steven. She freaked. She thought dad was delusional. She called the nurse. I tried to stop her. I said, no, ma, go talk to him. She said, I’m not talking to him about ghosts. That’s crazy talk! Not anything you should be listening to. I begged her but she called the nurse, said dad needed meds, morphine, something that would stop him from hallucinating, scaring his kid. I said, ma, he’s not scaring me! Yeah, for the first time, he was actually connecting to me. Then the nurse came, pumped him with meds” — imitating Brad’s words, his flip tone.

Josh swivels and yells at Brad’s empty chair, “Merciful? You think you know what’s real? You think you’ve got it all figured out? So you and your know-it-all doctor dad drug him up and he never speaks again?” Josh brings his fist down slam! On the table. “Fuck you, man!”

Martin pushes back his chair, hard, and with a cold look, rises, strides away.

I swallow the rest of my whiskey.

Jess reaches out, sets her hand on Josh’s.

She keeps it there, a long embrace.

We climb into the car.

We buckle up.

We drive five miles.

The longleaf pines bloom beneath the moon, giant flowers from another world.

Finally, Jess speaks. “I tried, Daniel. I really did.”

I think about her sending me glances all night. Biting her lip. Biting her tongue. Biting her stories. Biting her spirit.

She laughs, despairing. “That book, falling out of my purse...”

The headlights cast a firm, steady glow. And I think about tomorrow.

Josh will stop by my office. Knock-knock! He’ll say, hanging on the doorframe.

He’ll crow: So wow, your wife’s a hippie? A witch? I’d say she put a spell on me but it was the rum. That’s why I don’t drink!

He’ll say it loud enough for everyone to hear.

But I’ll remember. He didn’t order a drink.

The turning point, twenty years ago, my pastoral ordination on the horizon, was when Jess confessed to me one late night: I’ve stopped believing that Jesus is God.

I was deep down, intoxicatedly in love with her.

Do you think I’ll go to hell, Daniel?

Wow, she was brave.

Brave to ask. Brave to hear her lover say: Yes. If you don’t believe, you’ll go to hell.

We stayed up all night. Arguing, fighting, crying. Looking up scripture on hellfire. Reading, researching, and fighting some more.

Brave to want to know. To stay there with me, rooted in the hurt, the struggle.

Once my belief in hellfire dissolved, it wasn’t too long before the whole shebang crumbled.

Jess says now, in the tire humming quiet as we drive, “I’m giving up, Daniel. I need to connect to something real, and there’s nothing real in the real world…but there’s something real about dying.”

At work tomorrow, the others will say, “Crazy night, huh?”

Or, more likely, they’ll say nothing.

Jess says, “I never told you this. After my principal moved me from reading to geography, Estrella, the student whose mother turned me in, came to find me. She cried and apologized because she thought everything that had happened was her fault. Then she told me the inappropriate book had saved her. Literally. She’d been contemplating suicide. She feared her mother would disown her for being gay. And she wasn’t wrong. After she was caught reading the book, Estrella came out to her family, and her mother stopped talking to her. Estrella told me, even though she was hurting, she knew she’d be okay, because that book had told her a story that was her story, and gave her a reason to believe there was a place for her in the world. A place filled with love.” Here, Jess’ voice cracks.

Her workplace — an institution claiming to value education, liberation, meaning. Yet all too often, just as suffocating, controlling, and crushing as any religion.

Josh will deny the powerful exchange that unfolded tonight, the raw feelings that poured out of him.

I won’t forget.

None of us will, no matter how we looked away.

Our million and one ways of looking away.

The injustice we commit daily, against the living and the dying.

Drugging ourselves, and each other, out of our truths.

And I feel another breakthrough coming. “Fuck what sells!”

Jess goes very still.

“The real world is full of terrified assholes, Jess.”

I hear her breathe.

“We need you. Stay with us. Keep doing what you’re doing.”

Jess presses her face into her hands.