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  Sometime, Somewhere

  Kalyn Fogarty

  Copyright © 2021 by Kalyn Fogarty

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

  This book contains material protected under international and federal copyright laws and treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photography, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without express written permission from the author.

  K.

  May we be together and in love

  in everytime and everywhere.

  —Love, K

  1

  James

  After

  March 2008

  Whoever said life flashes before your eyes before you die had it wrong. I didn’t see my life. There were no fragments of forgotten memories flipping through my mind. One second I was driving, so alive, so completely human. In the flash of a moment, it all ended. I looked to my right and saw my own death reflected in the eyes of a man who looked just like me.

  When I died, I saw a ghost and I saw the end.

  As a kid, I imagined ghosts as something that went bump in the night. We told spooky tales around campfires and dressed in white sheets for Halloween. How many movies did I watch about ghosts? I knew they didn’t really exist, but how cool would it be if they did.

  Looking back now, those ghost stories would have been much scarier had I known what my future had in store for me.

  I’ve walked past mirrors and seen nothing. I’ve tried to touch a person, a cat, a vase, and felt nothing. I’ve screamed and not been heard. I thought a ghost would be so light it shines, but I am a shadow in a dark room. I may be weightless as air, but I’m heavy with regret. I carried my pain and guilt into the ghost world and wasn’t given the strength to unload my burden.

  Ghosts are supposed to haunt the life where they have unfinished business, but I haunt a life I never had any business in at all. I’m forced to watch the path not taken, the road I never walked. Who knows when the path changed? There are countless decisions that might have led me astray. Was it a major life choice? Or was it something small, something I probably didn’t think twice about? I’ll never know. But what I have learned is that most things in life come down to a boy and a girl.

  I loved a girl once. I actually loved her twice, and I lost her both times.

  I was not reincarnated. I do not have a body, only a soul, but it’s our souls that love. Our bodies just respond. I never asked for a chance to do it over again. Yet here I am, a lonely soul who’s proof that the life I lived was only one of infinite imperfect attempts. I’ve been given the chance to glimpse what could have been, and I see that it could have been so much better. The universe allowed me a second try, but now that’s gone too, leaving behind a hole in my heart I fear will never be filled. I’m stuck here, eternally linked to a fate that isn’t mine.

  Do I ever get it right? Sometime, somewhere, I must be happy. Sometime, somewhere I’m in love and in life with the girl. My Karen, my Wren.

  2

  James

  Age 40

  November 2011

  “Did you even hear me?” my latest girlfriend screeches into the phone.

  Oh, I hear her. Loud and clear. The question she should be asking is if I even care. The answer to that is a resounding no.

  “Yeah, babe, I hear you. I’ll be home as soon as I finish up this last bit of paperwork,” I say.

  The paperwork lies on my desk, waiting to be organized and settled. I’ve been staring at the distribution of marital property for the Little couple for the last few hours and have gotten very little done—pardon the pun. Every five minutes the phone rings, demanding my immediate attention, eating up my day with questions needing to be answered and contracts needing to be signed. When my morning coffee spilled, I should have known it was going to be a rough day. I should have packed up my briefcase then and called it a day.

  Cindy breathes heavily into the phone. She sounds like a dragon, hissing fire at me through virtual channels. I’m not sure which is more painful, a phone call or face-to-face conversation. In person she’s all staging and dramatic pauses for effect. I suppose it’s what I get for dating a wannabe actress slash bartender slash legal temp worker. Seriously, it’s how she describes her career, slashes and all.

  “Is your secretary still there?” she asks.

  Back to this again. She may be an actress, but she can’t hide the suspicion in her voice. I swear to god, you sleep with one secretary, you’re sleeping with them all.

  “I’m not going to discuss this again, Cindy. See you at home in a few hours.” The end.

  Such incentive to finish up here. Who wouldn’t look forward to a jealous woman child awaiting him at home, no doubt indulging herself with his most expensive wine and waiting to pounce when he opens the door? Once upon a time, my apartment was my sanctuary. Ever since Cindy started leaving clothes in drawers and referring to my place as “ours,” I’ve found my office much quieter. I’m not even sure when she moved in. We’ve been dating only a few weeks. Two months, tops. I hardly like her, never mind love her. She’s company. She keeps me warm at night. Looks good on my arm. I should probably talk to her one of these days. Not tonight, though. I’m going to need to change the locks first. Cindy seems the type who would break in in the middle of the night to chop off my balls. Better safe than sorry on this one.

  The Little family. Husband. Wife. Two kids, a girl and a boy. One dog. Three houses, a time-share in Aspen, cash, investments, retirement plan, cars and a boat. So much shared life on paper, all of it waiting for me to shred it apart in a bitter divorce settlement. It’s my job to split weekends with the kids, weeks at the vacation home, future earnings. More specifically, my job is to make the case that my client deserves the majority of all this. Loni Little informed me she’d like to “run her husband through the wringer.” She’s not the first woman to request this. Usually I find the game fun. I like getting more than my side deserves. Because, really, how much does the newly separated housewife who brought no assets into the marriage deserve? All of it, I tell them. These women eat it up. I flirt, reassure them they’re in the right. Not to be vain, but I do my job well. I’m the best of the best.

  Except, lately, I don’t care who wins. Maybe I should just tear the paper in half, straight down the middle. Half for wifey, half for hubby. You’re welcome and have a great day.

  “James?” My current secretary, Laura, stands hesitantly in the doorway.

  I’m not sleeping with her, but I can’t say I haven’t been tempted. After all this drama with Cindy, I could use a low-maintenance girl. Laura’s a sweet one. Those big blue eyes are kind. The rest of her isn’t so bad either.

  “James?” she repeats, stepping through the doorway.

  Come on over, little bit closer . . .

  I shake myself from my little fantasy. Scaring this secretary away on a sexual harassment suit wouldn’t be the smartest career decision. The partners were willing to send the last one away before the affair got out of hand, but I doubt they’ll be as lenient with offense number two. “Yes, Laura? Sorry, I’m just a bit busy on this case.” Busy deciding where to tear the paper . . .

  She smiles at me, nodding in understanding. Her lips are so soft. She’s always rubbing some sort of shiny gloss over them so they look permanently wet. I wonder if she realizes the effect this habit has on men.

  “Sir,” she starts. I check myself, pulling my stare from her mouth and focusing on her eyes again. I’d hate to make her uncomfortable. “Your dad is on the phone, line one.”

  Goddammit. I don’t need this right now. My parents have been on my ass abo
ut coming home for Thanksgiving. It’s the same every year. As soon as Halloween rolls around, I’m harassed daily about my familial duties. Mom leaves voice mails both at home and on my cell, urging me to visit. She’s even resorted to bribery the past few years, as if making my favorite pie will make up for the agony of eating it at the table with my father. The other day I received a text from her. I couldn’t believe my mother knew what a text message was, never mind how to actually send one.

  Convincing Dad to call is her new ploy. She pretends like it was his idea, but I know the truth. He’d never dare call me at work, just like I never dared bother him at his own office when I was a kid.

  I hope Mom’s okay. I dismiss the thought. Everything’s probably fine. If there was an emergency, Dad would’ve said as much to Laura. No, this is just Mom’s last-ditch attempt to get me home for Thanksgiving. Too bad I know what she really wants. She doesn’t care if I’m home for the holiday. It’s all about tricking Dad and me into reconciling. Any random Thursday in any month will suffice if November doesn’t work out.

  No matter how much I love my mom, it isn’t happening. Not even for her.

  “Tell him I just left and you’ll leave a message for me to call first thing in the morning,” I say, focusing on the papers in front of me again. But not before I see Laura raise her perfectly arched brows. Just slightly. Nodding, she keeps her mouth shut as she backs from the room. So much for her not being the type to judge. She must think I’m a heartless guy, lying to my poor father. If only she knew him. She’d be on my side.

  3

  Karen

  Age 32

  November 2003

  Stick it. It’s the motto I live by. Stick the landing. Stick the job. Stick it to the critics. Years of sticking it have finally come back to haunt me. Cancer is sticking it to me, hard. Karma. She’s a bitch. A mean bitch.

  There’s no practicing for this. Repetitions and drills won’t do me any good. I can’t win. There’s no perfect ten when fighting cancer. There’s no gold medal.

  Survival is the big prize. Remission. My doctor repeats it like some sick mantra I should be chanting while praying to the gods. Remission-remission-remission. The dictionary defines remission as the relinquishment of a payment. What the hell am I paying for? What did I do to deserve this?

  My doctor said a hysterectomy is the most surefire way to fight ovarian cancer. Fine, if I weren’t thirty-two and childless. Who knows if I want kids? A hysterectomy takes away the option. My mom cried for days after I told her. She was more upset I wouldn’t have children then about the cancer itself. I’m not sure what she’s so worried about, considering I don’t even have a steady boyfriend, never mind a potential-father-of-my-unborn-children. Procreation has never even been very high on my list of priorities. I don’t have much faith in my ability to produce a genetically sound child. The odds are already stacked against me. My family is a hodgepodge of medical misery—physical and mental—and no child can escape the past. I never guessed ovarian cancer would be my fate, but honestly, I’m not even surprised. I always assumed I had something wonderful in store for me; why not cancer? The more I think about it, the less I want children. The poor things would be hopeless.

  I’m not having the hysterectomy, despite my genetic misgivings. But I still need Mom to calm down. So, in lieu of surgery, I’m getting pumped full of drugs. Anything to quiet her fears and quell the incessant tears.

  At first, I went to the hospital every week. Every vein was hooked to an IV, cranking carboplatin, paclitaxel, and a few others that all sounded the same and made me puke. Eventually they taught me to give shots to myself. I learned where to stab myself in the belly and thigh. I didn’t even feel the injections after a while. In another life I would’ve made a great nurse. Half the idiots I encountered in the hospital poked and prodded me like I was a freaking pincushion. Now I have a collection of capsules to take, easier than the shots but full of the same shit that makes me feel like hell.

  The drugs are bad, but the side effects are worse. My beautiful hair fell out in clumps, grew back in, only to fall back out again. I have a selection of wigs, but none of them compares to my once thick and lustrous hair. I’ll never get used to running my fingers through a hairpiece and feeling it wiggle.

  I pick up one of the bottles from my vanity. Some girls have mascara and perfume; others have cancer meds. I squint to read the label on one gem. Cyclophosphamide. Warning: Cyclophosphamide can affect your ability to have children. You may not be able to become pregnant or father a child after taking this medication. Discuss fertility with your doctor before starting treatment with this drug.

  Maybe a hysterectomy would have been better. At least then I’d have no children. Now I may become pregnant and those kids may have three heads.

  Three years. Cancer. Remission. Cancer. Remission. Cancer, again. Treatment, management, treatment. Hell. Hell. Hell. What was it all for? So one day I might produce mutant children with the husband I still need to find?

  The Martin gene pool was meant to end with me. My parents should never have reproduced. I was a mistake. Karma proved her point. Now it’s up to me to finish us off.

  4

  Jimmy

  Age 14

  November 1985

  Being on the baseball team has its perks. Most of the school only gets to miss last period for the pep rally, but when you’re on a team, you get to miss everything after lunch. The coaches even bought us all pizza and let us eat in the gym with the other sports. I don’t usually hang with the football and baseball guys, so it’s cool to spend time together with other athletes not on my team.

  Girls are the best perk, obviously. I’m not a player or anything. I mean, I’m basically a virgin. On the one hand, I’m only fourteen. But I’m basically fifteen, and a bunch of guys already did it this past summer. It’s like moving from junior to senior high requires some rite of passage and hooking up over the summer is the Holy Grail. I haven’t crossed that bridge yet, but I don’t want to be a virgin forever. I just haven’t found the right time or the right girl. I’m always looking.

  The girls make it that much easier. I’m not saying the girls are easy or anything, but a bunch hang out at the fields after every practice, eyeing us from the sidelines, giving off all kinds of crazy signals. I wonder if they really don’t have anything better to do than watch us play every day. Back in September we were truly awful. We’ve gotten better, but we’re still prone to striking out, sloppy throwing, and slow running. I can’t imagine how bad the JV teams are if varsity sucks this bad. A lowly freshman like me should be on JV, but I guess even my meager talents warrant the big leagues at this school.

  When we actually manage to hit the ball, these girls look up from their gossiping and cheer like we’re the Red Sox or something. After practice, they saunter over to tell us how awesome we played and offer to take us to lunch. Batting their eyelashes—covered in layers of black goop, stuff junior high girls never wore so much of—they think they are so coy. But it’s obvious they just want to date a jock to elevate their own popularity. High school is one big contest and only the strong survive.

  It’s not like I don’t go on dates. I’ve gone to Sarah’s Kitchen after practice with a few girls. We share a milkshake and some fries and flirt across the table. Those are basically dates. There’s one girl I went steady with for a few weeks in October, but she dumped me for Derek Young. He’s a football player and a sophomore, and according to Katie they are totally meant to be. After she figured this out, she wrote me a note in English class explaining she was “better suited” for a football player, whatever that means. According to the girls I’ve asked, there’s a distinct difference between the players on the different teams. But hanging here in the gym eating pizza together, we all look pretty much the same to me.

  The girls’ teams are here for the pep rally too. Volleyball, softball, basketball, and soccer are all scattered around the gym in pods. The girls on these teams do look different to me, come to think
about it. Maybe it’s a gender thing. The basketball girls are all really tall, obviously. The volleyball girls are also really tall, but the majority of them seem also seem to be blonde and tan, even though they most definitely play here in the gym and not on some beach. The soccer girls are the hottest. I can’t pinpoint why, but they are. It might be the socks. The softball girls scare me a little. I’d be afraid to face them on the field. They’re mad tough.

  In the center of all the action, the cheerleaders—excuse me, “pep squad”—stretch, bending their lithe upper bodies across their outstretched legs, reaching skinny arms to touch their toes. The squad doesn’t cheer at our games, only for football and basketball games. Unfair, I know. I watch Lexy Greer, the head cheerleader, slide into a split and avoid my eyes. I’m pretty sure every boy at school has fantasized about Lexy. Even the male teachers force themselves to look away as she sashays down the hall. She’s every teenager’s dream. She stuffs her boobs into push-up bras one size too small. Somehow that bra is always visible through whatever flimsy shirt she happens to be wearing that day. I mean, doesn’t she know we can see her black bra through the white shirt, or the lacy straps peeking out of her sweatshirt? Her hair is bright blonde with thick streaks we’re supposed to think were made by the sun but are probably dyed to look just like that. Her big brown eyes are rimmed in dark makeup so they look supernaturally huge. Someone told her she was a dead ringer for Caroline in Sixteen Candles, and ever since she’s taken that role very, very seriously. Just like in the movie, she’s easily the most popular girl in school and dates only sporty guys and only if they have a lead role on their team. Captain. Point guard. Quarterback. That’s her type. Lexy’s never spoken to me—or even looked my way—but she inspires me to climb the ranks.

  Lexy isn’t the only hot girl on the pep squad. Sure, she’s the most obvious. But I’m not really into that, outside the normal locker-room fantasies. There’s this one girl, a freshman, who I’ve had a major crush on since seventh grade. Her name is Karen Martin. She’s pretty, but it’s like her beauty is a secret that can’t be described. I find myself staring at her in class, each time noticing something I’ve missed before that will only then catch my eye. She has crazy freckles and a little dimple in her chin, like a fingerprint. There’s a small scar in the crease of her left eye and a birthmark on her right cheek. When I look at Lexy, it’s all out there on display. What you see is what you get. Karen is so much more. Her hair is sometimes chestnut, sometimes amber, sometimes honey, depending on the light. She sits in front of me in world history, and I swear, some days I don’t take a single note because I’m too busy deciphering the exact color of those strands. Don’t get me started on the color of her eyes. There aren’t enough variations of blue to describe them.