LITMIR.BIZ

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      Zoey stepped backward, closer to the footboard. The hem of her nightgown tickled her thighs, and the underside of her long hair, drenched in perspiration, caused a deep chill.

      The deer seemed to gaze at something important.

      “Hey, look, this isn’t the best of circumstances for either one of us. You’re staring. At what?”

      Lightning sparked and the trophy’s marbled eyes fixated on her cluttered nightstand.

      Zoey rushed to the overstocked tabletop. Sidetracked by beautiful amber bottles, she maneuvered around the lamp of bones and grabbed her favorite numbing agents, the oblong pills. She took two and recapped the bottle. And there was the phone, peeking out from under a crumpled road map. Had she remembered to charge it?

      Two bars and decent reception. Zoey festively punched the air. She pressed his contact button.

      The phone rang.

      Lightning flickered, and from somewhere behind the mountains, distant rumbles crept closer.

      The phone rang again.

      “Zoey?” Mitch’s strong voice was akin to the uncurling thunder.

      “Who else?”

      “I tried calling. You didn’t answer.”

      “I didn’t hear the phone ring.”

      “You couldn’t tell me you were leaving?”

      “It was a spontaneous decision.” She’d almost called him, but decided her choices weren’t his business.

      “You made it there okay, though, no car trouble?”

      “None. Are you amazed?”

      “Yes.”

      “It is possible, Mitch. I will prevail.”

      “Are you okay?”

      “No.” She held back tears. “Damn nightmares. I haven’t slept in over a year. Three or four hours, tops. I’m exhausted.”

      “I know. I’m sorry.”

      “No, I’m sorry. You’ve gone on as if our son never existed.”

      “Knock it off, Zoey! You know that’s not true.”

      Zoey squashed the phone to her ear and perched on the edge of the mattress. “I miss him so much.”

      “I know. Me too,” he said, seeming to shed his fatigue. “Why don’t you come home?”

      “Home? What is that? We’re divorced. You walked out on me.”

      “Living in a shrine got old. It’d be easier for both of us if you stopped lying to yourself. You left me long before I gave you my key, and you took our house with you.” He paused. “And the drugs—”

      “Prescription drugs.”

      “Abused prescription drugs. Cymbalta, Zoloft, Valium, Prozac, did I skip anything? I’ve said it a thousand times. I won’t watch you destroy yourself.”

      “Pussy.”

      “What are you on?” he asked.

      “All kinds of pills, Mitch. They’re worthless. I’m still unable to function.”

      “Come back and get help.”

      “Help?” She sucked her cheeks inward, attempting to stimulate saliva. “Why are you always trying to fix me? I’m irreparable. I’m mourning. I see Milo die every night. How do you expect me to go on? I can’t concentrate. I have no purpose without him. Don’t you understand? My son was my world.”

      “I do understand, and it pisses me off. You were a wife, and a friend, a professional, an artist—you wore many nametags, and you wore them well.”

      “I would give it all up for him.”

      “You have, and where has it gotten you?”

      “No! I would trade it for him, but I can’t, so I’m waiting to see him. He’ll return. Watch. What do you do? How do you honor our deceased son?”

      “I coddle his doped-up mother on a regular basis.”

      “I don’t need your bullshit, okay? Just listen.” She reclined on her pillow. “Remember his eyes?”

      “He had my eyes.”

      “He would have been an exceptional photographer,” she said as her skin numbed.

      “Sure. He would have been good at whatever he chose to do. You need to stop the drugs, Zoey.”

      “Why do you keep talking about me? It’s about Milo, and right now I want to be here, in Milo’s home, on Milo’s land.”

      “Milo never knew that place. You’d be closer to him here. You can visit his gravesite.”

      “And what, stare at a headstone? He’s not there. Remember his mobster impersonations?”

      “‘Marinara sauce? Who do I need to rough up to get a meatball?’”

      “And pirates, he loved pirates.” Zoey smiled.

      Mitch snickered gently, and again mocked from memory. “‘Take out the garbage? Arrgh, sweet merciless heaven.’”

      Zoey sniffled. “Merciless heaven. Oh God, so true. He was a smart kid.”

      “Come back to Chicago. You have friends and family here.”

      Zoey glanced at the ceiling. “I can’t. I belong in his house with him watching over me. I feel him.”

      “You’re not making sense, Zoey. He didn’t know your uncle and neither did you. Think. What are you on?”

      “I told you, a bunch of stuff. I take whatever will destroy the film playing over and over in my head. Nothing works. I still see him get on that ride, and I still see him fall, and I can’t fucking take it anymore.”

      “We’ll find the right medication, but you have to let me help you.”

      “I don’t need help. I need my son alive.” She thumbed the Off button and tossed the phone on the floor.

      It rang nonstop. She threw a pillow over the noisemaker and scooted higher in bed. She eyed the windows. A chalky mist swirled against the black backdrop of night. It reminded her of a photo shoot she’d had at the dessert factory. Vanilla ice cream and chocolate syrup spiraled in a snail shell design on a black porcelain plate. Milo had gone along and almost ruined a perfect shot with his finger. She should have let him. So many things she would have done better.

      A quick crimson hue veiled the bedroom.

      She watched the window for signs of another unique outburst and witnessed a spear of blood red lightning.

      “Fantastic.” She advanced to the glass. The next flash appeared normal. She leaned forward and examined the land. In daylight the miles of woods and mountains overwhelmed her, a fairytale bloated with a hundred shades of green, happy sunshiny sky and a mesmeric frothy river. She related to the night, to its mysteries.

      Sparks of light danced on muted boulders. A bush near the driveway had tinier shrubs at its base, transforming the plant into a top hat. Beyond the rocks, a pine tree stood in front of two others, each wider than the next. A grand illusion if captured at the right angle.

      Though she had no interest in resuming professional photography, she’d at least consider snapping pictures for fun. She turned for her camera, buried somewhere under a heap of clothes, and noticed her jeans. She bent over and slipped them on, straightened and glanced outside again.

      To the left was a hill with a fairly steep drop, but she could see where the ground leveled at the forest’s edge. Lightning flashed in shorter increments and revealed a change in the density of darkness near the tree line.

      A

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