What Still Reaches

Richard and Margaret Chen had been married for fifty-two years.

In 1973, when they married, people just called it "being polite." Called it "not making a scene." Called it "what you do when you want a marriage to last."

You learned to control your thoughts. Control your wants.

They married. They had two children. They built a life.

And their shadows behaved.

For fifty-two years, their shadows behaved.

Margaret was dying in a hospice room with windows that faced west, and the June sunset came through so bright that every shadow in the room was sharp as a knife.

"Do you need anything?" Richard asked. He was sitting in the chair next to her bed. His shadow sat in the chair next to him.

"No," Margaret said. Pancreatic cancer. Six weeks from diagnosis to hospice.

Her shadow lay on the bed next to her. Still. Waiting.

They'd been sitting in silence for an hour. Everything that needed to be said had been said. I love you. I'll miss you. Thank you for fifty-two years.

All the appropriate things.

"Richard," Margaret said quietly. "Can I ask you something?"

"Of course."

"Did you ever wonder why I said yes?"

The question caught him off guard. "What do you mean?"

"When you proposed. Did you ever wonder why I said yes so quickly?"

Richard looked at her. At the woman he'd spent his entire adult life with. "I thought... I thought you loved me."

"I thought I could learn to." Her voice was barely a whisper. "I tried very hard to learn to."

His shadow stood up from the chair.

Not quickly. Not dramatically. Just stood up and took a step away from him.

Fifty-two years of marriage, and his shadow had just moved independently.

"Margaret—"

"There was someone else," she said. "Before you. His name was David. David Okonkwo. He wanted me to move to California with him after graduation. He wanted..." Margaret trailed off. "I said no. Said I couldn't. My parents would never have allowed it."

Her shadow sat up on the bed. Looked down at her body.

"You married me to..."

"To make it stop," Margaret said. "To make myself stop wanting him. I thought if I built a good life, if I was a good wife, if I tried hard enough, the wanting would go away."

"Did it?"

"No."

Margaret's shadow stood up on the bed. Walked to the edge. Stood there looking toward the opposite wall.

"I called him," Margaret said. "Last week. After the diagnosis."

Richard couldn't speak.

"He's alive. Living in San Diego. He's been married for forty-three years." Margaret's eyes were wet. "He sounded happy."

Richard's shadow turned from where it stood. Margaret's shadow turned from the wall.

They looked at each other across the hospice room.

Two shadows that had spent fifty-two years standing perfectly still.

"I'm sorry," Margaret whispered. "You deserved someone who actually loved you."

"We raised good children," Richard said. His voice sounded hollow. "We built a good life."

"Yes."

"That's not nothing."

"No. It's not nothing."

They sat in silence. The sun was setting. The shadows were getting longer.

Margaret died three hours later, just after midnight.

Her shadow stayed on the bed next to her body for a few minutes. Then it stood up. Walked to the window. And dissipated in the darkness.

Richard sat in the chair until morning. His shadow sat on the floor.

When the sun came up on June 20th, Richard's shadow stood.

Walked to the window where Margaret's shadow had disappeared.

Richard closed his eyes. Thought about fifty-two years. About two children. About a woman who had tried very hard to love him and failed.

About how he'd never known. Never suspected.

His shadow pressed its hands against the glass.

Richard opened his eyes. "What do you want?"

His shadow turned to look at him.

Then it pointed to the door.

"You want to leave?"

His shadow shook its head. Pointed at Richard. Then at the door.

"I don't understand."

His shadow came to stand in front of him. Reached out. Touched his shoulder.

And Richard felt it. Actually felt it.

"There's nothing out there for me," Richard said. "She was my whole life."

His shadow pointed to the door again. Insistent.

Richard stood up slowly. His bones ached. He was seventy-eight years old. Margaret was dead. His children were grown.

His shadow walked to the door. Looked back at him. Waiting.

"Where would we even go?" Richard asked.

His shadow didn't answer. It just stood there.

Richard looked back at Margaret's body under the white sheet. At the room where she'd spent her last hours telling him the truth.

At fifty-two years that had been real for him and performance for her.

"Okay," he said quietly. "Let's go."

He walked out of the hospice room. His shadow walked beside him. Not behind. Not following.

Beside him.

For the first time in fifty-two years, Richard Chen walked next to his shadow instead of ahead of it.

He didn't know where they were going.

But anywhere was better than staying in a room where he'd just learned his whole life had been a lie.

Outside, the summer sun was rising on the longest day of the year.