“Youready?” he asked, killing the engine.
Witha rapid blink, I batted the tears away and nodded. We left the car and I headedtoward the walkway when Vinnie stopped me.
“Thisway, sweetheart,” he said, directing me to a smaller path off the paveddriveway.
Heled me through the white, vinyl fence and around the back of the house. Therewas a white door, illuminated by a single light, and Vinnie unlocked it with akey. He opened it to reveal another door and a dark staircase.
“Wheredoes that go?” I asked out of curiosity, pointing at the plain, inconspicuousdoor.
Flippinga light on and brightening the stairwell, he casually replied, “Oh, that goesto the laundry room I share with Jenna and Nicky,” then, he headed down thestairs and I followed.
Atthe bottom of the stairs, was a small room with two doors. Vinnie nudged hischin toward one and told me that was where the hot water heater and oil tankwas. Then, with his hand on the other, he said, “Andthis,is where Ilive.”
I'mnot sure what I had expected from Vinnie's apartment, when he told me he wasliving in his sister's basement. I knew he'd have a bedroom, maybe a bathroomof his own, but anything more than that hadn't crossed my mind. So, steppingover hardwood floors into the living room was a surprise, and as Vinnie droppedhis keys on a small end table beside the door, I took in the tasteful leathercouch and armchairs. Then, the new coffee table and large flat screen TV. Therewere a few pictures on the wall behind the couch—one of his father, one of thewhole family, and one of us from our wedding day. My heart swelled, looking atthe room. This wasn't a bachelor pad. It was a home, well-decorated and warm,and I loved it.
“I'mjust gonna get outta these clothes,” he said, gesturing at the sauce stains onhis light-washed jeans. “You can give yourself the tour, if you want.”
Wordlessly,I nodded, and with a cordial smile, he turned and exited the room through anopen doorway. I kept a close distance as I followed, watching as he opened a doorat the end of the long hallway. Assuming that was his bedroom, my attention wasdrawn to the three other doorways. One, a wide entryway, led to a small butlovely eat-in kitchen with what appeared to be another door to the outside. Theother two doors concealed a bathroom and what appeared to be a storage room.The tour was quick, as the apartment was fairly modest in size, but it wasclean and perfect for a single guy—or newlyweds.
Notknowing if I should barge into the bedroom, unsure of where our relationshipstood, I waited for him in the living room. I sat down on the couch and lookeddown at the coffee table, remembering what we had used his old coffee tablefor. I wondered what had happened to it and if he missed it.
Iclosed my eyes and shook my head. That was another life and there was no goingback. I didn't want to ever go back, and I said a silent prayer, hoping that Inever did, with or without him.
Takinga deep breath, I inhaled control and exhaled calm, and when I opened my eyes, Ifound that I wasn't alone.
Vincentstood before me, regarding my presence with a knowing smile, and I regarded hiswith a bow of my head.
“Hi,Mr. Marino,” I said. “I feel like I owe you an—”
“Areyou,” Vinnie cleared his throat as he entered the living room, wearing nothingbut a pair of plaid pajama pants, “are you talking to my dad?”
Forthe first time, I didn't try to hide it from him as I nodded. “Yeah.”
Vinnieturned in a circle, searching for where his father might be, and I laughed.“He's right next to the TV,” I said, and Vinnie stopped his spin cycle to stareat the blank space of wall where, for me, his dad stood.
“Youcan see him?”
“Yep.”
Vinnie’sskeptical eyes flicked toward me, and I knew I needed to do or say something totruly convince him of my ability. He needed proof—people usually do—and so, Igrasped for the first image Vincent fed to me.
“Youlearned to dance from him,” I said, while seeing the image of a young Vinnieawkwardly slow dancing with his father. “You were twelve. There was a dance atyour middle school, and you asked a girl in your class to go with you. Yourfather told you there would be slow dances, and you panicked and almost calledit off. But your dad taught you how to dance in your living room, to BillyJoel’s ‘She’s Got a Way.’”
Itwas a private memory only they knew, and it was one that made me smile. ButVinnie didn’t smile. His jaw clenched and his eyes filled instantly with tearsand recognition.
Thatwas when I knew he truly believed in me.
Iwatched his Adam's apple work with a forceful swallow. “So, um, what does helook like?”
“Whatdo you mean?”
“Like,”he squeezed the back of his neck, “does he ... does he look sick? Or, um, likea, I dunno, like a zombie or somethin'?”
Laughingand standing from the couch, I shook my head. “He just looks like your dad.”
Itfelt so intimate, being there with my husband and the ghost of his father.Vincent respected the moment of his son's acceptance and held off on passingalong his messages. He simply watched; a somber smile drawn across his face.Before, in the old apartment, I had been too desperate to escape the nature ofmy ability to realize how much I myself missed him, but I felt it now. I hadn'tbeen given enough time. But is there ever really such a thing?
“Iwish I could see him,” Vinnie finally spoke, after moments of silence and hisvoice was gruff, as if he hadn't used it in weeks. “Is he saying anything?”
