The man reached the top step carrying the little girl on his hip. He stopped in front of the apartment next to mine and shifted her weight while pulling keys from his pocket.
“Get it together.”
My pulse started pounding in my throat.
I should have gone back inside.
Instead, I heard myself say, “Excuse me.”
“Yeah?” He glanced over politely, distracted.
Up close, it was no longer a resemblance; it was him, or someone really close to him.
My mouth went dry.
I should have gone back inside.
“This is going to sound strange,” I said carefully, “but do you know anyone named Ron? A relative? Cousin?”
His entire body went still. “No.” He adjusted the little girl against his chest. “Katie, let’s go inside, baby.”
“Katie?” I repeated before I could stop myself. “Katie?”
“It’s just her name,” he said, avoiding my gaze.
“It’s my name, too.”
For a second, something flickered across his face.
“Do you know anyone named Ron?”
I stepped closer. “I’m sorry. You just look so much like someone I loved and lost. It’s unsettling.”
The man turned back to the door, fumbling with the lock. That was when I saw his right hand clearly.
Two fingers missing. The same two fingers Ron lost when he was ten, after lighting fireworks behind his uncle’s garage while his mother stood there yelling at him to stop.
“Your hand…” I whispered.
The man turned toward me slowly. There was no confusion in his eyes now, only fear.
“Katie, honey,” he said under his breath, “let’s go inside and see your new room.”
Two fingers missing.
My heart slammed so hard I thought I might black out.
“Ron, is that really you?”
The little girl wrapped her arms tighter around his neck, sensing the shift.
Suddenly, a woman’s voice came from the stairs. “Is there a problem here, honey?”
My husband didn’t look at her. “This woman is just confused, hon. Let’s show the peanut her new home.”
He said it like I was a stranger who had wandered in off the street.
“Is there a problem here, honey?”
“I am notconfused,” I said, louder now. “Ron, I’m your wife. And you’re very much alive.”
The woman reached us and stared between us both.
“That’s not funny, ma’am.”
“I’m not trying to be funny,” I said. “I married Ron five years ago. I buried him and our daughter three years ago.”
Meanwhile, a door down the hall cracked open. Mrs. Denning from 3B peeked out, eyes wide.
“Ron, I’m your wife.”
“How can you be alive?” I asked.
