Plenty of Life Left

Timothy “Tim” Grant had been told to get rid of the Dodge by mechanics, coworkers, both of his kids, his insurance agent, and one state trooper who had stared at the rust above the rear passenger wheel for an uncomfortably long time before asking if Tim was aware that Colorado had vehicle safety laws.

               Tim was aware. He was also aware that a 2004 Ram 1500 with 200,014 miles on it was worth approximately jack shit, while a new truck cost more than he'd paid for his first house. So. the Dodge stayed. “She’s been good to me,” Tim said, patting the steering wheel as he pulled away from the Maverik. “Plenty of life left.”

               The check-engine light had been on since February. Tim considered it decorative. He turned onto his street in Grand Junction and saw the flamingo-pink envelope sticking halfway out of the mailbox. “Well fuck.”

               Nothing good came in flamingo pink. Bills came in white. Government shit came in white or brown. Credit cards tried to disguise bad news inside envelopes stamped IMPORTANT INFORMATION ENCLOSED. Flamingo pink meant someone had gone out of their way to make sure you noticed. Tim parked and retrieved it.

               MR. & MRS. TIMOTHY GRANT

               No return address. He carried it toward the house, turning it over in his hand. Probably another collection agency. Esther had been riding his ass about the credit cards for months, and he'd promised to straighten everything out after his next overtime check. He unlocked the front door. Then stopped. Written across the inside of the door in black permanent marker were eight words in Esther's unmistakable handwriting.

               YOU BASTARD. YOU SAID YOU WOULD HANDLE IT!

               Tim stared. “Well fuck.”

               He closed the door and opened it again. The words remained. “Esther?” Nothing. “Esther!” He walked into the kitchen. No Esther. He checked the living room, then the bedroom, already constructing the argument in his head. She'd finally lost her shit. Fine. They'd fight. She'd tell him he never listened. He'd point out that he listened plenty, he just didn't always do what she said. She'd explain that wasn't better. He'd agree to something expensive.

               Twenty-three years of marriage had developed predictable rhythms. Except her purse wasn't on the kitchen chair. Her shoes weren't beside the garage door. Her phone charger wasn't on the nightstand. Tim opened the closet. Half empty. Not recently emptied, either. There was no clean line where Esther's clothes should have been. His shirts simply occupied the space naturally, as though they always had. “Son of a bitch.”

               He checked the bathroom. One toothbrush. One towel. One bottle of shampoo. His deodorant. His razor. Nothing belonging to Esther. Tim pulled out his phone and called her. Or tried to. There was no Esther in his contacts. Nothing. Grant. Nothing except himself and the kids. “What the fuck?”

               He opened his photos. Tim scrolled faster. Christmas. April’s graduation. A weekend in Deadwood. His 45th birthday. His son's wedding. Photo after photo. Tim was in them. The kids were in them. Friends were in them. Esther wasn't. He found their anniversary picture from last year. Tim remembered it clearly. They'd gone to dinner at Jake's. Esther had worn the blue dress he liked, and afterward they'd stood outside while their daughter took a picture.

               There was Tim. Alone. One arm curved around empty air. Tim dropped the phone. For several seconds he stared at it on the carpet. Then he picked it up and called his daughter.

               “Dad?”

               “Where's your mother?”`

               Silence. “Dad, what?”

               “Your mother. Where is she?”

               “What are you talking about?”

               “Esther.”

               Another silence. Longer. “Who is Esther?”

               Tim laughed because the alternative was screaming. “Very fucking funny.”

               “Dad, seriously.”

               “Your mother.”

               “My mother?”

               “Yes, your mother. The woman who gave birth to you. Esther Grant. Five-five, blond hair before she stopped pretending it wasn't gray, hates mushrooms, watches those goddamn murder shows every night.”

               “Dad.” Something in her voice stopped him. “You raised us.”

               Tim sat on the bed. “What?”

               “You raised us. You and Grandma helped when we were little.”

               “No.”

               “Dad, are you okay?”

               “No. Your mother raised you. Your mother and I raised you.”

               “I don't have a mother.”

               “Everybody has a fucking mother.”

               “You know what I mean.” Tim looked toward the nightstand. The framed wedding photograph was still there. He grabbed it. There he was in a rented tuxedo, 23 years younger, smiling beside absolutely nobody. The photograph had been cropped perfectly around him. His daughter was still talking. “Dad, you're freaking me out.”

               “I'll call you back.”

               “Wait…”

               Tim hung up. For the first time, he remembered the envelope. It was still in his hand. He tore it open. One sheet of heavy cream-colored paper. No company logo. No phone number. No address. Just five centered lines.

               NOTICE OF DELINQUENCY

               ACCOUNT STATUS: PAST DUE

               COLLATERAL RECOVERY HAS COMMENCED

               OUTSTANDING TERM: 365 DAYS

               DO NOT DISPOSE OF THIS NOTICE

               Tim read it three times. Then he looked at the writing on the door.

               YOU BASTARD. YOU SAID YOU WOULD HANDLE IT!

               He sat down on the floor. “Well fuck.”

               Tim slept badly and woke convinced he'd lost his mind. That was almost comforting. People lost their minds every day. There were doctors for that. Pills. Hospitals. His insurance sucked, but at least insanity was something with billing codes. He showered, dressed, and went outside. The Dodge started on the second try. Tim looked at the odometer.

               174,821

               He leaned closer. “No.” Yesterday it had been 200,014. Tim knew because he'd taken a picture when it rolled over 200,000. He'd sent it to his son with the message TOLD YOU THIS BITCH WOULD OUTLIVE ME.

               He searched his phone. The picture was gone. So was the text. Tim drove to work. He spent the morning accomplishing nothing except checking records. His company listed his hire date as March 17, 2019. Tim had started in August 2015. He called payroll. They confirmed it. He argued. They emailed his original hiring paperwork.

               2019

               At lunch, another flamingo-pink envelope sat beneath his windshield wiper. Tim stood in the parking lot staring at it. Nobody nearby appeared interested. He opened it.

               RECOVERY ITEM 02

               OCCUPATIONAL TERM

               3 YEARS, 7 MONTHS

               VALUE APPLIED TO OUTSTANDING BALANCE

               Below that:

               ADDITIONAL RECOVERY REQUIRED

               Tim drove home. The odometer read 173,906 when he arrived. He couldn't remember where 915 miles had gone. That frightened him more than the number. Inside, he went straight to the backyard. He didn't know why until he reached the cottonwood. There should have been a flat stone beneath it. Tim had put it there himself.

               BUSTER

               2009–2021

               BEST DAMN DOG I EVER HAD

               The stone was gone. The ground beneath the tree was smooth. Tim called his son. “Do you remember Buster?”

               “Who?”

               Tim closed his eyes. “Our dog.”

               “We never had a dog.”

               Tim hung up. He didn't say “well fuck.” It wasn't funny anymore.

               He spent that night drinking coffee at the kitchen table with every document he owned spread around him. Mortgage papers. Tax returns. Insurance policies. Old pay stubs. Birth certificates. Everything agreed on a life Tim did not remember living. Single father. No wife. No dog. Seven years at his job. He found pictures of vacations he'd taken alone. Receipts from restaurants where he remembered sitting across from Esther. An anniversary card in his handwriting addressed to nobody. At 3:14am, Tim remembered dying.

               Not almost dying.

               Dying.

               Eleven years earlier he'd been working maintenance at a gravel operation west of Grand Junction when a loader backed into him. He remembered the impact. He remembered the ground. He remembered someone screaming for an ambulance. Then Esther. Hospital lights. Blood. A doctor saying something Tim couldn't understand. Esther holding his hand. Then…

               A desk.

               Tim stood so quickly the chair fell backward. “No.” Fluorescent lights. A gray room. A desk that looked like it belonged in a county office. Someone sitting behind it. Tim couldn't remember whether it had been a man or woman. He remembered paper. A pen. Esther crying.

               Don't.

               Tim pressed both hands against his temples.

               “I had to.”

               Another piece returned. Their children had been 12 and nine.

               Tim had known he was dead. Somehow, he'd known. The person behind the desk slid a document toward him.

               3,650 DAYS.

               Esther grabbed his arm. “We don't have time for this.”

               The person behind the desk smiled. “Time is precisely what you have.”

               Tim remembered signing. Then nothing. Until waking in the hospital three days later while Esther slept in a chair beside him. The doctors called him extraordinarily fortunate. Tim called it stubbornness. Esther called it a miracle. Neither of them ever spoke about the gray room. Until last year. Tim remembered that now too. Their anniversary. Esther standing in the kitchen with a flamingo-pink envelope.

               It's due.

               Tim had laughed. He'd thought it was some weird scam. Esther hadn't.

               You remember that room, don't you?

               He'd told her they'd discuss it later. They had bills. Work. Their son's wedding. Life. There was always later. Tim looked at the message on the door.

               YOU BASTARD. YOU SAID YOU WOULD HANDLE IT!

               “Oh, Esther.” He began to cry.

               The owner's manual was in the Ram's glove box. Tim didn't know why he looked there. Maybe because the truck predated the accident. Maybe because Esther had hated that fucking truck for 20 years and had once said she'd bury him in it if the frame lasted long enough. A folded sheet of cream-colored paper fell from the manual. Tim opened it. At the top:

               TERM EXTENSION AGREEMENT

               Beneath it:

               PURCHASER: TIMOTHY GRANT

               TERM: 3,650 DAYS

               COMMENCEMENT: UPON EXECUTION

               Then the collateral.

               RELATIONSHIPS

               EXPERIENCES

               ACHIEVEMENTS

               POSSESSIONS ACQUIRED DURING TERM

               MEMORY

               IDENTITY

               At the bottom was Tim's signature. Beside it, in Esther's handwriting:

               DON'T DO THIS.

               Tim remembered everything. Not everything he'd lost. Enough. He remembered Esther screaming at him in the gray room. He remembered telling her the kids needed him. He remembered asking what happened after 10 years. The person behind the desk had answered plainly.

               Settlement.

               Tim hadn't asked what that meant. Dying men didn't negotiate well. His phone buzzed. A message from his daughter.

               Dad, please call me. You're scaring me.

               Then another envelope slid beneath the windshield wiper. Tim hadn't seen anyone approach. He opened it.

               RECOVERY ITEM 03 PENDING

               DEPENDENT RELATIONSHIPS

               ESTIMATED VALUE SUFFICIENT FOR PARTIAL SETTLEMENT

               “No.” Tim started the truck. He didn't know where he was going until he was already headed west. Back toward the gravel operation. Back toward where he'd died. The odometer read 161,202. Ten miles later it read 147,811. The cracked dashboard smoothed beneath his hand. A dent in the passenger door disappeared. Tim remembered getting that dent at a campground near Pueblo while Esther laughed so hard she nearly pissed herself.

               Then he didn't remember why he'd ever gone to Pueblo. “No. No, no, no.” The odometer dropped below 100,000. The upholstery repaired itself. The faded steering wheel darkened. His life was disappearing, and the goddamn truck was getting nicer. By the time Tim reached the abandoned entrance to the gravel operation, the Ram looked almost new. He parked where he remembered the loader hitting him. The odometer showed 42,116. Tim stepped out. “I'm here!” Nothing. “You want your fucking payment? I'm here!”

               Wind moved through dry grass. Tim held up the agreement. “Leave my kids alone!” The world blinked. Tim was standing in the gray room. Same fluorescent lights. Same desk. Someone sat behind it. Tim still couldn't determine whether the person was male or female. Every time he tried to focus on the face, his attention slipped away.

               “You are delinquent,” it said.

               “You took my wife.”

               “Collateral was recovered.”

               “Give her back.”

               “Recovered collateral may be restored upon settlement.”

               “What do I owe?”

               “Three hundred sixty-five days.”

               “Take them.”

               “You possess no unencumbered term.”

               Tim stared. “English.”

               “You have already consumed the purchased time.”

               “Then take something else.”

               “We have.”

               Esther. Buster. His job. His memories. Soon his children. Tim understood. “What if I give it all back?”

               The person behind the desk became still. “All of what?”

               “The time.”

               “Clarify.”

               “The ten years. Take them back.”

               “That would satisfy the agreement.”

               “And Esther?”

               “Restored.”

               “My kids remember her?”

               “Yes.”

               “Buster?”

               “Yes.”

               “My life?”

               “History will reconcile.”

               Tim swallowed. “What happens to me?”

               “You return to expiration.”

               The hospital. Eleven years ago. He would die. His kids would grow up without him. Esther would spend 23 years married to a man who had died halfway through them. No. Not 23. Reality would correct itself. Those 10 years would never have belonged to him. “Will they remember?”

               “No.”

               Tim thought about Christmas mornings. His son's wedding. His daughter's graduation. Esther's blue dress. Buster sleeping against his legs. The stupid dent at Pueblo. Ten years wasn't time. It was everything that happened inside it. “Esther?” The person hesitated.

               “The co-signatory may retain residual awareness.”

               “She'll remember?”

               “Possibly.”

               Tim laughed once. Of course she would. Poor woman never got to forget anything. The person placed a document on the desk.

               VOLUNTARY TERM SURRENDER

               Tim picked up the pen. For a moment he thought about refusing. Let the bastard take the job. The truck. Every vacation. Every stupid thing he'd bought. But not his kids. Not Esther. He looked at the signature line. “Well fuck.” Tim signed.

               Esther Grant sat beside her husband's hospital bed and watched the monitor go flat. Someone pulled her backward. A nurse. Maybe two. She screamed Tim's name until her throat hurt. The children were in the hallway. Twelve and nine. Too young. Far too fucking young. Timothy Grant died on November 8, 2015. He never woke three days later. He never saw his daughter graduate. He never watched his son get married. He never buried Buster beneath the cottonwood. He never fought with Esther about credit cards or overtime or the goddamn Dodge.

               Except Esther remembered all of it. For years she dreamed about a life nobody else had lived. Sometimes she'd wake furious with Tim over arguments that had never happened. Sometimes she'd remember Christmas mornings that didn't exist. Once, driving through Pueblo, she pulled over and cried for 20 minutes because she remembered laughing beside a dented passenger door.

               She never told the kids. What could she say?

               Your father died when you were children, but somewhere else he stayed long enough to disappoint you properly?

               So, she carried the extra decade alone. Eleven years after Tim's death, her son helped clean out the garage. The old Dodge was still there. “Can't believe you kept this thing.”

               “Couldn't get rid of it.”

               He climbed inside and whistled. “Jesus, Mom.”

               “What?”

               He pointed at the odometer.

               200,014

               “How the hell did Dad ever get this thing past 200,000?”                                            

               Esther stopped breathing. That wasn't possible. Tim had barely broken 40,000 before the accident. She opened the driver's door and sat down. Her hands settled on the steering wheel. For one impossible second she could smell him. Coffee. Work sweat. That awful pine-tree air freshener. And she heard his voice as clearly as if he were sitting beside her.

               She's been good to me. Plenty of life left.

               Esther laughed. Then she cried. Her son quietly went back inside. When Esther finally reached for the keys, she noticed something sticking from the glove box. An envelope. Flamingo pink. Her hands began shaking before she touched it. There was no stamp. No return address. Just five words.

               MR. & MRS. TIMOTHY GRANT

               Esther stared at it for a long time. Then she put it back. Closed the glove box. And left it unopened.