I watched as a CD floated across the room and the stereo top lifted, watched as the CD settled into place and the power button came on. Strains of a familiar song, one I couldn’t quite place, filled the room. When the feminine voice began singing, I began my complaints anew.
“Dennis! I swear, the eighties are over! Madonna isn’t that great. Come on, pick another CD,” I wheedled. I could almost see Dennis shaking his head and I sighed, knowing I had no choice but to listen to the lyrics that he felt I needed to hear.
“Dennis,” I cried, “stop it! I don’t want to listen to this anymore!” The music stopped and I heard the whir of the CD coming to a halt in the stereo. “Why do you torture me like this?” I asked the air. “He’s gone. He’s not coming back. Why do you still make me think about him?”
It had been two months since Doyle died, since he’d been ripped away from me so brutally. Every night when I went to sleep I pictured Doyle as I last saw him, his perfectly beautiful blue spiny face melting away from his flesh, as he groaned in agony while that stupid Christmas tree ornament of death thingie dissolved him, as he saved the lives of so many people. When he did his heroic little stunt he thought he was saving all those half-demon people. I’m not sure he took into account the fact that he was also saving the rest of us, the full humans. The ship’s crew, even Angel with his human soul. Me. He saved my life. I’ll never forget him for it.
I’ll never forgive him for it, either.
He didn’t even give us a chance. He lied to me, he danced around the feelings he had for me, and denied both of us the opportunity to have a beautiful, real relationship. I finally confronted him about it, but how was I supposed to know that it was too late? He gave his life so the rest of us could get off that ship alive. Now every night I have to face the fact that he’s gone and I can never get him back.
I didn’t know how bad it would hurt. How much a part of my life he was.
“I didn’t love him,” I said out loud. I knew it was the truth. I cared about him, of course. I was more than a little attracted to him. But I didn’t love him. How could I? I barely knew him. I admitted to myself that I might never have loved him. We might have gone on a date or two and realized it wasn’t right. We might have gotten together and eventually drifted apart. It was entirely possible that what we felt was an intense infatuation, a temporary interest that would have faded in time.
It was entirely possible that it wasn’t.
“Dennis, I didn’t love him!” I cried again. “But I could have,” I added in a whisper. I sighed and curled up on the couch, drawing my knees into my chest. “Why did he have to be so brave and heroic, and go and kill himself for us?” I asked. “It wasn’t fair to him, or to me, or even to Angel. Angel misses him too. He meant so much to us. He was one of the best friends I’ve ever had. He gave his life for me. Well, and those other people, too, of course. How could he not know what he was doing to us by leaving?” I continued. I knew I’d never have the answers. I was just acting out my grief. At least, that’s what the therapist told me.
Yes, I, Cordelia Chase, am seeing a therapist.
I couldn’t tell her how Doyle had died, of course, but I gave her the basics. Angel thought it might help me. I didn’t understand how someone else could help me better than he could, but I think it was just too painful for him to talk about Doyle. Doyle was actually the first friend he’d had since he went all fangy. Buffy and the others didn’t count, really.
Anyway, the therapist told me it was common for the survivors to ask questions that could never be answered. She said something about stages, like denial and anger and acceptance. I’ve accepted it. I was never in denial, even though I wanted to be. I’m still angry, though.
“Why did he leave what could have been exactly what both of us needed?” I vocalized. I searched the room with my eyes, seeking out any kind of answer I could. Dennis brought me a blanket and laid it over my torso, and I gratefully accepted it. “I miss him, Dennis. More than I thought I would. I didn’t love him. But I cared about him. I wanted the chance to love him. How come he left me?” I asked brokenly. Finally, the tears flowed. I sobbed into my arms, unable to face the reality of my lonely apartment.
“I want him back. I know I can’t have him back, but I want him. I want him to smile that goofy little smile and call me Princess and quote ‘Angela’s Ashes’ and joke about Caribbean cruises. I want him to come in complaining about his hangover and asking for help taking the cotton out of the aspirin bottle. I want to tease him about his awful taste in clothes and the way he keeps his apartment. Most of all, I want him to curl his hand in my hair and pull me to him and kiss me senseless and then smile impishly and tell me I’m lucky to have him,” I sobbed. “Dennis, I need him so much. Why’d they take him away from me so soon?”
I sensed Dennis next to me and I turned to him. Or, at least, where I thought he would be. I saw a faint form shimmer in the air and my eyes widened. “Dennis?” I whispered. He’d materialized only once, the night we exorcised his mother’s ghost and set him free. He hadn’t done it since.
A book floated through the air and landed at my feet. Mesmerized by the sight in front of me, I paid it little attention. When Dennis didn’t do anything further, I realized he wanted me to look at the book he’d placed at my feet. I reached down and picked it up, still watching the shimmering air. Taking my eyes off it for a fraction of a second, I glanced at the book. My face drained of color when I saw the title.
“Angela’s Ashes.”
I didn’t have a copy of that book in the apartment. The only copy I’d ever seen was on Doyle’s nightstand, three months ago. The implication of the book struck me and suddenly, it was painful for me to breathe.
I flipped open the cover and noticed the sloppy scrawl. It was addressed to me. “Princess.” He was the only one who’d ever called me that. “Separations are only temporary. They don’t last forever. Wait for me.” I brought my hand to my mouth, my eyes crinkling in pain, as I choked back a sob. I looked back at the rippling air fearfully, hopefully.
“Doyle?”
The apparition in front of me quivered until at last it was semi-solid. I slowly brought my eyes to his face, and the tears poured forth. “Doyle,” I wept. “I miss you so much.” He sat down next to me, his eyes expressing his concern. I looked at him, drinking in the sight of his beautiful face, the tousled hair and the pale green eyes that laughed more often than they were serious. Right now they only held sadness. “Why did you go?” I queried painfully. “Why did you leave us?”
He shook his head sadly, and I understood that he wasn’t able to communicate with me. Not verbally, at least. Instead, he held out his arms. I moved towards him uncertainly. Sure, I had had more than my share of contact with ghosts, but I’d never tried to hug one before.
His arms went around me, nothing more than cold bands of air that engulfed my shoulders. I bent my head and felt the coolness beneath my cheek, knowing that it wasn’t exactly the same as laying my head on his chest but knowing it was as good as I was going to get.
“I want you to come back to me,” I whispered. I looked back up at his face, and he smiled softly, shaking his head again. “I know you can’t,” I acknowledged in defeat, “but that doesn’t stop me from wanting it.” He nodded his head in agreement.
Before I was ready, Doyle’s solid form began to flicker and thin. My eyes widened and I cried out in panic. “You can’t go!” I shrieked. “You just came back. You can’t leave me again.”
As he slowly faded out of visible sight, he held out his hand to me, and I reached for it. I felt like the girl from “Casper” as my fingers went through his. I desperately wanted something solid to hold on to, something that I could feel.
It was then that I noticed how the ring he’d been wearing, an Irish Claddagh ring similar to the one Angel had given Buffy, had remained solid while he had faded. I clutched at the ring that floated in midair and grasped it tightly in my clenched fist. I remembered Buffy describing the legend Angel had told her accompanied the ring. A Claddagh ring was like a declaration, a promise. I slid the ring onto my finger with the heart pointing towards me, indicating that I belonged to someone. Doyle smiled faintly, realizing that I understood his intentions, pleased that I accepted them.
With one last tearful sob, I watched him disappear. Looking back to the book, I noticed something new had been written on the bottom of the page.
“I will return to you. Someday.”
Choking on my sobs, I dimly realized that the music had resumed. This time, the words didn’t cause me the pain that I had grown used to, but instead inspired me with the hope I needed to carry on with my life.
After all, he had promised me he would.