GOT A PHONE CALL ON CHRISTMAS EVE, from his mother, from her new boyfriend's winter condo in Boca. She told me to go claim the body. Said the jig was up. So I rented a car and started driving. I didn't pray, not a single righteous word inside my godless head.

They beat him silly and left him to freeze beneath an SUV on Bleeker Street. A guy named Theo found the body the next morning by driving right over it. On earth as it is in heaven. I must have been watching Braveheart with Simon when it happened. They wrote pagan slurs all over his back with a red Sharpie. They nailed his galoshes to his feet.

The Sierras were beautiful—evergreen and crisp, snow in banks alongside the road. Nevada was sun-scarred and tumbled, flat and unwavering. Led straight into the saltbeds of Utah, with crosswinds like a root canal. I stopped for coffee in a resort town just east of the city and saw celebrities in fake fur talking to each other on cell phones.

He started with water. Turned it into wine. He multiplied insufficient amounts of fish and bread. Fed the hungry masses. His mom thought it was an act, a magic show, David Copperfield with an agenda. I believed in him, with every sad beat of my heart. Making love was difficult. I stared into his eyes the whole time, and all I could see was babies, babies being born, babies getting older, sicker, one breath at a time closer to the end.

Denver, Colorado. Columbus, Ohio. Towns and cities and rolling hills lost in my rearview mirror. Hank Williams on the radio. Or Hank Williams, Jr. The father and the son. Give us this day our daily bread. Hours and miles passed beneath me without incident. I called Simon in California, but it was too early and he must have been asleep. With his bald head and sharp nose, he looks like a sparrow, nested deep inside our pile of pillows. The image rushed blood to my head and made me swerve.

So many broken bones. He would mend them. He would close his eyes, touch the break and make it whole again. But who could fix him. The afternoon he died—I heard this on the radio some weeks later—a little girl holding a dandelion walked up and asked him to blow the seeds across the ocean to her ailing sister in Rome. Sis felt the gust of wind and the cottony flutter against her face just moments later.

Are these miracles? I reached Manhattan in record time. The sky was a perfect blue and yet it dropped snow. There was no traffic. There was no body. The morgue attendant searched every slab twice. His cold metal bed bore the imprint of a mangled body, but no body. Deliver us from evil. Talked to doctors. Talked to the police. Talked to the fanatics holding vigil outside the hospital gates. A woman named Charity took me by the hand and whispered in my ear, "I saw him walking. I swear it. That way. He was in a hurry."

Simon loves action. He loves adventure. So he watches a lot of bad movies, and I suffer the same. This might be compensatory for his erectile dysfunction and self-diagnosed sterility. After the break-up, I moved across country and Simon appeared at my doorstep one week later. He brought warm banana bread to welcome me to the building. Simon's good that way. He called while I searched the park for signs and we chatted frivolously. Searched for signs of him, and they were everywhere.

Everybody smiling and laughing. Holding hands. Central Park filled with happy healthy people. They positively glowed with his presence. But I only caught the tail end of his ascent, just a hem and a heel bathed in yellow before the sky swallowed him up. I caught a single drop of moisture on my lips, thicker than a snowflake, and it might have been his blood. Licked it clean before I could say for sure. Tasted bitter, like salt and coffee grounds.

On our first date, he erased entirely the pain I carried from my father. Not Simon. Him. My father was touchy and now it doesn't bother me a bit. As we forgive those who trespass against us. On our second date, he showed me the eternal core of my soul. We snuggled. Saved the swearing and heartache for the last date, when I buckled under his weight, turned my shoulder to his limitless thirst for every last person in need. I needed to be his only needy person. The most needy. There were just too many phone calls. So many emails. Felt cheated. Got insecure. Typical. Some regrets, sure, but now I have Simon.

A camera crew roamed the park, retracing his final steps mere minutes after he took them. Mel Gibson directed them with a megaphone. I told him my story, our story, and he paid me three thousand in cash to tag along. We—Mel, me and a young African named Bolifar with a steadicam—hopped in and hit the open road. Mel lit up like an x-ray with each new memory I could think to supply.

Gray smoke off the factories in Pennsylvania. Blue haze off the mountains in Virginia. We fell lower into a mad country and felt the temperature rise. Lead us not into temptation. I told Mel all about him, to celebrate him in absentia, and Bolifar quietly ran film. When we reached Florida, saw our first gator. Mel had the makings of his movie. Called Simon and handed the phone to Mel and they rapped about Lethal Weapon for what seemed like eternity.

I started to get hungry. Queasy at the ankles. Parked in front of his mom's condo. Rang the bell. Drank tea, ate biscuits. My stomach calmed. Her eyes dry as a bone. Mel said, "No matter what you believe, the joy in your son's life will fuel many more generations with purpose. Life is better for having your son in its fold. He showed us the way forward." She cracked a silly smile. Mel went on: "He will come again. He will come a third time, because we need him as much as he needs us." She cracked a little wider and gave foothold to the notion that her son was what he always said he was. Everything changed. Celebrity can do this to people. Amen.

I worked with Bolifar for several more weeks and together we came up with a masterpiece. Mel didn't want it—too heavy on the soft stuff, too light on the violent demise—so Simon got us face time at three independent studios down in LA. Found us a home. We start shooting next year. Why the long wait? Because I'm pregnant, that's why. I say a silent prayer every night for the state of the world that my new baby boy will face. I pray that Simon can continue to gain strength as a man and as a father. I pray for my own frail sense of optimism. And I pray it all to him, a man I loved and lost. Feels good. Puts my mind at ease. Lets me sleep the sleep of angels.

Simon and I can't wait for this baby. We're thinking of calling him something crazy, like Jesus.


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