“I still think we can make this work,” I say, as we approach Walt and Mickey on their floral cement pedestal in the middle of the theme park.
She won’t even look at me.
Bronze Walt reaches his arm out to bestow happiness upon us. I almost trip on the cobblestones along Main Street USA. The Walk Of Magical Memories. One of these faded red octagon pavers has our names engraved on it. Mingxia loves William, XOXO. We can’t seem to find our brick anymore.
She maintains her silence while we walk under the arches of Sleeping Beauty’s castle. Three years ago, we said our vows in front of this castle, her bridal gown aglow in purple fairy tale light.
Tonight, another fight in our living room. She threw the first punch. Said I provoked her by calling her overbearing mother a pig. I said back when we got married, she promised that her mother would stay in Taiwan, not two doors down.
Mingxia has a powerful right hook.
We slumped to the floor together, exhausted and depressed. We said it’s finally over. Then, somehow, I convinced her to come with me to the Magic Kingdom again.
“The Haunted Mansion,” I say, as we pass the funnel cake stand. “Do you want to go?”
A partially formed smile breaks through her face. She’s thinking about it now, what we once did inside that mansion with the wrought iron railings and marble columns. We head to New Orleans Square, our steps quickening, as we detour past Thunder Mountain.
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Our doom buggy cogwheels around, revealing the tilting candelabra in the infinity hallway, the row of self-knocking doors, Madame Leota’s ‘80s metal band’s hair floating in a glass sphere. The organ music, the whistling wind. I search with my fingertips for the back of her hand. She might pull away if I actually touch her. The lightning through the fake window. It lights up the inside of our buggy. She’s not looking at Madame Leota. Her eyes are on me.
The beating heart bride, red light flickering underneath her bosom. The low thumping sound in the darkness. Mingxia knows it gets me excited every time. She pulls my head to her chest so I can hear her heartbeat.
We descend the hill and the graveyard ghost party comes into view.
“Let’s do it,” she says. I grin like the hatbox ghost.
We squeeze under the safety bar and hop out in front of the opera singing busts, laughing while we take our places behind the tombstones. We crouch down, then take turns jumping up quick, arms out like scarecrows, shrieking, before slowly sliding back down.
“Asian ghouls,” an older lady says. “That’s new.”
“Animatronics getting more realistic every year,” her companion says.
When we tire of scaring people, we join the trio of hitchhiking ghosts at the end of the ride, holding our thumbs out toward the exit, showcasing our biggest fake smiles. The confused look of the riders, the children poking their parents and saying, “Those aren’t real ghosts.” We retreat into the darkness.
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I rub the bruise on my shoulder. Scrape the tender scab from where she drew blood on the side of my face. It still stings. The rusty metallic scent of blood on my fingertips.
“Let’s go entertain the Mummy,” she says.
“I’m not sure.”
The Mummy, wrapped in white bandages, sits on his sarcophagus, glass of tea in hand, tipping his head back in laughter.
Mingxia pushes me down, behind gravestones in the shadows. She tosses my clothes at the plastic tree. The ghosts popping and squealing, the wolves howling, my wife thrusting on top of me, my tears mixing with blood on my cheek, and the Mummy just stares at us and laughs.
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Eliot Li lives in California. His work appears or is forthcoming in Smokelong Quarterly, CRAFT, Atticus Review, Pithead Chapel, The Pinch, Pidgeonholes, and elsewhere.