me, even so....now I know.
One year today. 365 days—and nights, god, how I've come to despise those wretched lonely nights, crawling between cold sheets, my feet sliding across to your side of the bed, searching for warmth and never finding any.
Nights that stretch out to infinity, too long and too empty for any human heart to bear. Nights that too soon give way to a new day, to waking up with my stomach tight and the house too silent, too quiet, knowing that I have to face one more day pretending to be alive when really I feel already dead.
It was easier when school was in session. I stayed late, volunteered to advise any extracurricular activity I could, avoided the hallway where the kindergarten and preschool classrooms are at all costs. And this summer has been spent in and out of hot cars, too-cold courtrooms, moldy motel rooms. For awhile I thought I might find you down there in that Texas heat, I spent every moment searching for the courage to face Damian.
But I failed. Now here I am. Buried in the nighttime mist Snakehead is famous for, fog so thick you need a machete to cut through it—that's what you used to say. Now I embrace the fog. If I can't see clearly what's moving beyond it, who's to say it can't bring me you and Josh?
That's the wine talking. You know me—one glass and I'm whistling Dixie. Tonight I've almost finished an entire bottle, saving just enough to take my medicine with.
One year. That's how long mourning is meant to last. One year is all they give you. I seemed to have squandered my year with little to show for it. Instead of completing my journey via Kubler-Ross, I seemed to have taken a detour into despair. It hurts just as much today as it did that first night—maybe more. Then I was numb, in denial, shock. Now I'm awake, aware, alone.
Even Alan seems to think I'm over losing you and Josh. I feel like a secret addict, hiding my drug of choice. Melancholia they called it when the great writers, Poe, Joyce, Hemingway, Browning, Faulkner, suffered it. They used their despair to create art. What have I created?
Worse, if I give it up, if I give you up, allow myself to "move on"—what do I have left?
You wouldn't believe how popular I was today. Everyone in town asking me how I was doing, did I have plans for tonight? Even the Colonel's wife invited me over to dinner, her face all screwed up in a fake smile filled with pity. I told them all that I had plans with Alan. Told Alan I had plans with the Colonel.
When really, I have plans with you and Josh.
That's the last of the pills. See you soon, my loves....
CHAPTER 9
Wednesday, June 19, 2007: Snakehead Mountain
Brilliant shafts of sunlight lanced through the trees, dancing on the path before her. Sarah allowed them to lull her into a mindless rhythm. This area had already been searched multiple times, she knew she wouldn't find anything new around here.
The last time she'd been up here, she had awoken in the back of an ambulance, shivering, her clothes cut open, wet with vomit, an oxygen mask smelling like an old rubber tire secured around her face, a needle pinching her as the EMT started an IV. Alan sat beside her, holding her hand. Flashing lights filled the rear of the ambulance from the GMC that carried Hal and the Colonel, following close behind.
Alan had squeezed her hand, his face tight with pain, skin pale in the bright lights. He told her how he'd called the Colonel and they drove to her house, found it empty and got Hal out of bed to help them search. That when he'd found her she'd been cold, barely breathing but had apparently had thrown up most of the pills she'd taken.
His words passed through her like the mountain mist, without her comprehending anything except she wasn't with Sam and Josh. She had failed.
The next two days were a blur of IV's, charcoal being forced down her only to be thrown up in a black slurry all over her hospital sheets; social workers and counselors and the Colonel—but not the
One year today. 365 days—and nights, god, how I've come to despise those wretched lonely nights, crawling between cold sheets, my feet sliding across to your side of the bed, searching for warmth and never finding any.
Nights that stretch out to infinity, too long and too empty for any human heart to bear. Nights that too soon give way to a new day, to waking up with my stomach tight and the house too silent, too quiet, knowing that I have to face one more day pretending to be alive when really I feel already dead.
It was easier when school was in session. I stayed late, volunteered to advise any extracurricular activity I could, avoided the hallway where the kindergarten and preschool classrooms are at all costs. And this summer has been spent in and out of hot cars, too-cold courtrooms, moldy motel rooms. For awhile I thought I might find you down there in that Texas heat, I spent every moment searching for the courage to face Damian.
But I failed. Now here I am. Buried in the nighttime mist Snakehead is famous for, fog so thick you need a machete to cut through it—that's what you used to say. Now I embrace the fog. If I can't see clearly what's moving beyond it, who's to say it can't bring me you and Josh?
That's the wine talking. You know me—one glass and I'm whistling Dixie. Tonight I've almost finished an entire bottle, saving just enough to take my medicine with.
One year. That's how long mourning is meant to last. One year is all they give you. I seemed to have squandered my year with little to show for it. Instead of completing my journey via Kubler-Ross, I seemed to have taken a detour into despair. It hurts just as much today as it did that first night—maybe more. Then I was numb, in denial, shock. Now I'm awake, aware, alone.
Even Alan seems to think I'm over losing you and Josh. I feel like a secret addict, hiding my drug of choice. Melancholia they called it when the great writers, Poe, Joyce, Hemingway, Browning, Faulkner, suffered it. They used their despair to create art. What have I created?
Worse, if I give it up, if I give you up, allow myself to "move on"—what do I have left?
You wouldn't believe how popular I was today. Everyone in town asking me how I was doing, did I have plans for tonight? Even the Colonel's wife invited me over to dinner, her face all screwed up in a fake smile filled with pity. I told them all that I had plans with Alan. Told Alan I had plans with the Colonel.
When really, I have plans with you and Josh.
That's the last of the pills. See you soon, my loves....
CHAPTER 9
Wednesday, June 19, 2007: Snakehead Mountain
Brilliant shafts of sunlight lanced through the trees, dancing on the path before her. Sarah allowed them to lull her into a mindless rhythm. This area had already been searched multiple times, she knew she wouldn't find anything new around here.
The last time she'd been up here, she had awoken in the back of an ambulance, shivering, her clothes cut open, wet with vomit, an oxygen mask smelling like an old rubber tire secured around her face, a needle pinching her as the EMT started an IV. Alan sat beside her, holding her hand. Flashing lights filled the rear of the ambulance from the GMC that carried Hal and the Colonel, following close behind.
Alan had squeezed her hand, his face tight with pain, skin pale in the bright lights. He told her how he'd called the Colonel and they drove to her house, found it empty and got Hal out of bed to help them search. That when he'd found her she'd been cold, barely breathing but had apparently had thrown up most of the pills she'd taken.
His words passed through her like the mountain mist, without her comprehending anything except she wasn't with Sam and Josh. She had failed.
The next two days were a blur of IV's, charcoal being forced down her only to be thrown up in a black slurry all over her hospital sheets; social workers and counselors and the Colonel—but not the
Similar Books
