Tears prickle my eyes, loud and defiant. I try to hold them back with a sharp inhale. “You remind me of him sometimes.” I’m not sure where the words come from, but I know it’s from someplace raw and real, so I continue, my breaths ragged, my chest tight. “You always know exactly what to say… just like Charlie.”
Leah crinkles her nose as her hand runs up and down my bicep, squeezing affectionately. “The right words are easy when they come from an unselfish place. Don’t listen to anyone who doesn’t have your best interest in mind, babygirl.”
I nod with my lip caught between my teeth, eyes averting to the now-tattered ballet flats Charlie purchased for me when we first started dating.
This place feels so foreign, despite the fact that it was our favorite hang-out. Our most frequented establishment to grab a drink with friends, or just relax and talk about our day over beer nuggets.
Our.
It’s foreign because I’m a foreigner in my own life. A stranger. I’ve lost my way, and I’m not sure how to get back to the girl I used to be.
Before him.
Before tragedy infected me.
With a sigh, I raise my chin and offer Leah a remorseful smile. “I think I’m going to go.”
“I know.” Leah smooths my hair down, her cat-like eyes flickering over my face. “And wipe that apology off your lips. You have nothing to be sorry for.”
A chuckle slips out. “Except for these shoes I’m still wearing from 2012.”
“You can only see the holes if you look really close.”
We laugh together, and it’s a liberating sound, an eager ray of sunshine poking through my stone cracks. But the feeling is fleeting, and the clouds soon roll in, because I can’t help but think…
I wish I could say the same thing about me.
On the drive home, I remember that I’m out of butter, so I make a quick stop at the grocery store to prepare for another day of baking. A yawn escapes me as I stand in the checkout line, drained from the mental exertion of socializing and faking my way through conversations and pleasantries. I shuffle forward, distracted by my own hollow thoughts, when chitchat behind me catches my attention. My eyes remain fixed ahead, but my ears soak up every word.
“Did you hear about that hit-and-run in Lake Geneva yesterday?”
“Oh, my God, yes. Terrible. I heard the child survived, but the mother is critical.”
“My worst nightmare…”
My stomach coils as the voices fade out, and I become drenched in my own horrible memories. There were two men involved in Charlie’s murder, but only one was caught. A bystander grabbed the license plate off the truck that hit my husband, and Alfred “Alfie” Kent was quickly arrested, then eventually sentenced. He refused to give up his accomplice.
An elderly gentleman begins ringing up my items, puncturing my bleak fog. “Yer eyes are too pretty to look so sad,” the man mutters, slipping the sticks of butter into a paper bag. “That’ll be seven-twenty-one.”
I stiffen as I swipe my debit card.
He hands me the purchase, along with my receipt when the transaction goes through. “Have a nice night, Peaches.”
Something inside me freezes—a snap, a trigger. An ice-cold draft rolling in like a winter stormfront.
“You smell like peaches, Mrs. March.”
The old man flashes me a toothless smile, reminding me that I should return the gesture.
I’m good at smiling. I’m good at sucking people in like a happy vacuum.
They have no idea my real smile was sucked away almost one year ago today—that it’s now permanently shrouded in gray clouds and should-have-beens.
But I do force a smile as I tuck the paper bag underneath my arm, and it’s wide and bright, eerily authentic. “Goodbye.”
I tell him goodbye, not goodnight, because when I arrive home ten minutes later, I wander aimlessly into the kitchen to discard the butter and my purse, then pluck a paring knife out of the silverware drawer.
Swallowing, I carry the knife into the living room and collapse to the floor, my back pressed up against the front of the couch with my legs sprawled out in front of me, my heart thumping. I decide to remove my hoodie because I don’t want to get blood on it. It was Charlie’s favorite, and I can’t bear the thought of being responsible for anymore stains.
The knife feels weightless in my fist, and I’m grateful that I sharpened it not too long ago. The blade is smooth and cunning. It shouldn’t hurt too much.
Not that I’d really notice.
I inhale an abrupt breath, rolling up the thin fabric of my long-sleeved blouse until the underside of my wrist comes into view. Blue veins stare back at me, swimming with winter and twilight, so striking against my milky skin.
A hollow calm sweeps through me—a foggy disconnect. It’s almost as if I’m out of my own body, observing from afar as the knife lifts, and the pointy tip digs into the soft flesh. It doesn’t take much pressure for it to pierce through, to puncture my skin, and I watch, almost catatonic, as the blood pools to the surface. I dig a little deeper, dragging the serrated edge downward and releasing a sharp hiss when the pain hits.
The sight of the blood has my stomach twisting into knots as a wave of dizziness claims me. My eyes flutter, and I start to sway.
I’ve always had a weak stomach.
I just never knew I had a weak heart.
As the blood begins to spurt, a notification pings from my cell phone beside me. I squeeze my eyes shut, hardly hearing it at first.
Leave me alone, I’m busy.
I’m too preoccupied with dying.
But something niggles at me, pokes and prods. It buzzes in my ear until reality comes crashing down around me, detonating at my feet and stealing my breath, ripping a battle cry straight from my womb. There are explosions behind my eyes and ashes in my throat.
On instinct, I reach behind me for the blanket sprawled over the armrest of the couch and wrap it tightly around my pulse point, trying to halt the blood.
What am I doing?
My God, what am I doing?
Panic sinks its teeth into me, and my breaths come in quick bursts of chaos as I near a hyperventilative state. I sift through the pocket of Charlie’s hoodie and locate my phone, consumed by violent tremors, my blood-tinged fingers swiping to unlock the screen so I can dial 9-1-1.
I’m not ready.
I’m not ready yet.
But I pause when the notification catches my eye. The notification that interrupted my suicide attempt.
I pause because it’s an e-mail.
It’s an e-mail from… him.
I quickly open it, trying to make out the words through a wall of tears.
from:
Zephyr <[email protected]>
to:
date:
Apr 12, 2021, 9:22 PM
subject:
Re: Widowed & Wilting
Hey.
I’ll be honest, I had no intention of writing you back. Hence the nine-month delay. A better person might apologize for that, but I’m not that person.
I’m not exactly a wordsmith either, and I’m certainly no expert on grief.