2010 hasn’t been easy on me in terms of my pets. In April, I lost my beloved Boo Radley (beloved is an understatement, believe me) to a failing heart. And Friday night, we lost our cat, Tsunami Man. What makes his death heartbreakingly tragic is that he was killed by our dog, Bailey.
It all started with a tree that fell in our back yard, that broke open our fence and cluttered our back porch. We can’t leave the dogs out like we normally do, we have to ‘walk’ them. And when Anthony was out ‘walking’ the dogs, Tsunami Man bumbled onto the back porch.
Because of the tree, Tsunami Man was trapped, but at least Bailey was mercifully lethal. Anthony said it was over quick, within seconds.
I’ve found myself uncharacteristically darkened by this. Even more so because my dog took the life of our own in a violent, freak occurrence. I can’t really blame Bailey, who came to me with a natural aversion to the feline members of our pack. There is no one to blame.
It got me thinking yesterday about the purpose of animals in our lives. We love animals like they are our own, but, really, in a different way. Sure, I always loved Boo like my child, but really, I didn’t. I mourned him, I miss him, but it’s not the same as if I lost Oliver. Obviously not.
So maybe animals are here to prepare us for love and loss. Maybe not prepare us (because, really, can anything prepare us for the death of a loved one?), but acquaint us. We learn to love and we learn to lose our pets, who win our love and trust mush easier than humans, die much sooner than we do and who we as a people love with an intensity some cultures can’t comprehend.
I’ve never lost a loved one and I often think what I would do, or who I would become if I were to lose my husband, my parents, my best friend, my Mema. I’m uncomfortable with being unhappy, so much so that I tend to ‘forget’ the bad things so I can move on with my life.
When I lost Boo Radley, I was so uncomfortable in my own skin, the memory of his glazed, open eyes staring back at me, gone but not forgotten. Losing Boo Radley was my first taste of death. I’m 25 years old and fortunate because of it. I am unmarred from loss, my life yet divided between the before and the after. I am the person I will never be again once death has touched my life.
I miss you, Boo. And Tsunami, I’m sorry. You were the best of friends in life, and I take comfort in knowing you are together. If animals are here to teach us about life, I can only assume you’ll be waiting for us, to lead us on to the next part of our journey.
Monday, November 1, 2010
Monday, October 25, 2010
Goodnight, Elizabeth
One.
John.
It wasn’t the silence of the room, the absence of her breathing, but the coolness of the sheets as his hand found his way to her side of the bed, that alerted him, woke him from a troubled sleep. Thunder clapped outside, drowning out the pounding of his heart, lightning flashed, illuminating the fear in his eyes as his reflection appeared in the mirror adjacent to his bed.
The dread was omnipresent, lying dormant in his gut until a moment such as this. She was gone. It was never a surprise, but a realization, like a tumor you could see, but never acknowledged.
It had been coming for a long time. The upswing had lasted too long. Her gaze had become increasingly distant, her laugh a little too false. Three months of recovering from the last time, three months to re-establish their relationship before she shattered it again with the jack-hammer of her condition.
Bi-polar. Alcoholic. These words had been used in the past to describe her, but they meant nothing to John. It was just Elizabeth. She’d always been that way, before rock bottom, before small padded rooms and long nights of worrying and diagnosis and medications. They’d called it a disease, but John wasn’t convinced. A disease was something you could recover from, but Elizabeth would never change.
Still, he loved her all the same.
The phone interrupted the heavy silence, sounding louder than a tornado in the dark, scaring John as if it were. The dread cemented him to the bed. Was this the night, the moment? He wondered. Was this the night she died? Who would be on the other line? The police? Was she in jail again or in the morgue?
He moved slowly with lead feet. He found the phone beside her un-rumpled pillow. She left it there for him, right next to his keys.
“Hello?” John swallowed hard, bracing himself for the worse.
“It’s been a bad night, John, but she’s alright.”
“Why didn’t you call me sooner?” John asked, the anger taking him by surprise. “You know how she gets, Bear, you know the signs as well as I do.”
“I wasn’t working tonight, Maggie was.”
“Maggie knows better than you.”
“Maggie said she was fine when she came in. She only wanted to talk,” Bear said defensively. His tone softened. “You know how Elizabeth is. She blindsides us. One minute she’s sipping coffee, watching the news at the bar and the next she’s ramming a barstool through my jukebox.”
John grimaced. “How much do I owe you this time?”
Bear laughed once. “Maggie stopped her before she could do any major damage.” Glass broke in the background and Bear suddenly became muffled as his hand covered the receiver. John heard a feral scream in the background. He threw on his coat, his laces untied as he shuffled quickly through the house.
“You better come quick,” Bear said suddenly, “She’s worse than I ever seen her.”
John.
It wasn’t the silence of the room, the absence of her breathing, but the coolness of the sheets as his hand found his way to her side of the bed, that alerted him, woke him from a troubled sleep. Thunder clapped outside, drowning out the pounding of his heart, lightning flashed, illuminating the fear in his eyes as his reflection appeared in the mirror adjacent to his bed.
The dread was omnipresent, lying dormant in his gut until a moment such as this. She was gone. It was never a surprise, but a realization, like a tumor you could see, but never acknowledged.
It had been coming for a long time. The upswing had lasted too long. Her gaze had become increasingly distant, her laugh a little too false. Three months of recovering from the last time, three months to re-establish their relationship before she shattered it again with the jack-hammer of her condition.
Bi-polar. Alcoholic. These words had been used in the past to describe her, but they meant nothing to John. It was just Elizabeth. She’d always been that way, before rock bottom, before small padded rooms and long nights of worrying and diagnosis and medications. They’d called it a disease, but John wasn’t convinced. A disease was something you could recover from, but Elizabeth would never change.
Still, he loved her all the same.
The phone interrupted the heavy silence, sounding louder than a tornado in the dark, scaring John as if it were. The dread cemented him to the bed. Was this the night, the moment? He wondered. Was this the night she died? Who would be on the other line? The police? Was she in jail again or in the morgue?
He moved slowly with lead feet. He found the phone beside her un-rumpled pillow. She left it there for him, right next to his keys.
“Hello?” John swallowed hard, bracing himself for the worse.
“It’s been a bad night, John, but she’s alright.”
“Why didn’t you call me sooner?” John asked, the anger taking him by surprise. “You know how she gets, Bear, you know the signs as well as I do.”
“I wasn’t working tonight, Maggie was.”
“Maggie knows better than you.”
“Maggie said she was fine when she came in. She only wanted to talk,” Bear said defensively. His tone softened. “You know how Elizabeth is. She blindsides us. One minute she’s sipping coffee, watching the news at the bar and the next she’s ramming a barstool through my jukebox.”
John grimaced. “How much do I owe you this time?”
Bear laughed once. “Maggie stopped her before she could do any major damage.” Glass broke in the background and Bear suddenly became muffled as his hand covered the receiver. John heard a feral scream in the background. He threw on his coat, his laces untied as he shuffled quickly through the house.
“You better come quick,” Bear said suddenly, “She’s worse than I ever seen her.”
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
Off to a Meeting.
And when it rains,
it pours,
and the words pour out of me
right about the time
there is something else to do.
And I am pulled away,
and I am sucked down,
and the words dissipate.
it pours,
and the words pour out of me
right about the time
there is something else to do.
And I am pulled away,
and I am sucked down,
and the words dissipate.
All I Want in an Ideal World.
I try to take myself
out of the context of what I see,
of what I hear and smell and know.
I know that I want children.
To feel the joy and frustration
of a mixed and messy and complicated
brood of family.
I also know that I don't want to work
sunup to sunset.
In an ideal world,
I'll publish my first novel.
Experience the joy of a stranger
appreciating something I fished
from the depths of my being.
Make a modest living,
enough to quit my job,
build a nice house,
with a nook all my own,
in which I will have great, wide windows
and walls of books,
and I will write,
and I will write
and I will have children,
and I will write.
And we will be happy.
out of the context of what I see,
of what I hear and smell and know.
I know that I want children.
To feel the joy and frustration
of a mixed and messy and complicated
brood of family.
I also know that I don't want to work
sunup to sunset.
In an ideal world,
I'll publish my first novel.
Experience the joy of a stranger
appreciating something I fished
from the depths of my being.
Make a modest living,
enough to quit my job,
build a nice house,
with a nook all my own,
in which I will have great, wide windows
and walls of books,
and I will write,
and I will write
and I will have children,
and I will write.
And we will be happy.
Self-doubt.
I sit within colorless, windowless walls,
eight hours of artificial light
and conditioned stale air.
I am my own sunlight,
drifting in, telling of the day.
I am my own potted plant,
the delicate, chipper, yellow flower.
I am my own inspiration,
my own experiences.
I am my own desires,
feeling trapped,
knowing what I can be,
unsure of how to...be.
Words I need to express,
worming their way through and out.
So much untapped potential,
because I'm selling myself short.
Fighting against the desperate,
hungry, yearning need to write.
Fighting against the pleasure
of complacency.
Tears of frustration,
the urge of knowing
that untapped greatness,
or at least goodness,
is within me.
Sustained on the faith of knowing
where I am destined.
Hiding from the fear
that my dreams will decay in waste;
that I will wake up one day
and nothing will have evolved
from what is gnawing at me
from the inside out.
I have a feeling,
a great, deep, well of feelings,
that words are my contribution
to the world.
But is it enough?
Am I enough?
I am my own sunshine,
I am my own flower.
But am I enough?
And what will come of me
if I'm not?
eight hours of artificial light
and conditioned stale air.
I am my own sunlight,
drifting in, telling of the day.
I am my own potted plant,
the delicate, chipper, yellow flower.
I am my own inspiration,
my own experiences.
I am my own desires,
feeling trapped,
knowing what I can be,
unsure of how to...be.
Words I need to express,
worming their way through and out.
So much untapped potential,
because I'm selling myself short.
Fighting against the desperate,
hungry, yearning need to write.
Fighting against the pleasure
of complacency.
Tears of frustration,
the urge of knowing
that untapped greatness,
or at least goodness,
is within me.
Sustained on the faith of knowing
where I am destined.
Hiding from the fear
that my dreams will decay in waste;
that I will wake up one day
and nothing will have evolved
from what is gnawing at me
from the inside out.
I have a feeling,
a great, deep, well of feelings,
that words are my contribution
to the world.
But is it enough?
Am I enough?
I am my own sunshine,
I am my own flower.
But am I enough?
And what will come of me
if I'm not?
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
Doors and Windows
My job didn't go as I thought it would, I didn't get the promotion I was groomed for. I'm not going to go into it; the anger rises like bile and it's hard for me to think around it. It's not about pride, about having to train my supervisor. Its about losing out on a raise that would make life easier to live, that would have been a stepping stone to climbing out of this hole that's been dug for us. It's about the fact that I'm 25 ("Four years older than my son," as one of my supervisors pointed out) and the fact that I have no 'managerial skills'.
When I called the bestest, her words were like balm to my blistered pride, "You are not meant to be here. This is a message telling you to get out! You will look back one day and be so glad you didn't get that position, so glad you didn't get stuck!"
So I've been applying like crazy, staring down a phone that just won't ring and grasping to my dreams, my nose in my laptop every single night, the words and ideas coming slowly, but surely.
It smarts like a smack to the nose every time I come to work; to know that I was groomed to take this position and then to have it snatched away. It's a hard lesson to learn, but one we must: life isn't fair.
I've always known I was destined for bigger things. I'm not talking about my pre-teen aspirations of being a rock-star; no, for me, I want a smaller life, with lots of children and a career that will provide with me a way to take care of them. A large house with my own office (to write of course, the quiet dream I find hard to speak of--the one I feel I'm destined towards).
I've found that when you have a child, your priorities shift. I want a job to grow in to, that fulfills me, that doesn't treat me as a second class citizen just because I'm young and vibrant and opinionated.
I deserve better than this place; I see that now.
So if any of you see any open windows, please give me a shove. I'm finally at a place now where I'm ready to jump.
When I called the bestest, her words were like balm to my blistered pride, "You are not meant to be here. This is a message telling you to get out! You will look back one day and be so glad you didn't get that position, so glad you didn't get stuck!"
So I've been applying like crazy, staring down a phone that just won't ring and grasping to my dreams, my nose in my laptop every single night, the words and ideas coming slowly, but surely.
It smarts like a smack to the nose every time I come to work; to know that I was groomed to take this position and then to have it snatched away. It's a hard lesson to learn, but one we must: life isn't fair.
I've always known I was destined for bigger things. I'm not talking about my pre-teen aspirations of being a rock-star; no, for me, I want a smaller life, with lots of children and a career that will provide with me a way to take care of them. A large house with my own office (to write of course, the quiet dream I find hard to speak of--the one I feel I'm destined towards).
I've found that when you have a child, your priorities shift. I want a job to grow in to, that fulfills me, that doesn't treat me as a second class citizen just because I'm young and vibrant and opinionated.
I deserve better than this place; I see that now.
So if any of you see any open windows, please give me a shove. I'm finally at a place now where I'm ready to jump.
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
Snippet--Fall Into Me
I followed him into the house; Simon didn’t bother turning on any lights as we passed through each dark room. I was looking forward to a few hours of solace even though I was unsure if I’d ever find it. Too much had been moved, the memories swirling around like dust motes in my brain. My dreams were sure to be vivid and heartbreakingly real.
But I was so tired; I only hoped my mind would give out along with my body.
And I wouldn’t allow myself to think of what tomorrow would bring; that wouldn’t help the night to pass any easier either.
Wordlessly, I made my way up the stairs, Simon moving silently behind me. I heard him stop at his door as I continued up the hall.
“Emily,” he whispered. I was stopped by the ache in his voice, cringing with the knowledge of what he was going to ask. I braced myself against the railing.
“Can I sleep with you tonight?”
I started to tell him ‘no’, but it was too tempting. I was unsettled from the events of the evening and truth be told, I was lonely. Simon was leaving tomorrow; there would be no repercussions to letting him share my bed just this once.
“Okay.” The volume of my voice was unsettling in the quiet. Simon moved like a ghost past me, eagerly and quickly in case I changed my mind. I stood in the hallway for a second longer, listening to the squeak of my mattress springs as Simon sat on the edge of the bed, the double thunk of his shoes hitting the hard, wooden floors and the familiar sigh of comfort as he settled in on his side. His voice was layered with questions but he only asked one, “Are you coming to bed?”
I answered him wordlessly by shutting the bedroom door. It was so dark Simon couldn’t see me, only hearing my grumbles and complaints as I navigated around the messy obstructions that surrounded the bed. I kicked off my shoes and climbed into my side, leaving a wide space between us in the middle of the bed.
Simon didn’t hesitate as he closed the gap, snuggling up against me so that his breath was moist on the back of my neck. I let him hold me, surrendering to the physical comfort I would never know again.
“This doesn’t mean anything,” I whispered into the darkness.
His answer was the delicate touch of his lips to the back of my neck. I held very still, unnerved, hoping that his show of affection would end there. But as his lips pressed against my hairline, his hands took hold of my waist, and he rolled me over so that I was forced to look at him, his face obscured by darkness; I was frightened by the silhouette that touched me.
“What are you doing?” I gasped, my body trembling from the unexpected fright. It was a bizarre reaction, to be scared of Simon, especially when I was so comfortable with anger. But the tenderness of his kiss was disarming—I was reduced to tears as his lips found my own.
“Please stop,” I requested weakly, clearing the lump from my throat. He held my hand in his, he felt my trembling, but misinterpreted it.
“Please, please,” He pleaded breathlessly, his voice surprisingly stern; he wasn’t begging, his words hiding his intentions, “Can’t you love me, just tonight? One last night for goodbye?”
I shook my head, hot tears streaming down my face, “I can’t, I can’t,” I repeated over and over. Even though it was dark, I could feel the change in him; his sudden intensity was shocking. His lips moved down my face, to my neck. I pushed against him weakly, I was incapable of stopping him, and I knew it. I was too weak to try, to hurt to cry out.
Simon’s hand moved to my neck, gently but firmly. He grabbed my face and pulled me towards him, smashing his lips into mine, kissing me violently, desperately. My stomach lurched at the contact, at the reminder of intimacy, at the smell of his skin, the familiar touch of his fingertips.
The tears dried up and the fear passed like a wind-whipped storm; I was trapped but I wasn’t scared. Really, what could scare me anymore? What held any true consequences? I had nothing left to lose.
My eyes adjusted to the dark and I could begin to make out his face in the dim light; his eyes were tight, his face a frowning grimace. He was angry and arrogant, taking what rightfully belonged to him. I could see the belittlement, the pain I caused him, the grief from everything we lost, pooling around the corners of his closed eyes. Pent up anger, burning, deep, sprouting from months of verbal abuse and emotional neglect, from circumstances that crippled our marriage, from my eagerness to leave him, for never asking him to stay; his grip was tight with anger.
There was something else I could hardly read in the dark shadows of his face, something that reeked of him, that held his shape together, a recognizable piece in his fuzzy form. Fear, the only emotion that ever owned Simon, was puppet master to his strings. I became more at ease as I recognized the fear, a familiar face in a crowd of strangers.
Fear of losing me, of being unable to convince me to stay. Fear of life without me, when he loved me so, loved me the best way he could. Fear that, for once, gave way to anger, fed the anger.
It was the anger that made him a stranger to me, distorting his face so that I didn’t recognize this man who lay on top of me. Every bit of anger Simon should have felt in his entire life—in our entire relationship—was readable in him now. Every bit of hostility he subdued with passiveness was seeping from his furious, determined expression; it was the sharpness to his words, the hard grip of his hands that left deep whelps in my skin.
Simon’s lips lingered briefly, his face hovering above mine. He kissed the tip of my nose tenderly, finally igniting what I searched for within. He might as well have doused me with gasoline, I was angry and alive and strong. His tenderness was a slap in the face, his love a false pretense covering darker motives. I bucked against him, knowing he would fold under any resistance.
But instead of letting go, he held me tighter, speaking through gritted teeth into the curve of my neck, begging in a voice that wasn’t his, “Please, don’t fight me. Can’t you give me one last night after all you’ve put me through? After how I’ve taken care of you? You owe me at least that.”
It felt as if he had hit me, spitting the words out, salt in my open wounds. Like before, I felt an obligation, a need to pacify him. I fought against the instinct, unknowing if I could perform the task he asked of me.
The only thing I knew for sure was that I didn’t have a choice.
Simon was kissing my neck again, holding me tightly, removing my clothes. I left my body and became numb, going into the safe haven of my mind. I wondered if he noticed my body going limp as he laid me against the bed. If he noticed the blank, vacant stare in my eyes as he kissed my face.
We weren’t making love. No, this was animalistic, based on desperate need, not desire or passion or love.
I tried to be sorry for the dissension of our marriage, for the hateful person I had become, for the misery I had caused him, but I couldn’t. He saved my life once, regardless of how unnecessary, and I could feel his regret for that mistake in the way his body moved around mine. Simon was wishing I had died; I was dying now—I could feel his mourning through the palpable heat of his touch.
I closed my eyes and thought of Simon. Not as my lover, not as my friend, but as the father of my child. Our child. The father of our child that died. Our four month old child that died in our car, sinking to the bottom of the lake.
I could respect him and love him based on that role alone. I could pretend for a brief moment because I loved him once; I could pretend for a moment, but not for a lifetime. And when the moment passed, I would hate him. Hate him for making me remember, hate him for his regret, hate him for ever loving me in the first place.
But for the moment, I let go of my mind and became exactly what he needed me to be—the only thing this shell of a woman could really offer—a release. I wasn’t Emily, his Emily or this Emily. And it wasn’t Simon either who held me unmercifully in his arms; it wasn’t Simon who ravaged my remains, a coyote pillaging scraps. He wasn’t him and I wasn’t me; it was the first time we ever saw each other so clearly.
When Simon rolled over to resume his usual place in the bed, we didn’t speak or touch or even acknowledge each other.
And when I awoke the next morning, the sun gleaning in through the slight shift of the curtains, he was gone.
But I was so tired; I only hoped my mind would give out along with my body.
And I wouldn’t allow myself to think of what tomorrow would bring; that wouldn’t help the night to pass any easier either.
Wordlessly, I made my way up the stairs, Simon moving silently behind me. I heard him stop at his door as I continued up the hall.
“Emily,” he whispered. I was stopped by the ache in his voice, cringing with the knowledge of what he was going to ask. I braced myself against the railing.
“Can I sleep with you tonight?”
I started to tell him ‘no’, but it was too tempting. I was unsettled from the events of the evening and truth be told, I was lonely. Simon was leaving tomorrow; there would be no repercussions to letting him share my bed just this once.
“Okay.” The volume of my voice was unsettling in the quiet. Simon moved like a ghost past me, eagerly and quickly in case I changed my mind. I stood in the hallway for a second longer, listening to the squeak of my mattress springs as Simon sat on the edge of the bed, the double thunk of his shoes hitting the hard, wooden floors and the familiar sigh of comfort as he settled in on his side. His voice was layered with questions but he only asked one, “Are you coming to bed?”
I answered him wordlessly by shutting the bedroom door. It was so dark Simon couldn’t see me, only hearing my grumbles and complaints as I navigated around the messy obstructions that surrounded the bed. I kicked off my shoes and climbed into my side, leaving a wide space between us in the middle of the bed.
Simon didn’t hesitate as he closed the gap, snuggling up against me so that his breath was moist on the back of my neck. I let him hold me, surrendering to the physical comfort I would never know again.
“This doesn’t mean anything,” I whispered into the darkness.
His answer was the delicate touch of his lips to the back of my neck. I held very still, unnerved, hoping that his show of affection would end there. But as his lips pressed against my hairline, his hands took hold of my waist, and he rolled me over so that I was forced to look at him, his face obscured by darkness; I was frightened by the silhouette that touched me.
“What are you doing?” I gasped, my body trembling from the unexpected fright. It was a bizarre reaction, to be scared of Simon, especially when I was so comfortable with anger. But the tenderness of his kiss was disarming—I was reduced to tears as his lips found my own.
“Please stop,” I requested weakly, clearing the lump from my throat. He held my hand in his, he felt my trembling, but misinterpreted it.
“Please, please,” He pleaded breathlessly, his voice surprisingly stern; he wasn’t begging, his words hiding his intentions, “Can’t you love me, just tonight? One last night for goodbye?”
I shook my head, hot tears streaming down my face, “I can’t, I can’t,” I repeated over and over. Even though it was dark, I could feel the change in him; his sudden intensity was shocking. His lips moved down my face, to my neck. I pushed against him weakly, I was incapable of stopping him, and I knew it. I was too weak to try, to hurt to cry out.
Simon’s hand moved to my neck, gently but firmly. He grabbed my face and pulled me towards him, smashing his lips into mine, kissing me violently, desperately. My stomach lurched at the contact, at the reminder of intimacy, at the smell of his skin, the familiar touch of his fingertips.
The tears dried up and the fear passed like a wind-whipped storm; I was trapped but I wasn’t scared. Really, what could scare me anymore? What held any true consequences? I had nothing left to lose.
My eyes adjusted to the dark and I could begin to make out his face in the dim light; his eyes were tight, his face a frowning grimace. He was angry and arrogant, taking what rightfully belonged to him. I could see the belittlement, the pain I caused him, the grief from everything we lost, pooling around the corners of his closed eyes. Pent up anger, burning, deep, sprouting from months of verbal abuse and emotional neglect, from circumstances that crippled our marriage, from my eagerness to leave him, for never asking him to stay; his grip was tight with anger.
There was something else I could hardly read in the dark shadows of his face, something that reeked of him, that held his shape together, a recognizable piece in his fuzzy form. Fear, the only emotion that ever owned Simon, was puppet master to his strings. I became more at ease as I recognized the fear, a familiar face in a crowd of strangers.
Fear of losing me, of being unable to convince me to stay. Fear of life without me, when he loved me so, loved me the best way he could. Fear that, for once, gave way to anger, fed the anger.
It was the anger that made him a stranger to me, distorting his face so that I didn’t recognize this man who lay on top of me. Every bit of anger Simon should have felt in his entire life—in our entire relationship—was readable in him now. Every bit of hostility he subdued with passiveness was seeping from his furious, determined expression; it was the sharpness to his words, the hard grip of his hands that left deep whelps in my skin.
Simon’s lips lingered briefly, his face hovering above mine. He kissed the tip of my nose tenderly, finally igniting what I searched for within. He might as well have doused me with gasoline, I was angry and alive and strong. His tenderness was a slap in the face, his love a false pretense covering darker motives. I bucked against him, knowing he would fold under any resistance.
But instead of letting go, he held me tighter, speaking through gritted teeth into the curve of my neck, begging in a voice that wasn’t his, “Please, don’t fight me. Can’t you give me one last night after all you’ve put me through? After how I’ve taken care of you? You owe me at least that.”
It felt as if he had hit me, spitting the words out, salt in my open wounds. Like before, I felt an obligation, a need to pacify him. I fought against the instinct, unknowing if I could perform the task he asked of me.
The only thing I knew for sure was that I didn’t have a choice.
Simon was kissing my neck again, holding me tightly, removing my clothes. I left my body and became numb, going into the safe haven of my mind. I wondered if he noticed my body going limp as he laid me against the bed. If he noticed the blank, vacant stare in my eyes as he kissed my face.
We weren’t making love. No, this was animalistic, based on desperate need, not desire or passion or love.
I tried to be sorry for the dissension of our marriage, for the hateful person I had become, for the misery I had caused him, but I couldn’t. He saved my life once, regardless of how unnecessary, and I could feel his regret for that mistake in the way his body moved around mine. Simon was wishing I had died; I was dying now—I could feel his mourning through the palpable heat of his touch.
I closed my eyes and thought of Simon. Not as my lover, not as my friend, but as the father of my child. Our child. The father of our child that died. Our four month old child that died in our car, sinking to the bottom of the lake.
I could respect him and love him based on that role alone. I could pretend for a brief moment because I loved him once; I could pretend for a moment, but not for a lifetime. And when the moment passed, I would hate him. Hate him for making me remember, hate him for his regret, hate him for ever loving me in the first place.
But for the moment, I let go of my mind and became exactly what he needed me to be—the only thing this shell of a woman could really offer—a release. I wasn’t Emily, his Emily or this Emily. And it wasn’t Simon either who held me unmercifully in his arms; it wasn’t Simon who ravaged my remains, a coyote pillaging scraps. He wasn’t him and I wasn’t me; it was the first time we ever saw each other so clearly.
When Simon rolled over to resume his usual place in the bed, we didn’t speak or touch or even acknowledge each other.
And when I awoke the next morning, the sun gleaning in through the slight shift of the curtains, he was gone.
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