by Jade Eby
I clench my eye shut. I don't want to remember what happened, but it comes to me in full force. Getting drunk off whiskey. Carter punching my stomach. Carter's hands around me, his eyes full of rage.
Pulling the trigger that ended his life.
I deserve to be dead.
A hand covers mine. "I'm gonna let you get some rest now. I'll be back to bring you those meds."
I don't say anything. She's being nice to me and I don't get how she can even look at me knowing what I've done.
Her shoes scuff against the floor and I wait until I think she's out of the room before I let myself cry.
Jesus, what have I done? How does someone come back from this?
They don't.
* * *
I thought I'd closed my eyes for a second, but it had been hours. The nurse stops in and tsks.
"You were supposed to stay awake so I could give you meds. You'll just have to take them now. It'll help with the pain, and help you fall back asleep. You need rest. There will be… people that will be coming to talk to you later." The same nurses voice slices the silence.
I open a eye and watch her hook up a liquid bag to my IV.
"Give it a few minutes to work and you'll be good," she says and then looks at me for a few seconds before walking out of the room.
I wait for something - anything - to happen. So that I can forget, if even for a moment, that I'm not the woman who just killed her husband.
I don't have to wait long. The drugs work fast. Everything becomes hazy. Kind of fuzzy. I feel tipsy right before I close my eyes.
I stand in the middle of the Dividing Line, the wind whipping my hair around. It's dusk and casts the entire field in an orange glow. The red tops of the cattails appear as if they're on fire.
"Hospital gowns do nothing for your figure."
I turn around and Carter smiles that crooked, delicious smile and I swear my heart falls all the way back to the night we first met.
"I'm wearing this because of you." I try to sound agitated, accusatory.
He stands there and smirks. "Don't pin this on me, babe. You knew where the gun was. You took the shot. I ain't even mad about it. You looked so sexy standing there with determination in your eyes. Hell bent on giving me what I deserved."
This is not my Carter. "Who are you?"
He walks toward me. I tense up, waiting for his arm to swing back, or his leg to come straight at me, but instead he kneels in front of me. Takes my hands in his.
"I coulda changed. I would have, you know. Once I saw the picture of our baby, the whole world would have stopped for us. We were gonna be a family. I know you don't believe it, but I loved you Tawny. I loved you more than I ever loved anything else," he tells me.
Except belittling me. Making me feel two inches tall. Kicking me when I was down. Killing our baby.
"Your heart could only handle loving one person, Carter. And that was you. If you really loved me, you'd never have laid a hand on me."
Flecks of gold dance in his green eyes and I struggle to remember if they've always been there or if this is a life-after-death addition. They're mesmerizing and I'm temporarily lost in the things I see when I look at him. Longing. Regret. Love.
It hits me standing there in the middle of the dividing line, clearly in a dream — I still love the husband I killed. The man who wrapped his hands around my neck and choked me into unconsciousness. The man who kicked me in the stomach knowing I could have had a child inside.
He pushes back a stray hair and runs his fingertip down my jaw line. "Tawny, I would have never done those things if I didn't love you. Maybe that's what you deserved, someone who loved you a little less."
I so desperately want to argue with his logic, but the thing is — I believe him. And the worst part is; I loved him just as much. If we'd both just loved each other less, been repelled in the beginning, he wouldn't be dead.
I struggle with the desire to push him away and the deep, growling desire to kiss him. To feel his arms snaked around my body, his lips pressed against mine so hard I'd know it's real. He was a bastard, but dammit did he know how to kiss.
It's as if he's reading my mind but that's kind of the point isn't it? Because this isn't real. Our lips meet and it's a glorious release. He bites my bottom lip — a classic Carter move — and nuzzles my neck. Dear God, this dream is fucked up but I want him so damn bad. All of him.
I'm ready to rip my shirt off, then everything falls apart. Carter's body floats away, the dividing line disappears.
I open my eye to the darkness of my hospital room and the beep, beep, beeps of reality.
* * *
I knew they would be coming - the police - but when one shows up in his blue uniform, the officialness of it makes everything so… real.
He was kind enough to wait until I could open both of my eyes. Sit up for longer than five minutes at a time. It's only been a few days since I aimed Carter's gun and yet it feels like it was only moments ago.
"Tawny, I'm Officer Starn. I think you know why I'm here." His voice is calm, gentle even. This is not the way I imagined an officer would speak to a murderer.
"I do."
He opens a file in his hand. "I've talked with your doctor and looked over your medical history. We've conducted several interviews with your neighbor, Rose Williams as well. I have every reason to believe that the injuries you've sustained are at the hands of your husband."
I don't know what to say to this.
"What I'm trying to say is that we have enough evidence to prove self-defense. We haven't officially closed the investigation, but I don't anticipate charges to be filed."
This is supposed to be good news. Maybe he thinks it will give me some sort of peace. It doesn't. I should be going to prison for what I've done. Even if the bastard deserved what he got.
"Mrs. Brooks, are you following?"
I nod.
"We've arranged to take you home the day after tomorrow. And we'll be in touch until the investigation is complete."
"Home?" I croak.
"Yes… there's a crew there today, cleaning up." His expression is complete pity.
I shake my head. "I can't go back there."
"I understand, Mrs. Brooks, but unless there's someone else you can stay with… I'm afraid there isn't another choice."
I look down at my trembling hands. I didn't think I'd ever have to go back there. To the place of so many memories of him. To the place I murdered Carter. How will I ever be able to sleep in the bed that he and I shared knowing what I've done only a few feet away? How can they make me do this?
"Is there anyone you'd like me to call and see if there's space available for you?"
There isn't anyone. God knows where Mom is at, and doubtful she has a place for me. Rose's house is small and I couldn't stay with her anyway. Jackie moved away.
It's just me, now.
"No. There isn't anyone to call."
His forlorn look nearly breaks me. "Maybe your neighbor? She seemed to want to help you in any way possible."
"No!" I say a little too forcefully. "She's done enough. I don't want to burden her anymore."
"I'm sure —"
"No. I'll be fine," I say, my voice cracking.
He stares at me without saying a word. He shifts in his chair, like he's uncomfortable with the silence. He pulls out a business card and hands it to me.
"You can call me if anything comes up that you need help with. I think someone will be coming by with information on support groups. But if there's anything I can do, don't hesitate to call."
The card shakes in my grasp.
"I'll be touching base with you in the next couple days, okay?"
I nod, again.
"Take care of yourself," he says, getting up and walking toward the door.
"Why are you so nice to me?" I blurt out when he's almost out of the room.
He turns on his heels. "What?"
"I killed my husband. I'm guilty. Why don't you hate me?"
He steps forward and he almost looks pained by my accusation. "This job isn't black and white, Mrs. Brooks. I've seen things no one person should have to see in their lifetime. But I've also gotten quite good at recognizing the difference between malicious intent and surviving. You may be guilty of killing your husband, but only because you were saving your own life. We could try to charge you, put you on a stand but no juror in their right mind, seeing your medical history would convict you."
He looks into my eyes. "I'm being nice to you because it's what a human being deserves. I'm sorry if that bothers you."
I clench my eyes shut as tears slide out beneath them.
"Nice isn't exactly what I'm used to. I just—"
"I'll be in touch, Mrs. Brooks," he says, walking out of the room.
October - 2008
I send Rose back home and immediately, my house feels ten times bigger. Quieter. Creepier.
It's always this way when she leaves. When she's here, I'm grateful, but always counting down the seconds until I can be alone in silence. But the minute she leaves, I'm confronted with the emptiness that surrounds me. The lack of Carter-ness that I can't seem to get over.
I didn't want to come back here. I wanted to forget this place ever existed. But I had no where else to go and I felt like I owed it to Carter to live here while I still could. Before the mortgage payments built up and the bank takes it right out from under me.
The will to do anything other than lie in bed, go to the bathroom and occasionally open the door for Rose is non existent. I haven't been in the room that I killed Carter in since that day. The spare bedroom became my sanctuary. The blankets my cocoon I hide under while the rest of the world spins on by.
The phone trills and I sigh, walking to it's place on the wall.
"Hello?"
"Tawny Brooks?" A high-pitched voice asks.
"Whose asking?"
"This is Ames Soriano. I'm not sure if you've gotten my —"
I have received her letters. And thrown them directly in the trash.
"I'm not interested," I say, slamming the phone onto the cradle.
Damn reporters, journalists and writers haven't left me alone since Carter's murder broke the news. They've been vultures swarming everywhere I am, waiting for me to drop something they can use.
I don't have the energy to deal with them, thus my twenty hour stints in bed.
There's a part of me though, deep down, that tells me to get up. Move on. Face the day. But the bigger part of me tells that other part to shut the fuck up and die.
Every morning, I think, maybe it's the day I will magically be fixed. I won't be the woman who lost four of her babies. I won't be the woman who killed her husband and "got away with it." I won't be the stupid, insane woman who misses her husband like he's a phantom limb. Who misses the way his arms felt tangled up in mine at night. Who kissed me like I was the key to satisfying his every desire.
And everyday, I wake up to find myself constantly reminded of all of this. Carter is everywhere I am. In the hallway connecting the spare bedroom to the living room. He's on the couch, his smell lingering no matter how many times I light a candle in there. But the kitchen is the worst.
It used to be my place. The one room in the house I felt the safest. The one where I could be me. But Carter haunts the kitchen. Every movement out of the corner of my eye is him. Every noise or clanking is him reaching for a beer.
He is everywhere and nowhere and it fucks with my mind.
I should ask the doctor for the drugs that make me numb again, but I won't. I deserve this. To feel every ache, pain and nerve that Carter invades. I took a life and this is penance.
This is what I deserve.
* * *
I have a therapy appointment. The first one. I refused to go up until now. Between Rose's pleading and tears, I didn't have the wherewithal to say no anymore. There's been something small growing inside of me and I desperately want to know what it is. Maybe the therapist will talk it out of me. It's unsettling to know something is inside of you - clawing it's way to get out but you don't know what it is. How to help it out.
I lied and told Rose it got cancelled. I really just wanted to drive myself. It's time, I think. I've been chauffeured around for the last ten years of my life and it's about damn time I do something on my own.
At least, that's how I justify it to myself. It's a completely different beast when I get behind the wheel of Carter's truck.
The smell of him completely engulfs me when I get inside. The off-brand soap I bought him, sweat and stale beer converge into one. It's disgusting and sweet and awful all at once. It feels like he's still here. Waiting for me to get in the other side. It takes me a few minutes to move my feet from the step to actually sitting in the driver's seat.
The cushion concaves in what I can only guess is the shape of Carter's ass. I bring the seat closer to the pedals and it groans in protest.
I've only driven the truck a handful of times, and nerves flame like a fire lit beneath me.
Shit. Why didn't I just let Rose take me? I'm not ready for this. I'm not ready for any of this. I open the door to get out and a little voice stops me.
Get the hell back in that seat. You got rid of me for a reason, Tawny. You wanted freedom and now it's yours. Don't waste it on fear.
My dead husband's voice is loud and clear. I look to the passenger side. Empty. Of course it is. Because I killed Carter. I'm hearing things.
That's why you need to see this broad. Make her see how messed up you are. You need fixed.
I put my hands over my ears. "Stop. Talking."
You won't ever be rid of me, honey.
"No!" I scream at the top of my lungs. I look up and realize Rose is staring at me from her door step.
"You okay?"
I breathe in and out. In. And. Out.
Smiling, I wave and nod. "Yeah, I'm fine. Just going out for a bit."
"Want some company?"
I shake my head. "Thanks, but I'll be okay. I think… it's time."
She gives me a sad smile and goes back into her house.
Get a hold of yourself, Tawny. Turn the ignition and drive. That's it.
"You're not real. Stop talking to me."
And then glorious silence hits my ears. He doesn't have a comeback to that.
I take a deep breath in and turn the ignition. The truck rumbles to life.
Backing out of the driveway, I'm as cautious as I was when I first learned to drive. What if I get in an accident? What if I have one of the panic attacks I've grown accustomed to popping up at random times?
You can do this. You'll be fine.
His voice is soothing, gentle - like he's one with me. Like he knows what I need before I do. I let his words sink in.
I can do this. I will be fine.
As I drive, I realize that I'm taking advice from the voices in my head.
My therapist is in for a lot of work.
January - 2009
No matter how high I turn up the heat in this house, everywhere I go, the cold follows. I strip down to nothing in the bathroom and hang up my dingy white towel on the shower hook. Step inside the tiled walls. The shower head sputters when I turn the hot nozzle and it takes a few seconds before the steam billows and fogs up the window.
The scorching heat pelts down on me and it's orgasmic. Like being stroked by calloused hands - rubbing all the pain and exhaustion away.
Stepping into the stream, the water covers me, soaking my hair first, then my face and if I could let myself drown in the comfort of it - I would.
I close my eyes and let the heat wash over me. Sighing, I fall under the spell of the comfort. It only lasts a second before everything spins around me and I'm somewhere else.
Eggshell White walls. A snoozing beagle in the sunshine. A toddler laughing at a baby on the floor. Apple pie wafting from the kitchen.
Me watching it all play out.
This is new.
"Mommy, m
ommy! Can we go outside and play today?" A little girl with Shirley Temple curls runs up to me, pulling on the apron I didn't know I had on.
There are no words in my vocabulary to describe the perfection of this child. Cherubic. Angelic. Like in those silly paintings on ceilings in far-off places.
This is my child? How could I possibly produce something so… incredible?
She looks up at me with clear hazel eyes. Eyes so familiar I could pick them out of a line-up. Carter's eyes.
She's expecting an answer. This is a dream, it must be. "Not right now, darling. Let's wait a little bit."
Her smile turns downward and I want to take it back. I want to give my pretend child everything she wants. But just as quickly as she stood up, she goes back to playing blocks with her little brother.
A boy and a girl. What I always wanted.
I stand there, not knowing what else to do with my dream life. Who would waste these precious seconds washing dishes or walking away from those two? There's a brown leather couch against the wall. Totally something I would pick out. But it's my dream - of course it's something I would like.
Ditching the couch idea, I opt for the shaggy, creamy carpet by the children. I run a finger along the chubby cheeks of the boy - my son - and laugh. He's perfect, too.
"Mommy, Joey is bored. Me too. Let's go outside. Puhlease," she says.
The tiny voice - it's too much. Everything about this dream is vividly absurd. I don't have two perfect children made of porcelain. I don't have a beautiful house with a brown leather couch or a fat, sleeping beagle.
Dream be damned.
"Sure, sweetie. Let's go outside," I say, picking up Joey. The little girl (I don't even know my fake daughter's name) leads me to the backyard. It's filled with playthings, a plastic swing set and a sand box.
The minute we're out the door, the little girl bounds toward the sand box, curls flopping behind her as she runs.
