by Mila Gray
‘You guys need to talk,’ Didi says. She’s borne the brunt of my five days of grief compounded with anguish over Kit’s silence. Her theory is that he’s suffering from PTSD, not, she claims, that that fully excuses him from being an asshole.
When she sees me hesitating, she pushes me towards the door and thrusts some keys into my hand. ‘Go,’ she says again. ‘Take my car. I’ll cover for you.’
Kit’s truck is parked in his driveway. My heart is beating so fast it feels as if it might explode out of my chest as I walk up the path to the front door. When I pull out the keys I hesitate for a minute, wondering if I’m doing the right thing. What if he doesn’t want to see me? I mean, I know already that he doesn’t want to see me. If he did, he would have answered my calls. He would have hung around after the funeral. He would have come to the wake.
Well, screw him, I decide. It isn’t all about him. It isn’t just about what he wants. I want to talk to him. I need to talk to him.
It’s anger that propels me through the door, fury that has started to bubble through my veins. I run up the stairs and storm straight into the bedroom, words already bursting on my tongue. But he’s not there. His jacket is hanging over the back of the chair, though, and his gloves and hat are laid out neatly on the dresser. I contemplate the room, the half-folded camping mat on the floor – he’s not even sleeping in the bed – but before I can make sense of it a noise makes me jerk around.
Kit is standing in the doorway. He’s yanking off his tie, and when he sees me he freezes like that, his arm caught halfway, so it looks as though he’s trying to strangle himself. His arm drops slowly to his side.
The first thing I notice is that he has dark shadows under his eyes and hollows beneath his cheekbones. The word ‘shell-shocked’ comes to mind, those stories of First World War soldiers who came back from the trenches with their nerves shot to pieces. The second thing I notice are that his hands are bloodied, the knuckles bruised and swollen as if he just tried to punch his way out of a steel cage. My stomach heaves at the sight. I have to stop my legs from moving towards him, because seeing him, being this close to him, seeing him hurt and in pain, is making all the defences I’ve put up crumple to dust.
It takes Kit a few seconds to recover from the surprise of seeing me standing in his room. He falters, letting his guard down for just a moment, and in that moment I see something flare across his face – a look of total devastation – and it instantly dissolves my anger and makes me stumble towards him.
He turns his back on me before I reach him and crosses to the dresser. I stop short and stare at his back, my throat closing shut.
‘Kit,’ I say, putting my hands on his arms, ‘please, talk to me, tell me what’s going on.’
His back muscles lock and his head remains bowed. I turn him slowly around to face me.
‘Kit,’ I say, taking his face in my hands, trying to make him look at me.
He won’t. He stays resolutely staring at the ground. But I feel the subtle shift in his body. I can read him. He’s too familiar to me. His breathing has become shallow and the pulse beats rapidly in his neck; his shoulders slump.
I stroke Kit’s cheek and he closes his eyes, a look of anguish passing across his face that I want to wipe away. I want to make it better. I reach up on tiptoe and kiss him. He’s unresponsive at first, but I press myself against him and after a few seconds I feel his resistance start to fade. Slowly he starts to kiss me back, and I wrap my arms around his neck to stop him from pulling away. His arms finally come around my waist and he draws me tight, pulling me close, and a sob catches in my throat because finally I don’t feel like I’m free-falling into a bottomless abyss any more. I feel like I’ve been caught.
I open my mouth and our kiss suddenly becomes frantic, desperate. The familiar taste of him, the intoxicating smell of him, the burning heat of his lips – I can’t get enough – and as he laces his fingers through my hair and forces his tongue into my mouth, I realize that we’re both trying to claw our way back into the light, trying to find some kind of redemption, or some way of overcoming the pain.
Kit’s hands start ripping at my dress and my own fingers start tearing at his shirt, and all I can hear is the rasp of our breathing, the frantic beating of my pulse like a drum in my ears. All the pain fades, all the memories disappear, the world becomes a faint blur at the edges of my consciousness. All there is is the here and now and Kit and the fire in my body. It’s a feeling I don’t ever want to stop, that I focus on with all my might, because on the other side is only grief and darkness.
We fumble with each other’s clothes. I forget the shirt and tear at his belt and he gives up trying to undo my dress and instead just lifts the skirt and pulls my underwear roughly aside. Without a word exchanged, both of us breathing hard, Kit lifts me onto the dresser, shoving all the things on top of it to the side. I wrap my legs around his waist, desperate to draw him inside me, my hands tugging at him, and in the next moment he pushes into me.
I let out a cry that’s half anguish and half ecstasy. Kit drives into me with a grunt and I grip his shoulders and throw my head back. He kisses my neck, bites me, sucks hard enough that I cry out again. He pulls me to him, his hands gripping my thighs, holding me in place, forcing a pace that’s taking me quickly to the edge. I’m happily free-falling again, tumbling down into an abyss, but one that feels like oblivion, one where pain doesn’t exist.
I open my eyes and see Kit has his eyes screwed shut. I whisper his name and they flash open and we stare at each other, both of us panting, sweating, trembling, and I see, even through the desire dulling his eyes, how haunted he looks beneath it, how he’s not fully with me but someplace else, and with a jolt I’m brought right back to the moment as the memories start to flood in. I close my eyes and turn my head away from him, not willing to be drawn back there just yet, wanting to hold onto the feeling of Kit inside me, wanting to recapture the possibility of oblivion, wanting, above all, to forget.
47
Kit
She turns her head away, squeezing her eyes shut, and the action jars me. She can’t even look at me. Driven by something I don’t have words for, I lift her off the dresser, turn her around so she has her back to me, and then push inside her again. This way she doesn’t have to see my face.
She gasps loudly, a sound I know well, bending forwards and bracing herself against the top of the dresser. It spurs me on and so I put my hands on her back and drive into her harder – harder than I’ve ever done before – not wanting to hurt her but because I can’t stop myself, and because she seems to need it like this as much as I do, and I’m lost in her, totally fucking lost in her, can’t get enough of the feel of being inside her after so long. For the first time in five days my brain empties; the screams and cries stop echoing, my muscles stop trembling, the pain eases.
Jessa lets out another cry. Her muscles contract tight around me and I know she’s about to come. I push deeper and deeper, owning her, wanting to find my own escape, and then she does come, loud and hard. I can feel my own orgasm building, but suddenly, just before the release, I realize what the fuck I’m doing. I’m not even wearing a condom. Breathing unevenly, I pull out, stumbling backwards.
Jesus Christ, what am I thinking? This is Riley’s sister. It’s the day of his funeral and I’m fucking his sister. What the hell would he say? What would her father say? I haven’t even told her the truth yet. Disgusted with myself, I turn around, dark spots bursting at the edges of my vision, the room starting to tilt.
I hear Jessa say something but I shake my head. I can’t look at her. I’m too ashamed and my vision is blurring anyway.
‘Kit,’ she says again.
I turn. She’s standing, flushed, against the dresser, her hair and dress awry, one hand clutched to her side, looking so beautiful and so fragile that another wave of self-loathing washes over me.
‘What?’ she asks. ‘What is it?’
I can’t find the words. All I can do is shak
e my head. Jessa takes a step towards me, the look on her face so devastated and confused that I hold up a hand to stop her and close my eyes automatically so I don’t have to witness it, because then I’d have to confront the fact that I’m the one that put it there.
‘You should leave,’ I manage to say.
I can feel her standing there in front of me, not moving, so I risk opening my eyes. ‘Get out,’ I say again.
The smell of acrid smoke fills my nostrils, the roar of flames starts to build. I press my hands to my ears to block it out.
‘Just go!’ I yell, turning around.
My chest is crushed as though I’m lying beneath rubble. I can’t breathe.
I barely hear the door slam over the sound of screams in my head.
From: Jessa Kingsley
To: Kit Ryan [email protected]
Date: September 7
Subject: Please
Kit, please answer my emails.
From: Jessa Kingsley
To: Kit Ryan [email protected]
Date: September 11
Subject: Why?
Your dad told me you’ve shipped out. You left without saying goodbye. How could you do that?
I don’t know what happened between us. I don’t understand anything that’s happened. I don’t understand why Riley is dead. I don’t understand how one day I can wake up and everything is OK in the world and the next day I wake up and nothing is OK. Nothing will ever be OK again. That’s how it feels. And I don’t know how I’m supposed to get through this without you but you won’t even talk to me. What’s going on?
Please email me back. I love you.
From: Jessa Kingsley
To: Kit Ryan [email protected]
Date: September 13
Subject: Come back to me.
Your dad called me and told me everything. Kit, how could you ever think I’d blame you for what happened? I can’t imagine what you’re going through. I hate it that you couldn’t talk to me. Please talk to me now.
It’s not your fault he died, Kit. It is NOT YOUR FAULT. You have to stop blaming yourself. Riley wouldn’t want you to. I don’t want you to. Please. I need you. I miss you. Please come back to me. I love you.
Jx
From: Jessa Kingsley
To: Kit Ryan [email protected]
Date: September 30
Subject: Stardust
Someone posted this on Instagram and it made me think of you. Of us.
Everyone who terrifies you is sixty-five percent water.
And everyone you love is made of stardust, and I know sometimes
you cannot even breathe deeply, and
the night sky is no home, and
you have cried yourself to sleep enough times
that you are down to your last two percent, but
nothing is infinite,
not even loss.
You are made of the sea and the stars, and one day
you are going to find yourself again.
F. Butler
From: Jessa Kingsley
To: Kit Ryan [email protected]
Date: October 8
Subject: hello?
Are you there?
I miss you.
From: Jessa Kingsley
To: Kit Ryan [email protected]
Date: October 31
Subject: Hi
Why are you doing this?
From: Jessa Kingsley
To: Kit Ryan [email protected]
Date: December 5
Subject: are you there?
I feel like I’m talking into the void. Are you even getting these?
It’s been 100 days since Riley died. People keep telling me that it will get better with time, but I don’t believe it. Did I tell you that Didi keeps sending me care packages and books about coping with grief? I can’t bring myself to read them because reading them would be like accepting he’s gone for good – do you know what I mean?
Every morning I wake up and check my emails and I still keep expecting to see ones from Riley and from you in my inbox. When will I stop hoping? Your dad says he hasn’t heard from you in weeks. Are you OK? Even if you don’t want to email me, please email him. He’s so worried about you. He says they offered you counselling and that they’ve moved you to a desk job. Guam. I couldn’t believe they sent you there until your dad told me you requested it.
I want to speak to you so badly. I miss you, Kit. You remember those trips out to the desert? When you pointed out the North Star to me? I look for it every night. I remember you telling me how the North Star is the star you use to navigate and find your way home. I keep hoping that one day you’ll use it and find your way back, because that’s how it feels – like you’re lost and I’m waiting for you to find your way back. I’ll keep waiting, Kit.
I love you,
Jessa x
From: Jessa Kingsley
To: Kit Ryan [email protected]
Date: January 19
Subject: hey
Dear Kit,
How are you? I’m sorry I haven’t emailed for a while. The holidays were hard. I ended up in hospital for a few days. The doctors said it was depression and gave me a prescription for some meds. I didn’t fill the prescription. I keep thinking of my mom. She walks around like a zombie all the time. She doesn’t eat. She doesn’t talk. I think I’d rather feel everything than be like that. Just, sometimes it gets too much. I guess you know what I mean.
Anyway, I’m better now. I went with Jo to one of her prenatal scans. Kit, she’s having a boy! It was so amazing seeing the little heart beating and seeing him kicking. I’ve attached a picture for you. You might have to blur your eyes a little. That’s the head on the right. He’s sucking his thumb. Jo’s doing OK. She has good days and bad like me. My dad is the biggest surprise. It’s like he’s a totally new person. He’s no longer having any episodes. He even apologized to me for his behaviour – for kicking me out. We go on these walks together most mornings, sort of a ritual now, and I know it’s his way of trying to rebuild bridges with me. I just wish he’d had the chance with Riley.
He’s set up a trust in the baby’s name and arranged for Riley’s pension to go to Jo and the baby – he pulled some strings, so even though they never got married they’re going to treat it as if they were. She gets all health care covered, so I think that’s made everything suddenly much easier.
The other news is I’ve started classes at USD. I enrolled last week. I figured I needed something to focus on and my dad said I couldn’t just stay in bed all day every day. I’m taking Psych 101, English lit and a few other things.
Please write. I love you. I miss you.
Jessa x
From: Kit Ryan
To: Jessa Kingsley [email protected]
Date: January 19
Subject: Re: Hey
Dear Jessa,
I’ve started this letter so many times and I’ve never been able to finish it. So here goes again . . .
I’m sorry. I’m sorry that Riley is dead. I’m sorry for ignoring your emails and for not being there for you. I’m sorry I’ve hurt you. There isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t wish it had been me that died and not Riley. If I could go back in time and change everything I would.
I’m sorry I left without a word. There’s no excuse for my behaviour but please know that it had nothing to do with you. I was a mess. I haven’t been able to talk to anyone for months. And I felt too guilty and didn’t know how to tell you the truth about what happened. I couldn’t bear the thought of you knowing.
I got all your emails but I didn’t read them until last week. I couldn’t face it and I guess that makes me the biggest coward you’ll ever meet. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I never replied. You
needed me and I wasn’t there for you. I don’t even know how to ask your forgiveness because I don’t deserve it. I’m just glad you’re doing better.
I’m better too. I’ve started seeing a therapist – twice a week – you’d like her. She reminds me of Didi.
I never thought I’d be the kind of guy who needed therapy, but they made it a condition of me keeping my job. She’s helped me a lot with getting the panic attacks under control. Working in a room the size of a janitor’s closet helps too – there aren’t too many surprises, only the occasional rogue paperclip. I asked for the posting. I have to thank your dad ironically. The demotion worked out. Kind of funny that I totally get where your father was coming from all those years. Looks like I’ll be spending the remainder of my marine career behind a desk, but I’m OK with that.
I don’t know what else to say, Jessa. My therapist says I should just write down whatever comes into my head.
So here goes. Here’s what’s in my head . . .
I miss you.
I love you. Even though I long ago gave up the right to any sort of claim over you, I can’t stop loving you. I won’t ever stop. You’re in my blood. You’re the only thing that got me through this, Jessa. Because even during the bad times, the worst times, the times I’d wake up in a cold sweat, my heart thumping, the times I’d think the only way out was by killing myself and just having it all go away, I’d think of you and it would pull me back out of whatever dark place I’d fallen into.
You’re my light, Jessa. My north star. You asked me once to come back to you and I told you I always would. I’m working on it. It might take me a little while, and I know I have no right to ask you to wait for me after everything I’ve done, but I’m going to anyway because the truth is I don’t know how to live without you. I’ve tried and I can’t do it.
So please, I’m asking you to wait for me. I’m going to come back to you. I promise. And I’m going to make things right. I’ll do whatever it takes. I’ll never stop trying for the rest of my life to make things right between us.
