by HJ Bellus
“I’m so sorry, Marlee. The anesthesiologist will be here any minute.”
“Leave her.” I squeeze my eyes shut.
“Honey, we can’t.” I feel her hand grab mine and pull it away.
“Leave her!” I scream.
“We can’t. It will kill you.”
“Good. I’m dead already.”
I feel hands on the side of my neck then a quick prick of a needle. I whirl my head around to see what in the hell. Another doctor with his hands gloved sets down a syringe and then studies a suture kit in front of him. I bring my hand to the side of my neck, feeling an IV rip and pull at the flesh on the top of my hand. My fingertips dip into raw flesh and blood. I fidget in my skin and begin digging at it.
“Marlee.” Voices bounce off every surface.
My arms are pressed against a scratchy sheet. More faces come into view, causing me to scream louder and thrash more. My body gives out in a matter of seconds. Everything goes dark once again.
19
“You’ll forever be my always.” -Unknown
It’s a vicious cycle doing nothing to heal me. A few swallows of vodka will take away my pounding head, violent, upset stomach, and dry mouth. It’s how I wake up every morning and also how I curb the horrible feeling. I take more than a few shots this morning. Last night, God tortured me, forcing me to relive that night in two sets of nightmares.
The nightmares are relentless; so vivid and real. It’s my torture. I put down the fifth of vodka that’s now almost drained dry. I avoid the topic of having to pedal into town later for the first time. Avoiding is my game, and I rein it. I walk outside to the crisp mountain air, stretching my hands over my head. The red-checkered flannel shirt rises, allowing the chill in the air to tickle my skin.
I never wear Bentley’s Army shirt outside the trailer. I keep it cherished and protected, the same with Hope’s blanket. It was the first thing I bought when I knew I was pregnant, carrying my baby well into the four-month mark. I purchased a pink and blue one.
I shake the transcending thoughts clear from my head and walk down to the creek with my coffee mug clutched in my palms, keeping the warm heat in. Guy is on my heels. He never leaves my side, still my protector and best friend. We get through each day heartbroken and shattered. vodka swirls around with the black coffee. My creamer of choice. I sit in the camp chair near the river’s edge, watching the water ebb and flow over the solid base of smooth river rocks.
A fishing pole lies on the ground next to me. It was part of the supplies the salesman had bought for the camper a little over six months ago. This is as far as it’s made it to fishing. I thought I could fish and that it would be therapeutic in a way. I don’t have the courage or desire to touch it.
The vodka warms my insides, and the river clears my head. I love the mountains. I’m nestled between two small resort type towns. A handful of locals live here year around where the rest enjoy certain seasons. I peered out the window as the salesman drove me up here and gave me a quick tour. All sorts of varying sizes and styles of cabins are nestled in every crook and cranny.
He also helped me find a spot to park my trailer year around for five hundred dollars. The old woman who owns the place used to have a hopping RV park, small convenient store, bar, and restaurant. Now it’s a ghost town. The old run-down buildings and faded Pepsi signs hold so many stories of what once had been.
Lydia, the old woman, put me in the back corner where I wouldn’t have to interact with a soul, yet remain near the river with an amazing view and be able to hook up my trailer to electricity, water, and sewage. It’s the perfect setup for me and a beautiful place to disappear away in the winds of life. I’ve never seen her. The salesman dealt with her, but she delivers canned foods and other items once a week. Never knocking or introducing herself. She leaves a bag on the steps. It’s the main reason I haven’t been forced to go to town so far.
I kick off my foam, cheap flip-flops and dip my toes in the ice-cold river. I don’t shiver or shudder. It numbs me. Some days I go waist deep until I can’t feel my skin taunting me. It’s a short-term release. My skin always prickles back to life once in the mountain air.
I’m located smack dab between the unique mountain towns of Moore and Big Piney. They’re exactly ten miles apart, or that’s what the salesman rattled on about. I remember him pointing out the grocery, hardware, gas station, liquor store combo in Moore. It’s the first town you passed after climbing up then going down the range of mountains. Guess that’s where I’ll be heading to get more vodka and a few groceries later today after this buzz wears off.
My thoughts morph into morbid ones. The type where blood, guts, and a beating heart pumps for the last time on the winding paved roads of the small mountain towns. I yearn for that feeling. I crave the feeling where my heart beats for one final time. I bring my mug to my lips and swallow down the remaining liquid. With both feet in the mind-numbing water, I let my exhausted eyelids flutter shut, knowing that I’ve lost everything and have nothing to live for. Yet, I’m the rat in the gutters not brave enough to take my own life.
My eyes open and then flutter shut. I repeat the process over and over until my pupils adjust to the bright, stale lighting of the hospital room. Mom’s face appears in my vision followed by Dad’s. No nurses or doctors bringing me right back to the previous events.
My hands fly to my stomach. It’s deflated. The sharp needle in the top of my hand tugs and tears at my skin. I press harder on my stomach, searching for Hope. My body is numb, but the pain is blinding.
“Birdie, careful.” Mom’s soothing voice drifts in.
I press harder, growing more confused and panicked. My palms slam down on my abdomen. Strong, steady hands catch them. The feel and fingerprints of them familiar. My dad. I turn to him. Tears glaze his loving eyes, and he shakes his head. I know what’s happened, yet refuse to believe it until it’s spoken. I stare him straight on, taunting him to say the words that will end my life.
“She’s gone. The baby didn’t make it. Bentley passed on impact, Marlee. They are gone.” He delivers the news in the black and white fashion I crave. No bullshitting or promising everything will be okay.
A force takes over my body. I break free from his grip and repeatedly beat on my stomach. One punch, no pain. Two punches, nothing. Three, four, five, six, and nothing. Chaos ensues around me as Mom calls for a nurse, but I don’t stop. I’m determined to beat my own life out of the shell of my body. More bodies join my side.
Dad and a few other people fight to hold my arms down long enough until a long, shiny needle meets the plastic part of my IV. It only takes seconds before my world once again goes black.
I startle awake as soon as the same empty pit of blackness takes over. My favorite coffee mug tumbles to the sandy shore in slow motion. I grab for it, but the vodka effects don’t allow me to catch it. It bounces off the hard sandy beach and rolls to a stop on the river’s edge. One rush of the current and water grabs it, tugging it into the river. It’s all in slow motion playing out before me.
Bentley’s face printed on the mug beams back at me. The words written above all become a blur as I leap from the chair and stumble down into the hard sand. My knees slap into the fresh water straight from the snow runoff. It pierces my skin. I ignore it. My hands flail for the mug. Bentley.
They sink into the freezing temperatures of the flowing river, dragging me down in the current of that night when I touched his skin, when his heart beat no longer. My trembling finger wraps around the mug, pulling it from the river. Droplets of water run down his face. There’s no comfort coming from him or even joyous humming. I clutch the mug to my chest cherishing it. Emotions take over. They’re so strong they have the force to pull me under.
Something comes over me. It’s a yelling, tugging, dominant force urging me to kick off the sleek, polished rocks, and wither away, floating to my destiny. I do just that. Guy whimpers as I go into the water. The water pierces my back with its sharp needles of fr
eezing. I keep Bentley gripped in my hand. A searing pain from the back of my skull shoots down to my toes, electrifying my entire body. Soon I’m laid out in the water, floating down the river.
The bed of rocks knocks along my spine as the water takes me away. I have no idea how long I float until I come to a deep pool of water where the current doesn’t have the power to sweep me away.
I’m close to the main road. The sound of cars whizzing join the sounds of nature. A gentle, brutal reminder of how my life was taken away. With each passing sound, I grow more and more determined to sink under the water and never come up.
I tense, every muscle in my body shooting out of my relaxed state. My legs dip low in the water, followed by my torso then my face. I keep my eyes closed, waiting for the oxygen in my lungs to disappear.
I take myself to a place where Bentley’s hands are on me, his arms holding me, and his lips brushing the shell of my ear, telling me everything is going to be okay. He’s there by my side coaching and urging me to fight for life. I grow irritated. More and more enraged. He wants me to live. How can he expect that?
I sink further down, feeling the pressure on my chest. Panic sets in. I open my mouth to let the water seep in and fill my lungs. My toe touches the sandy bottom of the river, and I don’t kick up. I bring my hands around the front of my knees, pulling them to my chest, keeping the coffee mug safe in my hand.
I hear Bentley’s voice whispering into my ear, “Fight for your life. Live, Birdie.”
When my butt hits the sandy bottom, I gulp in a large amount of water then my body is jolted forward. It’s as if someone’s hands are on me, pulling me up. I battle against the force, kicking away from it. But it’s too powerful. My body is sucked back into the current of the river until I’m surfacing, sputtering and gulping for air. I glance down at the mug once the coughing fit is over. His face shines back at me.
I trudge to the shore with the overwhelming urge to slam the coffee mug into the bank of rocks. I can’t. Instead, I crumble to the ground in a worthless heap. The rocks form a bed of heat from the sun and I close my eyes. This time, no nightmares come as I sober back into reality.
20
“Money can buy you a fine dog, but only love can make him wag his tail.” -Kinky Friedman
My legs haven’t burned like that in years. A mountain bike or a bike with gears would've been a better choice than my flat land cruiser. From my campsite to Moore, there’s a steady incline. No crazy mountain passes like when driving in here with the salesman.
But my thighs felt every single rotation of the pedal. I had to stop three times on the five-mile ride to catch my breath and ground myself. Now sitting in the town I’m more confused than ever before. My body is exhausted and my mind numb from this morning.
I was ready to do it. I was going to join my family. I had the courage built up, and my body was numb. I wasn’t worried about Mom or Dad at that moment. I wanted everything to stop hurting so damn bad. I was ready to go. I heard his voice, felt his hands on me nudging me into the current of the water. His face and encouraging words always pulling me out of the darkness, but for what?
I know it was Bentley. It was a sign from him telling me to move on and live. The thought makes me insanely pissed off. How could he? He knows there’s no way I can do this.
My fingers run over the webbing of the rusted metal bench I’m sitting on. The locals go about their daily business. The majority of people around here don’t drive cars. There are droves of razors, four wheelers, or motorbikes traveling up and down the road. The mountain air breezes through their hair, highlighting their light spirits and glowing happiness. It makes me sick.
As they go about their business, not one of them notices me. They leave me alone. I watch as they wave to other people and share smiles. Maybe I can do this. I want to be left alone. I have the beauty of the mountains and the solitude they promise. It’s a glimpse of hope for the rest of my life.
I make sure my bike is leaning against the bench and walk across the road to the main store. It pretty much has everything anyone would need and the only store in this area. It’s connected to a bar, and the bar is attached to a restaurant resembling a mini strip mall. Big Piney, ten up the road, only has a bar, a small hotel, and a bunch of cabins from what I recall.
I take a deep breath and reach out, my shaky hands pushing the door open. An old style bell rings out loud and clear, alerting the owners to a new customer. Several heads whip around, making me feel uncomfortable in my skin. I duck my head and dart for the first aisle I spot. Once in the safety of its confines, I smooth out my flannel button up shirt and try again to control my breathing. This is stupid. Seriously ridiculous.
I’m going to have to get over this fear of being around people if I plan to stay here the rest of my life. This would be the place I would shop. I look up to the products in front of me and realize I’m standing in front of the feminine products.
I look at the price of one box of tampons and do a double take. Ten dollars for a pack of 12 tampons. Are they made of gold?
“Holy shit,” I mumble to myself.
I guess this one store for all these people has the monopoly on prices. I grab a box, knowing that I have some back at the trailer, but eventually they will run out. And I’m not about to pioneer woman it. It takes a handful of minutes until I’m able to find my footing. I mentally run through the list of stuff I need to get. Vodka is of course at the top of the list.
I go for a shopping cart that’s seen better days. Hell, it’s so old Mom probably pushed this one around when she was a kid. I spot the vodka and other hard alcohol behind the counter. I’ll be getting a few bottles before I go. I have a feeling I’m going to need one tonight to soothe my nerves.
I’ve been living on processed food that keeps well in the freezer or in a can and is easy to cook in the microwave. I individually bagged and froze fresh meat, which has been long gone. The sight of the produce aisle is heaven. It’s not the prettiest or ripest fruit and veggies I’ve ever seen. It’s the fact that I haven’t had any fresh fruits or vegetables for months now that makes my mouth water.
My fingers run over the tomatoes, onions, celery, cucumbers, bananas, apples, and strawberries, picking out the ripest of them. A rare smile graces my lips at the small baby steps I’m attempting.
All the prying eyes and curious patrons turned their attention to me when I walked in, but now they’ve all left me alone. It’s not like back home where everyone was in your business or knew I was the daughter of Sergeant Jones or who my mom was. There’d be seas of pity gazes and worthless conversations about how sorry they were.
It’s nothing like that. Nobody in this town knows me or about me. They have no idea I’m a girl who lost her husband and baby in a tragic car wreck. It seems they couldn’t care less and that fact is empowering. I float through the next few aisles, grabbing random items and even throw in some junk food.
I’m stopped in the coffee aisle, making sure to buy enough Keurig cups, when somebody taps me on the shoulder. I turn to see a man about my age with olive skin and messy jet-black hair. His gorgeous brown eyes shimmering like a dark Espresso are familiar. I’m forced to blink a few times before my common sense kicks in. It’s not Bentley, but Jesus, it’s so eerily similar and creepy.
“Ma’am, got these in the other day. Kind of handy little buggers if you like to use the Keurig.”
It’s impossible to miss the country twang in his voice. Even though he’s as big as a shit brick house with broad shoulders, he’s not threatening at all. I stare at him confused, trying to take him all in. His red t-shirt looks as if it’s about to burst from his torso.
He throws his arms up in the air. “Sorry, I’m not a lurker or anything. I’m Caleb Bryant, the owner of the store.”
I nod, digesting the information.
“You’re new in town, right?” He extends his hand out to me. “Renting a space from the crotchety, old bitty Lydia.”
I nod again. So my pr
esence in the small mountain town hasn’t gone unnoticed.
“Don’t judge the rest of us from what you know of her. Old age hasn’t done anything to brighten her social skills. The rumor is she has major daddy issues.”
This makes me choke on nothing, but air. I slap my chest, trying to calm down to be able to talk and nod my head. Hell, he’s going to think I’m a mute here before long.
I clear my throat one more time for good measure. “I…uh. I haven’t ever met her. The salesman set everything up for me.”
“Typical.” He shrugs. “Her bark is worse than her bite. She looks like she eats small animals and children for breakfast, but she ain’t half bad. Stays to herself.”
I remain frozen, unable to string together a simple sentence. This Caleb character has no idea I’m the future Lydia of the mountains who will secretly deliver small bags of groceries to loners.
“Anyway.” He plucks a package from the display. “All you have to do is buy some coffee grounds and pack it in this container. That way you don’t have to keep buying the one use individual ones.”
“Okay,” I stutter out the simple word.
“Let me know if you need anything else.” He turns to walk away. “Like I said, I’m Caleb. I didn’t catch your name.”
He plants his hands on his hips, waiting for my answer with a broad smile on his face.
“Marlee.” I don’t recognize my voice. I haven't heard my name spoken in forever. It feels weird and forced.
“Nice to meet you, Marlee.”
And he’s off as fast as he appeared. I reach for the contraption he was talking about and read the back. Ingenious idea and with the prices of this store, I will save a shit ton of money in the long run. I throw it in the cart and make my way to the front. There’s a short line. I study their selection of whiskey and vodkas while waiting in line, deciding a little Bailey’s will go perfect with my coffee in the morning.
