I wonder about the locks again. Maybe once you get inside the tent, and zip yourself in, there is a little lock like the one you put on your luggage when you travel. I wonder, if there is such a lock, what if they lose the key? How would they get back out of the tent? I wonder if they sleep with their backpacks in the tent, because, if they do, they could eat food from their packs until someone found them. Then I remember Laney telling me they would often be in very isolated stretches of mountains. I remember there is a knife in her backpack. She could cut her way out if they lock the tent and have lost the key. I feel better knowing that. But, then, couldn’t someone cut their way into their tent just as easily? My heart beats rapidly. I dismiss the thought. I think about tent locks again and come to the conclusion they probably don’t exist. I guess that if you are a person who sleeps in the wilderness in a tent, you probably don’t give much thought to locks. I wonder how Laney became such a person.
I push my hair back. Sigh deeply. Try to make my breathing obey. I tug at the tee shirt and pull it from underneath me. I am still upset from the dream. Just a dream, I tell myself. It was just a dream. It is a recurring dream—one I have when I’m overly tired or stressed, which is most of the time now.
I hate the dampness of the sheets. I scoot over to a drier spot. I am reminded of waking from the same dream as a child, my sheets beyond damp and soaked with urine. Crying, scared, humiliated. Mother stumbling from her own sleep into the dark bedroom. The blinding light. Relief. More tears.
“Shhh. You’ll wake your father. Get up. Get into the tub. I’ll change these. Be quiet. Don’t cry.”
And sometimes my father’s voice, a drowsy rumble asking what was wrong.
“Nothing, nothing!” my mother would answer lightly. “Just getting Grace a drink of water.” And then she would whisper to me, “No need to tell Daddy. It will be our secret.”
I could feel her embarrassment, her shame, even more acutely than my own. I embarrassed her. She was ashamed of me. We wouldn’t tell. We hardly told each other. I wouldn’t look at her as she scuttled back and forth, ripping the sheets off the bed and hiding them in the bathroom cupboard until they could be washed when my father left for work the next day. I scrubbed myself and tried to replace the odor of urine with the scent of Zest. I pretended they weren’t my sheets. And with my head bowed, my hair falling forward, I often cried into the tub. Water falling into water. Falling into water.
I sigh again, still shaken from the dream. I flip over. The shower drips in the nearby bathroom. At home, or at least in the house that used to be my home, the water drips in the master tub. I used to listen to it at night. Matt was supposed to fix it. It started dripping after he lost his job. He said he would get around to it, but he never did. Maybe I should have seen that as a sign of things to come. A deterioration of the plumbing; a deterioration of the relationship.
I try to steady my nerves. Taking a deep breath, I push away all these thoughts. Inhale. Exhale. I remind myself that I did not drown as a child. My mother, I am told, for I do not remember, spotted me in the pool a moment later, dove in, and pulled me to safety. She pressed her mouth against mine and, literally, breathed life back into my body.
And now I am safe, I tell myself. Safe.
The water drips.
I push back the covers and get up. I cannot stand this bed for another moment. I walk through the darkened cabin and out onto the porch. A huge white moon is punctured by the black branches of trees overhead. It seems too big, too close to the ground. Light pours down and floods the woods. I am amazed at how far I can see. Everything about the moment seems surreal, detached from any sense of time or place.
I surprise myself by walking down the steps and onto the path that runs through the woods and to the edge of the lake.
It is a warm night. A gentle breeze begins to dry my tee shirt as I walk. The thought occurs to me that no one in the world knows what I am doing right now. There is one other cabin on the island, but I don’t even know if anyone is in it. I know an older couple owns it, but I don’t know how often they are here. I remember Matt telling me that most of the cabins are empty all week, filling up only on the weekends or during summer. I am probably alone. Matt and Laney, both in different states, are probably both asleep—Matt on a cluttered couch in his parents’ old house and Laney in a tent with no locks. I move through the woods, and no one knows. Or cares. I recall lines from “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock,” a T.S. Eliot poem I read in college: I should have been a pair of ragged claws/ Scuttling across the floors of silent seas. That is how I feel, as if no one in the universe cares what I am doing.
I cross my arms as I walk and fight the urge to cry. Pine needles stick to my feet and cushion the path. A large-winged bird flaps from one tree to another and the sound of its wings brush against the night. Maybe an owl. I continue moving. Silent.
I exit the woods and the pine needle path gives way to sand and random patches of unruly grass. Even before I see it, I hear the lake. It splashes against the supports of a pier stretching out into the water. I walk onto the pier and take another deep breath. The moon casts light across the surface of the lake. I see nothing but dark water and a wide strip of shimmering moonlit waves, stretching into the distance. Somewhere nearby, I hear ducks in the water but cannot see them.
I look toward the sky and tears slip from my eyes and slide down my neck. More tears follow and I look away from the sky and down the long wooden pier. One foot moves forward and then another, until I am at the end of the pier and looking down into the water.
It would be so easy. All I would have to do is take one more step. It is a long pier and the water is deep here. One more step and I would never have to draw another worthless breath. Never have to think of ways to fill up my days with meaningless tasks. Never have to ache with loneliness. Never have to deal with the fact that Matt doesn’t want me, Laney doesn’t need me. Never have to deal with my utter uselessness.
I take a half step forward and then another. My toes are over the edge of the pier. I feel gravity pulling me forward, almost inviting me. I wouldn’t even have to step. Just fall forward. And sink.
It suddenly becomes so clear. I am on an island. I cannot swim. I have, literally, surrounded myself with the option of death.
I have come here to kill myself.
The realization jolts me. My legs begin trembling and the trembling snakes its way throughout my body until I am shaking so violently that I may fall in before I have a chance to make the decision.
I step back and remove my toes from the edge. I try to think of a reason not to fall. I think of Laney. I promised to pick her and Allison up in Durango at the end of the summer. No one else knows where we have planned to meet. It could be weeks before anyone even notices I am gone. Maybe longer. And even after they realize, how long will it take for someone to contact Matt? And he still will have no idea of where to pick Laney up. I imagine her walking off the trail, exhausted and wearing her backpack. No one there for her. I take another step away from the edge.
I will have to write a suicide note and tell Matt where to pick her up.
I decide this methodically, calmly, and the detachment of that decision frightens me to the core. Can it be that simple? A single decision. A few last tasks and I’m done? Is that all that is required? Ending my life seems so much simpler than living it. For maybe the first time in my life, I feel in control.
Chapter 2
I wake with a sense of dread. One of those semi-conscious moments between sleep and waking when the brain vacillates between a dreamlike fog and reality. There is something I have to do. Something … unpleasant. What is it? And then I remember: I have to kill myself.
But first I have to write that suicide note.
My brain clears and I begin to think. It’s not really a suicide note, more of a notification and a reminder.
Dear Matt. I’ve killed myself. Don’t forget to pick up Laney at noon in Durango. Maybe you should be there at 11:00 in case t
hey arrive early. I don’t want them waiting alongside the road. And it would be nice if you would take them a couple of Mountain Dews. They will probably be thirsty. And hungry. Be sure to take them to lunch.
Yes, something like that. Short, informative, and to the point.
I push back the blankets, get up, and walk to the bathroom, where I turn on the shower so the water will heat up. I walk to the toilet and pee. As I wipe, the thought hits me—I don’t even need to take a shower. If I am going to kill myself, why bother? If I drown myself in the lake I’m going to get all wet anyway. And it will probably be some time before anyone finds me; by the time they do, I don’t think anyone will notice whether I have showered or not.
I flush and walk to the shower to turn it off. It has already begun to fill with steam and looks inviting. I hesitate before turning the taps off. Immediately, I rethink my decision. Maybe I should take a shower. It will be the last one I will ever take, and I like showers. I might as well enjoy this. I pull the tee shirt from my body, drop it onto the floor instead of the laundry basket, and step into the shower. I use too much shampoo and too much conditioner. I do not shave my legs. I do not get out until I begin to lose hot water.
As I start to get dressed, I realize that this is also a consideration. This is what I will be wearing when I die. And maybe, while I’m at it, I should tell Matt what I want to be buried in. I will have to add that to my suicide note. I look at the tee shirt I’m holding, trying to decide if I want to die in it. It is one of Matt’s old tee shirts, and one of my favorites. It is a faded red and very worn. The front of it reads, “Dead Creek Saloon. Frankenmuth, Michigan.” It doesn’t exactly seem appropriate, although I will admit it is a bit ironic. I put it on, deciding I will change into something else later.
As I finish getting dressed, I think that this should have been planned better. It feels a bit haphazard. Sleeping pills! Why didn’t I think of sleeping pills? That would have been so much neater. No mess. I imagine myself lying across the bed for the last time, maybe in a beautiful dress. My wedding dress! Oh, that would have been perfect! Matt finding me in my wedding dress and weeping over my dead body. But, of course, Matt won’t be the one finding me, and I can’t fit into my wedding dress. But if I had planned this better, I could have dieted and made arrangements for Matt to meet me here. I sigh. This really could have been planned better.
Moments later I am sitting at the kitchen table. It is made of sturdy yellow pine and has a homemade feel to it. The legs are uneven and it wobbles slightly if I put too much weight on it, so I try not to lean. In one hand, I have a pen and in the other I hold Laney’s instructions for picking her up. In Durango, go north on Main Street. Turn left on 25th Street, which eventually turns into Junction Street and then Junction Creek Road. Follow this until the pavement ends (about 3 ½ miles) and it turns into a fire road. Continue climbing the fire road (better bring the SUV) until you see a small parking area at the first major switchback in the road. See you August 20th at noon! Thanks Mom!
Just like the first time I read these instructions, I wonder what a fire road is. And what is a switchback?
Dear Matt, I write at the top of a clean piece of paper.
I look out the window, past the porch, and into the woods. A squirrel is darting about between the bases of several tree trunks. It appears to be gathering something—acorns, I suppose. I think that it should be playing instead. What if it gets killed before winter and never has the chance to eat all of those acorns? Then it’s only time wasted. I wonder what could kill a squirrel on this island. There are no hunters. No humans, only me and maybe the older couple in the other cabin. Maybe an owl? Do owls eat squirrels? I know they eat rabbits, but I’m not sure about squirrels. Squirrels seem pretty feisty. Or is it hawks I’m thinking of? Maybe it’s hawks that eat rabbits. Then, what do owls eat?
A poisonous snake could kill the squirrel. Are there poisonous snakes on this island? The thought of stepping on one sends a chill through me. But, on the other hand, that could be a better option to drowning. I could find a nest of poisonous snakes and irritate one until it bites me. Would I be able to get back to the cabin to lie across the bed? Didn’t Cleopatra die like that? I could apply extra eye makeup and maybe someone would notice the irony. I wonder if it would be painful. The bite couldn’t be too bad, but what about afterwards? Would I writhe in pain as the venom worked its way through my body? And would there be swelling? I imagine my entire body swollen and distorted, looking more like the Pillsbury Doughboy than Cleopatra. Maybe not.
How can I be forty-three and not know what a squirrel’s natural enemies are, what an owl eats, and how Cleopatra died? I wish I had read more books. I realize, suddenly, that I will never read another book. During the next year, and the year after that, and so on, new books will be printed, some of which I probably would have read. Now I won’t. I won’t even know they exist, let alone what their pages contain. Maybe my very favorite book has yet to be written. And I will never read it. I shake the thought. It’s a book. A stupid book. I’m being silly. I’m tired. I need a coffee. I don’t have any. Oh well.
I look back at the page and read Dear Matt. I wonder if I should even write Dear. Maybe I should write My Darling Matt. Maybe that would break his heart. Just like he broke mine.
I still don’t understand it. We were in love, and then he wasn’t. I told my mother that we just, “grew apart,” which wasn’t the truth. At this point in my life, I’m not sure what the truth is, but I know what it isn’t. Maybe we fell apart, but there was no gradual drifting, no gentle separation. One day he was mine, and the next day he was not. Because on the “next day” his mother died. When he lost her, I lost him. We buried her, and although I didn’t know it at the time, we buried my husband, too. But maybe that wasn’t true. Maybe it went all the way back to him losing his job.
Years before, Matt had experienced a period of grief on the death of his father, but it was an emotional blip on the radar screen compared to his mother’s death. When we returned from his mother’s funeral service, he changed into the sweats he had started wearing after losing his job and descended into the basement to flip channels in front of the television. This was the beginning. Or maybe the end. Every night, after dinner, this became his routine. He quit looking for a job. Or maybe he quit before his mother died. Now, I honestly can’t remember. Without me even realizing it, he completely withdrew from me and Laney. In fact, when he was around us, we seemed to get on his nerves. Initially, I sat in the basement with him, watching bits and pieces of various shows and trying to make conversation with him. He answered in dull monotones, and, more often than not, with a single word. I became accustomed to talking to his profile, for he never turned his head in my direction. After a while I gave up on conversation and tried reading beside him while he watched television. Eventually, the channel flipping drove me from the basement altogether, which may have been his intention all along.
I tried to talk to him. Countless times. I was kind and understanding and patient. I reasoned with him, explained, to his profile, that he was depressed, that I was lonely, that maybe he should think about grief counseling.
One night, a couple of months after his mother died, I dug in.
“Would you please look at me?”
He’d just sighed impatiently, rested the remote against his leg and looked at me with an expression I did not recognize. Hostility? Disgust? I’d felt like a fly he could not wait to swat away.
With a deep breath, I began again, intent on reaching him. “We don’t talk anymore. We don’t do anything together. It’s been weeks since we had sex. We can’t go on like this.”
Something in him turned to steel. His face became cold, rigid. “Are you telling me that you want a divorce?” he asked. “Is that what all this is leading to?”
His change in mood made me wary. As I looked into his eyes, I wondered who this man was. Cautiously, I’d opened my mouth to respond. “No, I…”
He had jumped to his feet
, stood over me. Leaning over me, he’d yelled, “What am I doing wrong? Tell me! Tell me!” With every word, his voice escalated until he was screaming. Although he never had, I suddenly grew afraid he was going to hit me. I pulled back against the couch. “I’m not out running around with other women! I’m not drinking! I’m here! I watch TV! What’s wrong with that? What’s wrong with that? I watch TV!” He had turned, slammed the remote against the wall, and stomped up the stairs.
The cover had popped off the remote and one of the batteries lay on the floor. I had sat there for several minutes staring at it.
I remember feeling exhausted. I had wanted to get up, but was not sure my legs would function. Matt had never yelled at me before. Ever. Not in twenty-two years of marriage. Not even when I was yelling at him. Up until that moment, I’d never realized it. Never. Not once. Never realized the kindness, the inner strength of the man I married. Not until that moment, when it no longer existed.
The next morning he had been calm. After his morning shower, he told me he thought he should go and clean out his parents’ house, a little over four hours away, so that it could be sold. He told me he would just stay there until he wrapped things up.
“Shouldn’t take more than a couple of weeks,” he’d added. I encouraged him. I told him I thought it was a good idea. I actually felt optimistic. This had seemed like a good sign. He had been putting off sorting through the house and I thought it was great he was finally taking the initiative. I could not have been further from the truth.
A week later, the appraiser had shown up. Apparently, Matt had quit paying our house payments some time earlier. Apparently, we were broke. I later found out he had gotten a P.O. Box and had all of our bills forwarded there. He had told me he was paying the bills online. But he had also told me he was receiving unemployment. He had never even filed for unemployment. I also later found out he paid for his mother’s funeral with a bad check. All of our bills had been piling up in a P.O. Box he never checked. We were sinking deeper and deeper in debt while I was watering petunias on the porch and planning Laney’s graduation party. I had known Matt was going through a tough time emotionally, but I never saw the depth of that pain. I never knew that I was part of it—not until it was too late.
Indie Chicks: 25 Women 25 Personal Stories Page 24
