My blood runs cold. “I don’t understand what you mean. He’s gone?”
“He fell asleep at the wheel and crashed. He was drinking. No one else was hurt.” He clears his throat again. “He’s gone, Eve.” His low, smooth voice crumbles into a sob.
My throat is tight, and I fight for air. The sound of him breaking down makes me cry. The sound of his grief is my undoing. Tears flow, and I feel choked.
“I’m so sorry,” I say through my tears.
“Me too, Eve. I’m sorry for everything.” He sobs once, but it sounds as though he’s trying to control himself. “I’ll let you know about the funeral if you’re interested.”
“Yes, let me know, please.”
We say our goodbyes, and I pull the phone away from my ear and press the red button to end the call. When I turn toward the bedroom doorway, Sam is there with his hands resting on either side of the door frame. His face is laced with concern, eyebrows down and eyes glistening with worry.
Words don’t come to me when I look into his eyes. I have no words. There are no words for this.
The steps it takes to meet Sam in the doorway are like a meditation. Quiet and slow and concise, as if I’m walking in a prayer labyrinth. My hands at my sides, still clutching my phone, I lay my head on his chest and fold into him as he wraps his arms around me.
His body surrounds mine naturally, and we gently sway. The slight movement is soothing to my broken soul. Raw emotion and grief threaten to spill once again, but they don’t. Sam sways with more intention and presses his palms to my back with increasing pressure. With each stroke on my back and every whisper in my ear, he makes the pain dissipate before it has a chance to flow and cause more damage to my weary heart.
“He’s dead. Matthew’s dead.”
Sam’s body stops moving. Then he squeezes me again. Harder. “I’m here.”
His soft voice and smooth movements calm me like a lullaby.
He whispers, “I’m so sorry. It’s okay, baby.”
He holds my head to his chest. The weight of his hands on me sends a surge of healing energy to my soul. I breathe in, expecting another sob to burst forth from my chest swelling with pain and sadness and regret and anger, but instead it turns into a deep, shaky, cleansing sigh that ends with a feeling of relief.
I feel another set of arms come around from behind me. Mia and Sam wrap their arms around all three of us for a group hug.
“I’ve got you,” Sam says against my forehead.
“Me too.” Mia’s voice is soft behind me.
“I know.” I finally find the strength to wrap my arms around them both and squeeze. “What would I do without you guys? Thank you.”
Chapter 22
Eve
Aaron is with Lupita downstairs. They’re so happy together since she’s sort of become his nanny. Sam is at work. I’m sitting in Sam’s office, staring at this duffle. The key to the tiny padlock is in position to unlock it. I’ve kept it safe in the jewelry box I bought from Goodwill just to house this very important key, knowing this day would come.
I’m nervous. And a little sweaty. I don’t think anyone else would understand if I tried to explain the weight of what I’m about to do. Unpacking the duffle… it represents the power I have within me. The power and strength and courage to take my life into my own hands and leave a dangerous and hopeless situation. It has my feelings and worries and pleas for the future written in the journal inside. It has the music that fueled my intentions for a better life. It has the clothes that comforted me and kept me warm when I was unsure.
I turn the key, expecting a big dramatic emotional response, but instead I’m quietly happy to see these things. My soft, old college sweatshirt. My journal with positive messages to myself. A now-scratched Sarah McLachlan CD. Two pictures of my family. My favorite black ballet flats with soft, thinning leather.
I hold it all in a bundle close to my chest and breathe in the smells of my past, feeling the energy they emit. It only takes a few minutes to process my thoughts and feelings about this stack of things. I’ve come so far that this unpacking isn’t as big of a deal as I had anticipated.
I break the CD in two and toss it in the trash.
I run my fingertips along the photos’ curled edges. One shows my brother and me when we were young, before schizophrenia took his mind, and the other is of all four of us. Mom and Dad look stoic and poised, but my brother and I are stuck in awkward positions, most likely unable to sit still during Mom’s fiftieth attempt to get the perfect picture.
I rip the pages out of the journal and push them through the shredder under Sam’s desk. I watch the pages tear apart, and it guts me a little to watch them be destroyed. Journaling only works for me when I write positive messages to myself, or grateful passages. That’s what got me through such a dark time. The more grateful I am, the stronger I come through any struggle. It’s true that you can overcome any obstacle with a positive mind. I guess it’s mind over matter.
I replace the sweatshirt and shoes in the bag, zip it up, and place it near the back door of the house, where I’ll remember to take it in for donation.
I’m done. That’s it. My past is now in the past, and I plan to leave it there.
I’m comfortable in Sam’s office for some reason. I curl up in his office chair. It’s getting dark now, so the backlight of my phone is the brightest thing in the room. A text notification rolls across the screen with RENEE in bold type. I open the text.
—The funeral is next Thursday. Here’s the link.—
The link comes in a different text bubble. I’m sure they want me to go to the funeral, and I’ll think about it. No matter the horrible things he has done, I used to love him. I still love the old Matthew from before all the drinking. He deserved health and happiness like the rest of us, but he never found it.
I lean my head back on the tall-backed, leather arm chair at Sam’s desk and see for the first time a picture of Sam and his siblings in the sun in their vineyard, surrounded by yellow flowers. His sister Stacey, who passed away, is tucked under his arm, and it appears they’re all laughing. Looks like a great memory.
What power memories can hold. I wish I could forget what Matthew did, but I can’t. I can forgive him though. God rest his soul.
The next thing I feel is Sam wiggling his arm beneath my body to lift me out of the chair. My body curls into his as he walks slowly, his hard muscles handling my weight with ease.
He carefully strips us both in quiet, fluid motions, then he lays me down on the bed and tugs at the bedding to cover us. The crisp sheets chill my skin momentarily, until Sam’s body covers mine. His hands leave a trail of heat wherever he touches. Every day, his promises leave a burning desire on my insides, and I’m always alight with a fiery appetite for him too.
It takes all night, but he makes good on his promises. He takes all of me. Slowly and gently at times. Rough and dirty too. Anywhere he can fuck me, he does. My mouth, my cunt (yeah, I can say that now without cringing), between my breasts, and finally my ass. He marks me from head to toe and makes me wholly his.
In the midst of our post-coital bliss, we get the munchies, so we bring a full spread of snacks onto the bed and turn on Netflix. Tangled in the sheets, feeding each other crackers and cheese, grapes and orange soda, Sam kisses a speck of cheese off my nose. With a swell of adoration, I grab his face and kiss him.
“What was that for?” he asks.
“Because I love you.” I kiss him again.
“I should suck cheese off you more often.”
“No, that’s not why, silly.”
“Why then?”
I kiss him again and hold my hand to his cheek. “You are a king, and I am yours.”
The End.
Acknowledgments
Thank you, Dave. If you ever read this, thank you for believing in me.
Drazen World Authors, thank you for being such a supportive place. Jean, you’re the best!
Dana, thank you for your time, h
onesty, friendship and dedication. I’m gonna make you tacos some day.
Readers, thank you for reading! I love doing this and I appreciate your time.
Please keep in touch. I would love to hear from you!
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