On the Way Back

by Fox, Ella

  Everyone in the room let out a collective gasp, but I held up my hand so they’d know I wanted to be the one to answer her. “Nothing you did caused Melody to pass,” I said forcefully. As I spoke, I leaned in close so that we were face to face so that she could see how serious I was. “The doctors have told you that. I’ve told you that. Everyone here has told you that. I understand that not having a black and white reason for her loss stings like a fucking bitch, but that doesn’t make it your fault. Believe me when I tell you that there isn’t one iota of doubt in my mind about it. You didn’t cause this, Shae.”

  Shaelyn’s shoulders shook as she wrapped her arms around me and held on tightly. Her sobs tore me apart, and I felt like a complete piece of shit for being so forceful. At some point, my dad handed us a box of tissues.

  My wife cried for several minutes, and every one of her tears was like a knife to my soul. I’d been wrong to think that getting everyone together would help. It hadn’t. If sitting on the sofa for hours a day made her happy, then I’d shut my goddamn mouth and let it go on until she felt ready for it to stop.

  When she’d calmed down enough for me to feel she could handle it, I stood and went to lift her off the couch. Swatting my hands away, she shook her head. “I’m not going to run. Knowing that everyone is upset…”

  She wiped at her eyes as she looked at the people who loved her most. “I know I need to stop staring at her little memorial, but I can’t imagine putting her urn away. It feels wrong to even say that,” she admitted.

  My dad cleared his throat before speaking. “What we all gathered here to tell you is that we can’t sit by and watch you waste away to nothing. No one is saying you need to move the urn, honey. What we are saying is that staring at it for hours on end every single day isn’t good for you. Melody is always with you in your heart—you don’t need to stare at the urn to mourn her.”

  My wife nodded like she understood, but I could tell she didn’t agree.

  A lot of words were said after that but for all intents and purposes Shaelyn had taken as much as she could, which meant nothing else got through.

  After that night, she tried harder to appear to be more with it. My mom found a solution for the urn situation, and that got Shae out of spending all of her time in the living room. The fucked up thing was that when she stopped giving all of her attention to the shrine on the mantle she turned it inward and that somehow made things worse.

  All the guilt she held inside of her gathered strength beneath the surface, even though she pretended otherwise.

  Chapter Three

  Garrett— January 2001

  For the first time in our relationship work had separated me from my wife. Even though it was only going to be a six-week shoot, I hated it. Having Shaelyn back in Los Angeles while I was in New York was torture. The worry I felt when she was close by had quadrupled once there were three thousand miles between us.

  In a complete departure from our once attached-at-the-hip status, Shaelyn had insisted on staying home. She’d made a case that she needed to take time—alone— to find a way forward. No matter how many ways I’d argued that we needed to do that together, she hadn’t changed her mind.

  She’d broken my heart with her explanation. “I need time alone. No matter how hard you try, you can’t fix me for me. I’m the problem here, Garrett.”

  She denied it whenever I’d brought it up, but the memory of her apologizing to our daughter played on a reel in my mind. Because of that, I knew Shaelyn truly believed that she was responsible for what happened. She needed therapy but refused to go. The more we disagreed about how to go forward, the worse it got. Eventually, I came to the conclusion that everything I’d tried along the way had been wrong.

  I had to accept that Shaelyn needed space, even though it fucking killed me. I consoled myself with the knowledge that it was only temporary. The movie I was shooting was something completely out-of-the-box, so the budget was one and a half million, which was basically the equivalent of a shoestring and a tin can by Hollywood standards. Because of that, the schedule was tight, which worked for me. I’d be home with my wife in six weeks and from there, somehow, we’d get on the same page. I was counting down the seconds until I could be back with my wife.

  I’d only just arrived on set for the day, and I wasn’t in a great frame of mind. I was keyed up and tense, like I was waiting for another shoe to fall. When my cell rang, a chill ran up my spine. I knew something was wrong the moment I saw Shaelyn’s name on the screen of my BlackBerry. Once upon a time, her calls had been a several-times-a-day occurrence—but that wasn’t the case anymore.

  I could trace the change back to the worst day of both of our lives, the one that rocked our world with such force that the reverberations were still being felt. A sense of foreboding came over me as I looked at my phone, a whisper-like warning that something bad was coming.

  As shitty as my sleep pattern had become, Shaelyn’s was worse. She didn’t sleep more than an hour or two at a time, and her eating schedule was fucked, too. The vibrant, beautiful woman I’d married was a shell of her former self. She was too skinny, her clothes hung on her, and the bags under her eyes were big enough to swim in. She was still the most beautiful woman I’d ever laid eyes on, but the stark difference between the way she looked six months ago to the way she looked now was a reminder of how extreme the change was.

  It was two am in Los Angeles—five am in New York, where I was—and she should’ve been asleep. The pessimistic side of my mind whispered that the alone time she’d insisted she needed wasn’t working, but I ignored it. Things would get better. They had to.

  Pressing the key to connect the call, I lifted the phone to my ear. “Hey, baby. You’re up late.”

  “Garrett,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

  Unease skittered up my spine. Please, I prayed silently, no more. I can’t withstand anything else.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked, my voice elevated.

  “I’m… I’m leaving.”

  My mind scrambled to make sense of her words. “Leaving what?”

  She paused before she answered. “You. I’m leaving you.”

  The blood rushed from my head, leaving me dizzy. The walls of my on-set trailer felt like they were closing in on me and I struggled to breathe, much less respond in a coherent way. For one or two seconds, there was nothing but a silence so extreme it was deafening.

  “What?” I asked, once I was able to force something out of my mouth.

  “I can’t do… this…anymore.”

  This? That’s what we’d become? A this? Was there no bottom to the hell we were trapped in?

  “What the fu… what does that even mean?”

  It was the kind of question you ask even though you already know the answer. I’d known something was wrong, had felt it as I packed to leave our home for the length of the shoot. Hell, I’d known for months that things weren’t getting better. It was like an invisible swinging guillotine hung over us like a cloud. Now, it was making contact.

  “I want a divorce,” she whispered.

  Never. Never fucking ever. I loved my wife, and she loved me—even if she couldn’t allow herself to feel all that love at the moment. She was saying she wanted to quit, but I’d find a way to get us back to where we belonged, no matter what. I’d taken those vows with her, and my body, mind, heart, and soul were committed to every one. Quitting wasn’t an option.

  “We’re not getting divorced,” I snapped. “I fucking love you, and I know you feel the same way!”

  “I… I don’t…”

  The way she hesitated hit me like a punch to the face. My heart stopped beating as my breath lodged in my throat like it was being held prisoner. My God, I thought, is she going to try to tell me she doesn’t? Is that where we fucking are now?

  “Of course I love you,” she continued after a pause, her voice brittle. Only when she acknowledged her love was I able to breathe at all. “Sometimes you have to love someone
enough to let go. This is one of those times.”

  “No. That’s my final answer,” I said as forcefully as I could, considering the fact that my voice was shaking. “Absolutely fucking not. Our anniversary was eight fucking days ago, goddammit. I know you remember our vows, baby. In sickness and in health, in joy and in sorrow, in good times and in bad. We’re in the bad, but we can find our way back out of the weeds. Stop trying to quit, Shaelyn. It’s not fair to either of us and it isn’t fair to the memory of our daughter, either. Choose me. Choose us. Choose life. We’re still here, still breathing, and what we have is worth fighting for.”

  I heard the hitch of her breath and knew she was fighting to hold back tears. “I have nothing left to fight with. I’m sorry, I really am, but it’s the truth. This is the only way, Garrett. Deep down, I think you know that.”

  “I definitely fucking don’t know that. Stop this, Shaelyn. Come to New York—”

  “I’m packing today,” she blurted, “and I’ll be out of the house by tomorrow night. My attorney will be filing papers the day after that.”

  My head jerked back like Mike Tyson had dealt me a blow to the face.

  “You went to a fucking lawyer?”

  Her breath caught like my reaction surprised her. “I had to. I knew you wouldn’t do it, no matter how miserable I’m making you,” she answered. “You’re too stubborn by half. Someday, you’ll thank me for taking the initiative.”

  “That’s not even a little bit true,” I choked out, appalled that she’d ever think that, much less say it. “I fucking love you more than life itself. We’re not miserable, Shaelyn— we’re heartbroken, and there’s a huge difference. I know there’s a way through this and nothing you do or say will change my mind. I believe in us. Always. We’re going to work this out, baby. I’ll come home, we’ll go to therapy together and separately—”

  “Just stop,” she cried. “I’m not going to therapy! It won’t work. What do you think they’d say to fix me, Garrett? These things happen? You’ll move on? You can try again? Time heals all wounds? God has a plan? I don’t think you understand that every time someone has said anything like that to me I’ve died a little bit more inside. I can’t face that. I’m broken.”

  My chest ached so badly that I had to close my eyes and will myself not to sob. She feared the word therapy like it was a death sentence and no matter what I said, she wouldn’t agree to it. Her reaction to it was so extreme, it terrified me. It was clearer to me than ever that I was failing us—failing her—but I had no goddamn idea what to do to change it.

  “No therapy then,” I agreed, desperate to get her to calm down. “We’ll talk to each other and work through this ourselves. Whatever it takes, we’ll do it.”

  She let out a tired-sounding sigh. “We can’t work through this,” she said quietly. “I only called to warn you so that you aren’t caught off guard when the papers are filed. I’m sorry, because I know there’s no good time to do this. I tried, Garrett. I really did, but I’ve got nothing left and this is the only way you’ll move on.”

  I opened my mouth to respond, to argue, but she took away my ability to do that when she hung up. I stared at the phone in shock for a few seconds, and then I got my shit together. Lifting the phone, I punched in my assistant’s number and waited impatiently for the call to connect.

  “I’m leaving craft services with your coffee right—”

  “Never mind all that,” I barked. “I need you to have the director and Alan come to my trailer, now. As soon as you’ve got that done, book me a jet back to Los Angeles. I need to get the fuck out of here as soon as humanly possible.”

  After I explained everything to Harry, he got moving. He knew the situation, so he wasn’t about to argue or try to talk me out of doing what I was about to do. He had the director and my Uncle Alan, who was producing the movie with me, in my trailer ten minutes later.

  “I’m sorry for leaving you in the lurch. I’ll personally cover the cost of any delay in production my absence causes so that it doesn’t come out of the budget,” I vowed. “One way or the other I’ll be back next week and if you need me to work twenty-hour days after that, I’ll do it.”

  I prayed my wife would be with me when I returned to the set. The alternative was too depressing to contemplate.

  * * *

  March 2001

  “Legally, there’s nothing left for you to do. Unless Mrs. Riordan decides to withdraw her petition, the divorce will be final sometime in July.”

  I thanked my attorney for his time— time I paid seven hundred dollars an hour for— and ended the call, frustrated as hell. It wasn’t his fault— he hadn’t told me anything I didn’t know, but that didn’t take the sting out of it. I didn’t want a fucking divorce but every roadblock I’d put up to stop it hadn’t been effective. The clock had started the day Shaelyn filed, and nothing I did or said slowed it down.

  First I tried contesting it, but that didn’t work because she didn’t want anything and we had no living children. I’d argued that she needed to go to therapy before I’d sign anything, but her lawyer had fought until that request was dead on the vine. Next, I’d insisted that Shaelyn needed to take a settlement, thinking that might slow things down. Like my other efforts, it failed.

  I refused to give up. Somehow, some way, I would put a fucking stop to the divorce.

  * * *

  July 2001

  I was on my way to drunk, the one-year anniversary of the day when all joy was sucked out of my world more than I could handle sober. My divorce was just a week away from being signed off on by both of us, which was a fucking nightmare. I still hadn’t figured out how to stop it, and I was losing faith that I’d be able to.

  Twisting the lid off a fresh bottle of vodka, I poured a far-too-liberal amount into a high ball glass before I walked to the wall of sliding glass doors that ran the length of the living area and looked out at the courtyard.

  It didn’t feel or look like home, but that was to be expected since it wasn’t. The house I’d loved in the hills sat silent save for the echoes of another life that felt like it had happened an eternity ago. I couldn’t stand to be there without Shaelyn, so I’d had Harry book me into the Chateau Marmont the day after I got back from New York. Although the name recognition of the place gave it a little bit of cred in Hollywood, inside it felt like a relic of a different time. Still, it served its purpose.

  I missed the feeling of being home, but without my wife, the house was just a house. Until she came back, I’d never know the feeling of home again. The issue was that I had to get her to agree to try and so far, I’d failed miserably.

  Turning from the view of the courtyard I went to the couch and sat down. After tossing back a slug of the vodka I’d poured, I picked up the envelope from the table and pulled out the stack of photos.

  My eyes filled with tears as I plucked a photo from the stack and saw Shaelyn holding Melody. One of them would remain beyond my reach until I drew my last breath. The other was my heart, and I’d never give up on her—on us. Quitting wasn’t an option. I would fight for Shaelyn until the stars fell from the sky and my bones turned to dust.

  Chapter Four

  Shaelyn— July 2001

  I don’t know what, exactly, I expected to feel when I arrived at my grandmother’s, but out-of-place definitely wasn’t it. Goldie’s house had been my home longer than any other, but I felt just the same as I had for the last six months while residing in a guesthouse rental. Unsettled, unmoored, and untethered.

  It wasn’t the environment. Nothing about Goldie’s house had changed all that much. The soft suede couches were arranged on a plum-colored Oriental rug that covered most of the cream-colored tile in the living room area. Although the couches were newer, all of the accent pieces in the room were familiar. The comforting scent of the heather and honeysuckle candles Goldie loved lingered softly in the air, but nothing felt like home anymore.

  I loved Goldie’s house, and I hadn’t expected to exper
ience a feeling of being even more unsettled than I already was. I had hoped going back to Vegas would help, but something was missing.

  I pushed away the thought in my head that I’d never feel at home anywhere without Garrett. There was no point in doing a deep dive on that since it wasn’t like I could pretend for even an instant that it wasn’t true. I missed him desperately, but that didn’t mean we belonged together. Garrett deserved a wife who could give him children, and after what happened with Melody, I’d never go through another pregnancy. No matter how ill the idea of him being with someone else, much less having a family with them made me, I had to stay away from him so that he could have that. I saw it as my penance for failing our daughter.

  The darkness of my thoughts left me wrung out. Unable to deal with the physicality of bringing my luggage in, I decided to leave it until later and instead made my way down the hall to my childhood bedroom. Suddenly desperate to shed the soft floral blouse, navy pants and nude flats I’d worn to sign our divorce papers earlier in the day, I tore them off and dropped them onto the floor. I grimaced as I looked down at the pile. Bending down, I grabbed the ensemble in my arms and hurried back up the hall to the kitchen. Stopping in front of the black trashcan I stepped on the pedal to open the lid and then dumped it all inside.

  Throwing away the outfit was a relief, but the weight on my shoulders didn’t ease. Sighing, I went back to my bedroom and shut the door. After closing the curtains, I pulled back the comforter on the bed and climbed in, clad only in my bra and underwear. In the year that had passed since Melody’s death, I’d existed in a state of perpetual exhaustion, but most of the time I’d spent in bed consisted of me rolling back and forth, not sleeping.

  If I’d been more with it I’d have been surprised that my eyes started fluttering shut as I pulled the blanket up over myself and rolled to my side, but I was asleep between one breath and the next.