What in the world …
Then it hits me.
I know exactly what this is.
With shaking hands, I tear open the foil and tip the bag upside down, its contents vomiting onto my legs.
One jumpsuit.
One stuffed toy.
One pair of booties.
I don’t know that I can go on anymore.
I cry because I can, for the mean man that Evan is, for his wife and kid who likely don’t know that he’s a cheater. For Kate, who is still in her self-imposed missing Lachlan exile, hiding in her house.
But most of all, most of all I cry for the little human. My small person.
And then the dam runs dry.
And that’s worse than the tears. Because now I have no physical show of how devastated I am.
Dear Small Human,
It hurts, and it doesn’t stop. I’ve failed you. I killed you.
How could I hurt the only good thing I have? I wanted to be your everything, and instead, I deserted you. I should have looked. I should have freaking done MORE!
I pause in my writing and hurl the notepad across the room.
Everything hurts.
And it just won’t stop.
January 29
Me: I know you probably don’t want to hear from me. I’ve left it so long, and I have a reason, but you deserve better than an excuse.
I screwed up.
I’m sorry.
I want to make this work.
I realise that all this time, you were right. I wasn’t giving us a chance. I wasn’t chasing this, because I guess somewhere, deep down, I didn’t think we would work. It wasn’t that I didn’t trust you, or was ashamed of you; never that. I just didn’t think I was good enough. Not for you. Not when you’re so smart, and talented, and you have groupies, for crying out loud, and I have no career and a baby.
Had a baby.
Had.
I came to see you, that day. The day you left, I was on my way, but something happened.
I got hit by a car.
I lost the baby.
I broke.
I want to try, Michael. And this isn’t just because I feel like I don’t have anything left, and you’re the last option.
It’s because to me, you are everything. You’re the first and only option. The only one I ever had, and the only one I know I’ll ever want.
And I hope that’s enough.
I hit send and stare at my ceiling. I’ve been doing that a lot this week; with two fractured ribs and a swollen ankle, there’s not a heap else I can do.
The doctors say I’m lucky. I’m lucky I didn’t do any more serious damage, lucky I didn’t get hurt more seriously.
They forget about the scar inside me from losing the baby. The one I’m not sure I’ll ever recover from, the one that stings like a knife—that stops me from sleeping. Sleep, that elusive beast, lurks behind the door, in corners, lulling me into a sense of belief that she’ll take me, but she never does. Or, if she manages to grasp hold of me, pull me under, it’s a brief, teasing embrace that ends with me waking in a cold sweat, flashes of forgotten dreams slipping from my mind. Flashes of the past. Flashes of what the future could have been, if I hadn’t screwed it up.
When it’s two a.m. and no one else is awake, and it’s just me, and my hurt, and the night—the deep, dark, desolate night—it’s lonely.
So freaking lonely.
So lonely that when my door creaks open, I shoot upright in my bed and gasp, part from shock, part from the pain caused from the sudden movement and subsequent breath intake against my stupid fractured ribs.
“What the hell?” I screech. My heart is pounding, and I can feel my pulse shooting at my wrist. I shove the stuffed rabbit I’ve been clutching under my pillow.
“Stace, shut up, it’s just me.”
I blink at the inky-black figure shadowed in my already black doorway. “Shae?”
She creaks the door closed behind her and comes to sit on my bed. I inch backwards, leaning against the headboard. “If you’ve come to kill me, I should warn you that even though my ribs are broken, my lungs are still well in order, and I swear to God, I will scream like a banshee on heat.”
“You are such a freaking drama queen.” Shae sighs, but there’s a smile in her voice. I feel her slide over the top of my feet and rest against the wall to my left, her legs left lying casually over the top of mine.
“So … couldn’t sleep?” I ask, after what feels like an hour’s worth of silence. Well, okay, a minute. But it’s midnight; shit feels long.
“Nope.” More silence.
“Shae, I’m sorry about … Evan.” I say the name, but even speaking the words makes me feel like my tongue has swollen. I think I preferred it when he was just some faceless guy who’d had sex with me. “It’s not like it’s any consolation, but I was really, really drunk. I … I didn’t remember it when it first happened, and now? I kind of have flashes, but that’s it.”
Lips, rough against mine. A subtle push to his chest. Sucking on my neck.
Pain.
Crickets screech outside my window, the soundtrack to summer by the lake. Our breathing is the underscore, quiet and steady, backing it up.
“I …” Shae shifts her weight, and I feel it on my ankles. “I don’t think you’re a dumb slut.”
The way she says it, so resigned, as if it almost hurts, makes me laugh. Laughing makes my ribs stab against my lungs, though, so it ends up more of a choke. “Gee, thanks.”
“You know what I mean.” I can practically hear the movement of her rolling her eyes. “I mean … I said some pretty stupid things the other day.”
“Don’t worry about it.” I did some pretty stupid things. “I slept with your boss.”
“My married boss.”
“Your married boss,” I correct myself. “And … I’m sorry.”
“Stace—”
“Seriously, I’m sorry. I was out of control! And I know I’ve made some stupid choices, and screwed up a whole heap of things, but I didn’t mean it. And I’m going to try to make things right.” I choke down the sob in my throat, and again, my ribs burn. I wince, leaning forward, which only makes the pain more intense. Seriously, what doesn’t hurt a fractured rib?
“Do you remember when you were fourteen? I was eighteen, and I brought Danny home after school that time,” Shae asks.
I nod, even though she probably can’t see me. “Yeah. Mum and Dad were working late, and we drank some of their vodka, then filled the bottle up with water.”
“Yes.” Shae’s voice is firm, solid. “I took him home, hoping that we would … you know … that we’d …”
“Have sex?” I supply.
“Yes,” she says quickly. “But the second he saw you, the second you walked into the kitchen, no matter what I said or how suggestively I said it, he wanted to stay there and hang out with you.”
“But I was fourteen.” I grimace.
“Exactly.” Shae sighs. “Imagine how it feels when the guy who is supposed to be in love with you chooses to hang out with your blonde little sister over having sex for the first time.”
I swallow. It’s a bitter pill to take.
“And that wasn’t the first time a guy had chosen you over me. Hey, even when it came to Mum and Dad, you were allowed to do everything I wasn’t. Everything,” Shae says. “You could stay at friend’s houses when you were fourteen. I had to wait have a guy sleepover till I was eighteen. You went on your first date, solo, at fifteen.”
She doesn’t fill in the blanks. We all remember Shae’s first date at sixteen. The one Dad insisted upon chaperoning.
“The point is, you’ve always been the pretty, fun, blonde one who gets everything just handed to her on a platter—and I’ve had to work, Stace. I’ve had to work.” Shae slams her fist down on the bed, and I feel it vibrate. “And so I guess maybe, I’ve been a little jealous. Maybe I’ve been meaner than I needed to.”
The crickets continue their
overture. My brain starts to work like a rat on a wheel. She doesn’t think I—I tried to hurt myself on purpose, does she? “I didn’t jump in front of the car, Shae. I didn’t see it coming.”
“Oh! I mean, I didn’t necessarily think you tried to kill yourself.” Shae’s answer comes all too quickly. “I just mean—I don’t think you’re a dumb slut, okay? And while I think you would have been a great mum—seriously”—She pauses, and her hand grazes over my knee—“I think you’ll be great at whatever you want to be.”
She … doesn’t hate me? Her words are full of heart. There’s no venom behind them.
Just Shae.
Just my sister.
It’s been so many years since she’s spoken to me like that, that my heart breaks. Tears well in my eyes, and for the zillionth time in the last ten weeks, I start to cry. “The ba”—Rib stab—“bies go—o—one,” I sob, each syllable punctuated further by a jut of pain. “So why—am—I—still—so—hormonal?” I gasp each word, doubling over in pain again.
Shae laughs, and shuffles up the bed so she’s sitting beside me. She carefully places her arm around my shoulders, pulling me close so that my head rests against her neck.
“I love you,” she whispers, and kisses the top of my head.
Slowly, my eyes start to drop, the lids getting heavier and heavier, until I can feel sleep pulling at me, trying to drag me under.
“Stacey?”
I fight back to the surface. “Mmm?”
“Just don’t do it with my boss again, okay?”
I whack my hand out and hit her in the ribs.
I’m smiling.
And I know she’s smiling too.
She gets up and leaves my room. I check my phone for the time, noting the lack of messages, and I throw it back on my bedside table. I take a little baby-sized jumpsuit out from under my pillow, along with its rabbit friend.
I sleep.
Half an hour later, I jerk awake. My hair is plastered to my face, my breathing short, sharp gasps.
I take more pain medication. I feel slightly better knowing that there’s hope for Shae and me, but it’s not enough to heal this hole in my heart, this scar that runs deep through my body. Will anything ever be enough?
I swallow the medicine down and it’s a bitter pill to take, but it’s the only way I can find true relief. It’s all I have.
January 30
A LONG twenty-two days after the accident, I go back to work. My ribs are still a little sensitive, but they’ve got nothing on my soul. The painkillers are good. They make me feel numb. Numb works.
I don’t know why I decided to come here. After all, I don’t need the money now. I don’t have to save for a crib, or a three-wheeled pram.
I don’t have anything at all.
“Stacey!” Candy rushes out from behind her white fortress and embraces me, wrapping her arms around my body.
“Ow.” I suck in a breath.
“Sorry, darling,” she says, shaking her head. She steps back, her hands still on my shoulders, looking me up and down. “Are you okay?”
Her blue eyes blink. I had already told her and Mischa what had happened to me—well, the CliffsNotes version, anyway. The car accident. The fact that I’d lost my … my small human. It seems such a trivial way to describe what happened, but I couldn’t bring myself to talk to them about it all. Not when just saying the word baby hurts, like I’m ripping open the wound one more time.
“Getting there.” I smile weakly.
“Morning meditation will do you good.” She smiles and links arms with me, leading me into the Room of Healing—no shit, that is actually what the sign on the door says—where the other six employees are all stretched out on white yoga mats, Mischa in the centre, holding court.
She nods once and tilts her head toward two empty mats in the corner, which Candy and I promptly take. I inch myself down, slowly lowering my back to try and cause minimal rib discomfort. I can’t believe these stupid things can take six weeks to heal …
I ease back and stare at the stark, white ceiling above me. It’s so empty. Such a blank canvas. I swallow back another wave of tears. I wish I knew what happened after life; are we alone? Is there a reason for this, for all this excruciating pain? Is my baby up there, somewhere? Does it need me?
I choke back a sob. Please, don’t be needing me, little one. I’m no good to you. No good …
“Now let’s focus on relaxing our muscles …” Mischa starts. I try to relax my feet, but my still tender ankle protests when I give it a nudge.
Instead, I jump ahead to the white light part. Just focus on the white light.
White.
Nothing.
Empty.
Whole.
“Stacey …” The word is soft in my ear, quiet, accompanied by a gentle hand on my shoulder.
I blink, and look around. The room is white, full of white light and—am I dead?
I blink again. No, the room is just white.
I jolt upright and grasp my ribs, looking around me. Of course. I’m at work. We were meditating.
“Do you need a hand?” Mischa is squatting next to me, a gentle smile on her face.
“Thanks,” I say, reaching out and clasping her arm.
We stand up, and I look around again. The room is empty, the yoga mats all rolled away, bar the one I’d just been sleeping on. Through the window, I see the sun setting in a golden yellow beam behind the trees in the park next door.
“What … what time is it?” I shake my head.
“It’s six o’clock.”
My eyes widen. “Six?”
“Yes.” Mischa nods. “You slept—”
“All day?”
“Mmhmm.”
I probe around in my mind, looking for the panic I feel when I wake up. Why isn’t my breathing short, my throat sore, my forehead clammy?
“I haven’t been able to sleep at home. I’m so sorry,” I say, then quickly start running through the list of horrible things my boss could have seen me do. Did I snore? Drool? Sleep talk? And why didn’t she wake me up?
“It’s fine, Stacey. A lot of people who go through trauma need to open their minds through meditation to help come out the other side.”
Ten weeks ago, I would have scoffed at Mischa’s words. Hell, even four weeks ago, I would have giggled.
But now, they make perfect sense.
Now, they seem right.
Because I haven’t slept so peacefully in a very long while.
It still hurts, aches, stings like a goddamn bee when I think about it all. But at least my eyes aren’t throbbing.
It’s a start.
Dear Small Human,
Why?
Please, please don’t be needing me right now. I want to be with you so badly, but I know I shouldn’t. I can’t.
I love you.
Mum xx
February 1
IT’S BEEN three days, and still no response from Michael. I’m not really surprised. I heard he’d joined Coal—well, I read an article in the local newspaper to that effect—and I guess he is busy being famous, or a rock star, or something. Something more appealing than chasing after the girl who decided too late she couldn’t live without him.
Hindsight is a beautiful thing. Looking back, I wish I’d possessed more of it. I wish I’d taken the opportunity when I had the chance.
The pain still throbs in my chest. It feels like I’m floating, existing in this make-believe world, but things are going to have to get real, pretty soon. I guess that’s the benefit of hitting rock-bottom. The only place you can go is up.
At least I have something to keep me busy. Kate has organised an art exhibition in honour of Lachlan, so little craft activities have kept me occupied while I’ve been lying in bed. They’ve been a godsend. It’s amazing how focused you can be when you don’t have to think. When you don’t have to feel.
“Knock, knock,” I call, rapping on the door.
Seconds later it opens and there is
Kate. She’s wearing a blue tank today with her black denim shorts. But that’s not what changes her outfit, though. It’s the smile on her face. It’s not a grin; and it’s certainly not ear-to-ear. But it’s there, nonetheless. I think back to when I last saw her, a little more than three weeks ago.
I drop the box I’m holding and launch myself at her, throwing my arms around her neck as I hold her close, even though my rib is hating me for it.
“You are just …” I shake my head. “Awesome.”
She giggles. “Awesome enough for you to quit stepping on my toes?”
“Sorry!” I dance back, and this time I double over as pain shoots through my ribs. Honestly, at least with a broken arm, it would be in a cast. Everything I do seems to set these suckers off.
“Are you okay?” Kate rests her hand on my back and I wince again, trying to pretend like that side of my ribs isn’t connected to the side that’s quietly trying to play voodoo doll with my lungs.
“Okay,” I hiss. “Let’s just … go inside.” I manage to get the words out.
Kate picks up the cardboard box and stumbles into her lounge room, stretching out on the couch. The curtains are open, allowing the summer light to shine through, and the air conditioner is on, thank goodness. It washes over me in a delicious cooling wave.
“Okay, so I have printed out the labels for the exhibition as requested.” I gesture to the box. Of course I had offered to help with Lachlan’s exhibition however I could, and hence getting stuck with label duty. Still, we hadn’t spoken seriously since … since everything.
“How are you feeling?” I ask. I lift up her legs and sit down underneath them.
Kate’s face blanks to neutral, and I wonder how many times she’s practiced the response to this question, or if she’s just hiding this part of herself away from me. Away from all of us.
Kate is silent. She shakes her head. “Not … great.”
We sit there for a moment, silently together, miles apart. It’s a good kind of quiet. It’s one we both understand.
Eleven Weeks Page 17
