After All I've Done

by Mina Hardy

  “I said that too?”

  “Yes. The night you told me you were going to leave him,” Cole says.

  “Why would I bury my phone in the yard?”

  “To make sure he didn’t find it? I don’t know, Diana. I really don’t. You never told me you did that. I know you were kind of flipping out a little bit that he was going to find out.”

  “There must have been something else,” I say in a low, tight voice. “Something I didn’t tell you, maybe?”

  We’re both silent for a moment. Cole looks sincere in his confusion. I press a hand to the space below my right ribs, the spot that still aches sometimes. Like my body can remember what my mind can’t.

  “How did it end?” This feels more important to me than how it started.

  Cole stands to pace. He runs his hands through his hair, pushing it off his forehead. When he faces me, his expression is grim. His hands are on his hips. He shakes his head a bit, then at last answers.

  “It ended in a ditch on the side of the road.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  Cole

  “Were you with me that night?” Diana demands. “Were you in the car with me?”

  “No.”

  “Do you know who was?”

  “No. I don’t. I thought you were alone,” I tell her.

  Diana frowns. “Yeah. So did I.”

  “You came to my house in the late afternoon. Three or so. You told me you didn’t need any proof about his affair. You had something else that could easily end things, and you were going to leave him whether or not I wanted you.”

  “What was it?” She blinks hard, each word sharp. “What did I have?”

  “I don’t know.” I go to my knees in front of her to take her hands. “But I told you I loved you. I told you that I wanted you.”

  “Did we fuck?” she demands.

  I don’t flinch, even though I’m pretty sure that’s what she’s trying to make me do. “We made love.”

  “We fucked,” Diana says coldly.

  I shake my head. My fingers squeeze hers. I don’t correct her with my words, but I hope she feels that I meant the distinction.

  “You were happy, Diana. I mean, just look at the pictures on that phone. Look how happy we are.”

  “Were,” she corrects. “And it might has well have been someone else.”

  I try again. “You said that you were going to make sure it all worked out. We had a meal together. Steak. That wine you love. A celebration.” I can still smell her perfume from that night. Taste the wine on her mouth.

  “And then?”

  “You left to go home. I thought you were going to tell him it was over. When I didn’t hear from you for a few days, I got worried. You weren’t answering messages. So, I searched the local news and found out about the accident. I came to the hospital to see you. At that point, I didn’t care who found out. I lied, said I was your brother. But you didn’t know me. The nurse on duty told me you had amnesia. I left.”

  “And that was the last time you saw me until that day at the coffee shop?”

  I nod. It’s the truth. She gets to her feet and lets the blanket drop from around her shoulders.

  “How could you leave me alone so long? If you loved me, Cole, how could you do that?”

  “You had no idea who I was. I thought you’d remember, in time. But so long as you didn’t, what was I supposed to do? Wreck your life? No,” I tell her. I sound bitter and angry, and I guess it’s because I am. “No, Diana, when you love someone, you let them go if that’s what’s best for them.”

  “When you love someone, you don’t lie to them,” Diana spits out. “If you loved me for real, you’d have stepped up, and you sure as hell wouldn’t have lied to me when we did meet up again. You wouldn’t have kept the truth hidden from me. If what we had was truly love, you would not have just let it go!”

  “Letting something die is not the same as killing it!” I shout.

  Diana recoils with a gasp, and the color drains from her face. “Where did you hear that?”

  “From you.” My voice softens. I know better than to try to pull her into an embrace, but I do my best to touch her with my voice. “When you told me about killing Val’s mother.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  Diana

  I told him about Val’s mother? I’ve never told anyone. Not even Jonathan. “Why … why would I do that?”

  “Because you loved me,” Cole says, “and you wanted me to know everything about you.”

  Loved.

  Such a difference that one letter makes, turning the word from present tense to past.

  “I should go.”

  “Stay,” he says. “Just for a few hours. Until you calm down.”

  If I do that, I’m going to end up in his bed, and tonight is not the time for that. It might never be the time for that again. I can’t decide. His arms around me, his mouth on mine, the sound of his voice … all of that is delicious and a comfort, and I want it. I want him. But right now, I have to go home.

  I let him kiss me first, though. I’m supposed to love this man. I can’t remember how we got to this point, but here we are, and I can’t deny it feels good to have him hold me. The press of his lips on my forehead is a consolation I want to sink into, but already there’s a heat building low in my belly again. Like the pain below my ribs, that ache that comes and goes, my body remembers.

  “I have to go,” I tell him.

  Cole frowns. “Call me when you get home. Or text. Or Taktok. Whatever works.”

  He doesn’t ask me if I’m going to tell my husband about him. Us. To be honest, I’m not sure what I would say if Cole asked me that, because I’m not sure I know what I’m going to do once I’m face-to-face with Jonathan.

  I leave without promising Cole anything.

  I hate this car. This bland, neutral, “safe” car. It’s supposed to be a sign of how much my husband loves and cares for me. I’m supposed to be grateful. The very thought of it makes my stomach churn.

  The storm has stopped by this point, which is good, because suddenly I’m so exhausted that I have to roll down all the windows and slap myself across the face to keep awake, even on the short drive home. I’m light-headed. Nauseated. By the time I pull into the driveway, I feel like I’m ready to pass out, so much so that I sit in the driver’s seat for a few minutes before I can manage to get myself out of the car.

  At least I think it’s a few minutes. I come to with the car dinging to remind me that the door is open. The garage door is also open, although fortunately I didn’t try to pull my car inside, because at this angle I would have crunched into the wall.

  My husband is still not home.

  I get to my feet. Slam the door. I’m so tired that I weave my way to the door into the kitchen, which is locked. It’s never locked, which means someone must be inside. I guess Harriett’s not giving me the silent treatment anymore. I can’t find my keys. Shit, my purse is in the car.

  I bang on the door. Again. Again. My fist hammers down until finally the door is yanked open.

  “Diana! Where were you?”

  “Out.”

  I push past her. She follows me into the kitchen, where I grab a jug of orange juice from the fridge and start to drink. I’m thirstier than I can ever remember being. I turn to see her staring.

  “You want to know where your precious son is? Out so late? Missing his dinner with us again?”

  “He’s working.”

  A sigh shudders out of me. I drink more juice. The thirst isn’t being quenched, and my stomach is churning, and now a wave of dizziness threatens. After a few more gulps, my stomach revolts, and I bend over the sink, expecting to vomit. I keep my stomach’s contents inside, but barely.

  “Jonathan is having an affair. It’s been going on for months.”

  I expect her to deny it, but Harriett only shakes her head. “Like father, like son.”

  “What?”

  “Jonathan’s father also had a wandering eye
and stepped out on his marriage.” She shrugs. “Why do you think I insisted you sign a prenup before you ever married him?”

  “Is that supposed to be an excuse?” I drain the jug and toss it into the sink.

  She crosses her arms. “You’re drunk.”

  “I’m not. Just tired.” One glass of wine. Half a glass—no more than that. That’s all I drank. Hours ago. Nothing at Cole’s. He poured me some, but I didn’t drink it. Nothing since this afternoon.

  That’s all I remember drinking, anyway.

  I shake my head, but that sends a fresh wave of dizziness through me. I breathe in through my nose. Out through my mouth. I close my eyes, trying to steady myself. It’s not really working.

  “You were drinking and driving,” she accuses. “It’s a wonder you didn’t crash another car.”

  I lean against the counter and focus on my breathing, pausing only to say, “Yes, Harriett. Let’s talk about that, why not? Let’s talk about my red car. My amazing, sexy as fuck, bright red car. That I loved.”

  “A showy, vulgar car. Jonathan should never have indulged you in it. It was trashy. A waste of his money!”

  “Oh. My. God.” I manage a laugh. “It wasn’t his money. We’re married. It’s all our money, Harriett, but aside from that, it was literally bought with money I inherited from my own disaster of a mother.”

  I turn to face her. With the counter sturdy and supportive behind me, I’m able to stand upright. I’m still so thirsty, my mouth a desert; every swallow cuts me from the inside like razor blades.

  “Oh yes, I remember now. How she came back around, trying to weasel her way back into your life. Trying to buy your love. The world was eased of a tremendous burden when she left it.”

  It’s an awful thing to say. True, but terrible. A sob slips out of me.

  “Oh dear. Don’t cry, Diana. Why don’t I put on some tea for us, and we can get caught up on Runner? It’s been forever since we were able to settle in on the couch and just hang out together.” Harriett puts an arm around my shoulder, squeezing.

  She stands so close I could count the hairs on her eyebrows, if I want to. The crinkles in the corners of her eyes are filled with dusty makeup. For a second there seem to be two of her, and damn it, one is more than plenty. I straighten and grip the counter behind me, trying to keep my balance.

  “Did you put him up to it?”

  “What? Who?”

  “The car, Harriett. The car!” My words slur.

  She looks confused for a second. “What about the car?”

  “I think you know exactly what I’m talking about.” I wave a hand at her, but the gesture sends another round of weariness through me. “My car. My red car. It’s in the shed.”

  “What on earth is it doing there?”

  The world spins and turns, but I’m not drunk. Just like all those other times the bottles were emptied when I was not drunk. I don’t know what the hell is happening, but I do know that something else is going on. Something very wrong.

  I think I make some excuses to her, but my words are mumble-jumbled, my mouth full of mush. Not sure how, but I’m upstairs. In my bedroom, I pull up Dr. Levitt’s phone number and call her. I hold my breath, waiting for her to answer, but it goes to voicemail.

  “Dr. Levitt, this is Diana Sparrow. I just wanted to tell you that I’m pretty angry with you about talking to my husband about me and my mother without my permission. He said you asked him about it, and that’s just wrong. But I still need to talk with you.” That seems like the right thing to say, but I’m not sure I have any more words. “I’m tired now. You know what? Sometimes I’m so damned tired, I want to go to sleep and never wake up. Just so long as I don’t dream. I’d sleep forever if I didn’t have to dream.”

  The phone slips from my hand and lands on the bed with a thump. I stare at it, stupid and clumsy and tired. I can barely keep my eyes open, and I strip out of my clothes to leave them in a pile on the floor. In the shower, on my hands and knees, I let the water pound down all around me. My forehead is pressed to the tiles. The water is a little too hot, but I can’t get myself up to adjust it. I curl onto my side and cover my face with a washcloth so water doesn’t get in my ears or nose. I’m comforted by this cascade of warmth, the sound of it, the steady thump of it on my skin. After being chilled to the bone by the rain, this is heaven.

  Lights in my eyes. Figures. Men in my bathroom—no, a man and also a woman. They’re wearing blue uniforms. A light in my face, passing over my naked body, a gust of cold air when they open the shower door.

  “Ma’am, I need to ask you to get up now.”

  I don’t understand, and I can’t get up, I’m naked and wet, and there are strangers in my bathroom. The light again, hurting my eyes, so I cover them and the shower water disappears, leaving me cold and wet and still naked, and there are hands on me. Gentle but firm, pulling me upright. I grab for a towel, and one is pressed into my numb fingers. I cry out in pain. I almost drop it.

  “Ma’am, I’m Officer Gaines, this is Officer Terry. We’re responding to a request for a wellness check. Can you tell me your name, please?”

  “How can you be in my house to check on me and not know my name? What the hell is going on here?” I hold the towel in front of me. I’m a little more clear-headed but still so tired.

  Officer Gaines is the woman, and she looks past me to see my robe, which she grabs and hands me. “Ma’am, your psychiatrist called us because she was concerned you might be trying to harm yourself.”

  Over Officer Terry’s shoulder, I see Harriett, standing in the bathroom doorway. “She was drinking earlier, officers. A lot. That’s not unusual for her, but this time she said several times that she wished she could go to sleep and never wake up.”

  “You were eavesdropping on me?”

  Again, the light in my face. Officer Gaines steps between me and Harriett. The cop is looking deep into my eyes.

  “Mrs. Sparrow, have you taken anything tonight? Any prescription medicines?”

  “No, I—” I can’t stop myself from looking beyond them to the bathroom counter.

  Pill bottles. At least six. They’re all open. Some on their sides, the caps missing. A few pills are scattered on the countertop. Officer Terry sees me looking and moves toward the counter.

  “I didn’t take anything! She’s lying! I never said I wanted to hurt myself!” I lunge toward the bottles.

  Officer Gaines restrains me. I’m slippery, but she’s able to grab the robe. It pulls off me, but I don’t even care. I lunge again, but it’s too late. Terry’s got one of the bottles in his hand.

  “How many pills did you take, Mrs. Sparrow?”

  “She’s not Mrs. anything,” Harriett says condescendingly. “She didn’t take my son’s name when they got married, though she really should have.”

  I. Lose. My. Shit.

  I don’t know what I’m screaming, but it’s loud and fierce, and I am blinded by the sheer violent force of my fury. I might not even be making words, only incoherent war cries. My right hand cracks Harriett across the face, knocking her back. And then the two police officers grab me, wet, naked, fighting like a pit bull, and they put me down, and everything goes black.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  Valerie

  I hate the smell of hospitals.

  When my mother was dying, I spent hours by her side. I didn’t want to. I was fifteen. I wanted to be watching TV or talking with my friends, or really, doing anything else. But at fifteen, I had no car and was at my father’s mercy, and he wanted me there. I’m sure he told himself that it was for my sake. But even then, I knew it was never because he thought I would regret it if she passed without me there. I knew it was so he could have a break from her.

  My mother did not pass alone. I was there, and Diana was there. I turned my back, at the end, and Diana finished it. It didn’t take much. My mother was already so far gone. Later, my father would say that all we’d had to do was call for the nurse and she’d have been
saved, but she would not have been saved. She’d have been extended, that’s all.

  I didn’t think a psych facility would have the same kind of stink as a palliative care unit, but it’s similar enough to force me to cough into my scarf as I approach the admission desk. The young guy sitting behind it wears a neat navy polo embroidered with the Solace Point logo, and a hipster haircut, but he looks friendly enough when I put a hand on the desk to get his attention away from the computer screen.

  “Hi. Can I help you?”

  “I’m here to see a patient. Diana Sparrow.”

  He smiles at me. I smile back, although mine feels fake. He turns in his chair to face the screen again, tap-tapping away at the keyboard and then frowning. He doesn’t look up at me.

  “Your name?”

  “Valerie Delagatti.”

  “Does she know you’re coming?”

  I sigh. “No. I’m sure she doesn’t. But I called ahead to make sure it was okay if I came during visiting hours. Is there a problem?”

  “I … don’t think so. Hold on, please let me just check something.” He taps some more.

  The last thing I want is for them to turn me away. I won’t come back if they do that.

  And I have to see her.

  “Third floor, you’ll see a nurse’s station. You have to show them this.” He hands me a laminated badge on a lanyard, “and sign in there. I’ll need to see your driver’s license.”

  By the time I get to the third floor, I’m too warm and have to take off my jacket. I leave the scarf around my throat, even if it would look weird and too obvious if I put it over my mouth and nose against the residual stink. At the nurse’s station, I show my lanyard and say I’m here to see Diana.

  “She’ll be in the lounge. Down there, third door on the left. You can’t miss it,” the nurse says as she points.

  I definitely don’t. The big double doors have large windows in them, each pane of glass crisscrossed with hexagons of metal wire inside. The outside of the doors is decorated with large flowers, the sort you make from tissue paper and pipe cleaners. Like a kindergarten classroom.