Sadie's Mountain

by Shelby Rebecca

  “She looks peaceful,” he says, into my left ear, as he wraps his arms around my waist. “Her mouth is open. Her eyelids, too. But she looks calm. She’s not in pain anymore, baby.” Slowly, I open my eyes. I force them to look down at her. I gasp slightly because she is definitely no longer living. It shocks me, even though I knew it. She looks empty, like a doll on a shelf. There’s no other way to describe it. Her eyes look grey, vacant. Her spirit no longer rages behind them.

  My hand is reaching out of its own free will. I see my fingers in her hair, pushing the thin strands away from her face. I’m surprised when her face is still warm. I thought death was cold, but I’m mistaken. Her skin is soft under my fingertips, like a peach just off the vine. I have to open my mouth to breathe. I need more air than my nose alone can provide.

  I pick up her lifeless hand. It’s cold, pliable. I place her hand over her stomach. I look at the boys, and Seth reaches over, picks up Momma’s other hand placing in on top of the first. Jake reaches up and closes her eyes with the tips of his thumb and forefinger. I look at Momma sideways.

  This was the vessel she walked the earth with, but I know her spirit is free. She feels no more pain, or sadness. No regret. It pains me to see her this way. The reality of it feels like a cold wind rushing through my veins, but this isn’t about me. This is Momma’s passage—her journey to heaven. What a privilege it is to be here, to have said goodbye, to know that I can keep Momma alive in me, in my actions, in my promises.

  That’s when I think of the scripture, “Precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of his saints,” I say out loud, causing Momma’s church friends to begin crying out. One of them starts singing Amazing Grace. More voices join in. Their voices are rising, and rising. But I’m no longer afraid of their sentiments. They are soothing to me, too. They remind me of innocence, of times when everything was as it seemed right on the surface.

  “Is that Psalms 116?” Dillon asks. His arms are still wrapped around me. I lean into him for support and nod. The scent is gone now. Her spirit has dissipated, gone to where she’s always known she was meant to go, to her Heavenly Father.

  I can hear her telling me about heaven with its pearly gates. How up there, you don’t look old. You look the way you did when you were at your happiest. I can see her that way, too. She’s wearing her Sunday best—a pretty flowery dress that came to her knees. It has buttons up the front that look like little pearls. Her eyes are a greyish blue with life in them again. Her long dark hair falls in curls down over her shoulders. I can smell her favorite perfume that came out of a little bottle that she used to dab just behind her ears. And if I concentrate, I can hear her voice singing with them. Her voice, off-key but pure and vigorous, reaching the notes, rising above it all. That’s where she is. Where she has to be.

  When I look up, Missy is standing in the doorway. I don’t think she can come back in. She looks frozen, rigid. Her eyes are red and her cheeks are wet. She’s waiting for the song to end.

  “I called Restlawn. They’re on their way ta come’n get Momma,” she says in a monotone Oh, yes, Restlawn Memory Gardens. That’s where I sent the gaudy flowers when Daddy passed on. I know it’s wrong, but I don’t want anyone to touch her. If I stay here, I’m going to panic when they take her away.

  “Dillon, can we go now?” I ask, squeezing his hand.

  “Yes, baby,” he says, and I turn to face him. I bury my wet face into his chest. “Thank you,” I say. He says nothing. He quietly takes my hand as we walk away. I turn one last time to look at her. The boys are still standing there. From this angle, she just looks asleep. She looks beautiful, actually. No more pain in her face. Just peace.

  As we walk down the stairs, I don’t feel like I thought I would. I’m not numb, I’m not cracked and fragile. Maybe it’s just not real to me yet. I’m not going to question it. I’m grateful for this. I was able to say goodbye to my momma— and it didn’t break me. This must be the new me.

  Chapter Twenty-One—Don’t slip away

  She was warm,” I say, after we’d sat in silence all the way down Brandon Street, his hand on mine over the center console.

  “I’m sorry, Sadie, what do you mean?” he asks.

  “She was warm, her face was, when I touched her,” I say, as I stare at the bright yellow line down the center of the road as it dots past us on the left side.

  “Oh, yes. Baby, she’ll be warm for a little while. She’d just stopped breathing.”

  “Just stopped,” I repeat. How do I make sense of that? Momma doesn’t breathe anymore. Her body is empty, her eyes were dead. I close my eyes. I try to remember them when she was alive. I can’t. I just keep seeing her eyelids as slits. Her vacant stare as she looked out from them in death.

  “Dillon, who comes to pick up my momma’s body?” I ask, as the car suddenly feels very tiny and lacking of air. I push my hand into the car door to try to make it bigger in here.

  Dillon pauses for a moment. “Well, in the area, Wallace and Wallace is the usual funeral home that people use.”

  “Uh-huh. So, is it an ambulance that comes or a hearse?”

  “A hearse, I believe. Darlin’, are you okay?”

  Am I? “I don’t know,” I say.

  “Do you need me to do anything for you?”

  “I just want to know what’s going to happen to her.”

  “Okay. I can call and find out.”

  “No. No. That’s okay.” Then it hits me. The image of the boys standing by the bed with Momma. Two orphans. “The boys!” I shout.

  “What about them?” he questions, nervously.

  “I didn’t hug them, Dillon. I just walked away and left them in there by themselves. They’re alone with Momma’s body!”

  “No, darlin’ there were all those other people there. They aren’t alone.”

  “I’m so selfish. What’s wrong with me? I left them when they needed me. I promised Jake. No, I promised Seth I’d be a better sister.”

  “You will, baby. Don’t worry, okay.” I can’t breathe. My gasps are shallow and my heart is beating in my ear like a pounding fist. My stomach feels as if there is something sharp inside it. It’s ripping its way out–pulling me in two.

  “Dillon. Pull over, please.” I realize, he’s already stopping the car on the side of the road.

  “Do you want to go back?”

  “No! I’ll see them taking her away. I can’t.” I’m writhing in pain. My legs won’t stay still. My hands are numb and tingly.

  “Do you want me to take you to the hospital?” Everything is spinning around me. The inside of the car feels like the inside of a drain. I take off my seat belt, put my head between my knees. He must get out his phone. “Hello. I need to bring in Sadie Sparks. Her mother has just passed away and she’s having a severe panic attack.”

  I don’t want to go. They’re going to medicate me. Why am I hurting this bad? Where’s Numb Girl? “No!” I squeal.

  “Sadie, what can I do?”

  “I don’t know? I’ve never had one this bad before,” I say, looking up at him from my knees. I bolt upright. My stomach feels like knives are crawling around my insides. The hole in my chest is constricted like it wants to strangle me. It throbs, aches like it’s hungry and devouring the rest of me. My neck feels tight like the fabric in my scarf is stretching against the seams. I rip it open, watch it crash against the inside of the windshield. But I don’t feel any relief. I’m on the edge of the seat pushing my palms into the dashboard.

  “What can she do?” he says, into the phone. “Okay, thank you,” he says. “I’ll call you back.”

  I feel his hand on my back. “Baby,” he says, as soft as a warm blanket. “What you need to do is concentrate on your breathing. Can you do that for me?” I look up at him. His eyes look wide again, too wide.

  I want to do what he says. I close my eyes and tune into the frequency of my inhalations. They sound shallow and frantic. Rushed like a song being fast-forwarded on a CD player.

 
; “Good,” he says. “Breathe through your nose, okay. It’ll help you slow it down.”

  When I open my eyes, he’s right in front of me. He’s pulled me toward him so that we’re facing each other. He has one arm around me pressing lightly on my back. With his other hand, he pulls my palm up to his chest. I feel this upper body moving up as he inhales deliberately through his nose and then down as he exhales from his mouth. “Do you feel my breathing? Pace yourself to me, darlin’.”

  “Okay.”

  “Just slow it down,” he says, gently, methodically. He rests his forehead against mine so I can feel his breath on my face. I am taking deep painful gasps. This is better than the shallow ones. My hands don’t feel numb anymore. My legs relax again. The knives in my stomach are stilling, not all at once though. More like one at a time. I feel his breath. I make mine like his. Quiet. Slow. “You’re doing a great job,” he says, into my mouth.

  I crawl over the console and sit in his lap. I wrap my arms around his neck, my knees push into my chin. My feet rest on the center console. I press my right ear against his chest and listen to his heart beating. It soothes me. Maybe this is what it sounds like in the womb. I feel limp. My limbs are heavy. My breath swims in my ear making me feel like sleep would be the best thing in the world right now.

  “I’m so proud of you, Sadie,” he says. I feel him start the engine. My left hip is pressing against the steering wheel. But I don’t want to move. I kiss his neck, thankfully. Run the tip of my finger along the curve of his ear. He’s protected me again—helped me.

  “I love you,” I whisper, as I feel the car hum upon the black asphalt.

  “And I love you, darlin’,” he says. The hole in my chest is warmed. It no longer aches or throbs. It’s full and tamed. My eyes feel unbearably heavy. I give in to it. Sleep comes like an island in the middle of an angry ocean. Dillon pulled me ashore. Saved my life.

  “I will be your wife,” I say, into the echoing dream that pulls on me like a heavy weight.

  I know I’m being carried. I feel the cold night air as it pierces through my shirt and blows my hair around like a windmill. The stride of his long legs rocks me as I’m draped over his arms. I feel weightless, cherished. I nuzzle his collarbone with my nose. He smells divine.

  We are inside, with the scents of the polished wood floors, the fresh paint. His footsteps echo through the house and up the stairs. He’s not even winded. He is so fit, I think. So opposite from Momma’s body. Empty and dead.

  I want to open my eyes, but I can’t. I must just be exhausted. I do not want to be numb again. I will myself not to become numb.

  I’m on the bed. I don’t want to open my eyes. I let him pull my boots off one by one. He unbuttons my pants and pulls the zipper. I feel his fingers on my hips pulling the denim down me like peeling the skin of a banana. “I can do it,” I say, groggily.

  “Let me?” he asks.

  “Yes.”

  I feel his hands moving down as he untangles the buttons from my shirt. As I open my eyes, I focus on him in the dark. I force myself not to think about Momma. They must have taken her by now. I cannot slip away. I have a life to live. Promises to keep. A memory to keep alive.

  “Will you take a bath with me?” I ask him. I hear his sharp intake of breath.

  “Is that what you’d like?” he asks, earnestly.

  “I need to feel things right now, Dillon. I’m afraid of going numb again,” I say, as I sit upright, move my right hand into the soft waves of his hay colored hair.

  “Did you mean it?” he asks as our mouths are so close I can almost feel his lips on mine.

  “What?”

  “While you were sleeping, you were talking again.”

  “What did I say?” I ask, as he pulls the white long sleeved shirt up over his stomach and then his arm moves up over his shoulder, pulling the shirt up over his head.

  “That you will be my wife,” he says, fast, as if it couldn’t be real.

  “Yes, Dillon. That’s what I want,” I say, looking at his wavy hair in the dim light.

  He kisses me softly, purposefully. His kiss feels like it’s coming through a screen. As if I’m slipping away. The numbness is right on my perception like I’m standing on a precipice between darkness and dawn. “I’m going to do this right, Sadie.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m going to talk to your brothers first. Then, when you’re not expecting it, I’m going to ask you properly.”

  “You don’t need to do that. I’ve already said yes,” I say. I’m dizzy. I put my hand up to my forehead.

  “It’s important to me,” he says. “I’ve imagined it a certain way. Please.”

  “Of course,” I say. “It sounds perfect.” It does. Too perfect for me. He leans in, rubs his nose against mine. I feel lethargic. As if I’m on pause.

  “I’ll be right back. I’m going to start the water in the tub.”

  I watch his stride toward the bathroom. The muscles in his back tense as he walks. He’s nothing short of beautiful. I hear the water turn on and I jump. On edge, my heart begins to race.

  Numb or jumpy. Which one will win?

  As he walks back into the room, I notice how his pants hang from his hips just so. I’m slumped over. But the line of his hips as they meet his abdomen and disappear into his pants makes me sit upright. He reaches his hand down to me. “Come,” he says, devoted. Controlled.

  I stand up. “I’m afraid, Dillon.”

  “Why?”

  “I think I’m going to slip away, go numb.”

  “Love, this is different. You’re just tired, drained. I won’t let you leave me again.”

  I smell lavender from the tub as I feel my feet pad their way toward the cold tile, my hand in his like a baby’s. My limbs feel heavy as he unstraps my bra, freeing me. I’m not embarrassed this time. There’s nothing left in me to be.

  The dim light of the candles he’s lit flicker in my eyes. I feel like a tree swaying in the dark forest standing here. He pulls down my panties as I rest my hands on his shoulders for support. It reminds me how different I’d felt last night when he’d done this. Like his fingers were on fire as he touched me, igniting me. Now I feel too heavy to respond to the trace of his fingertips.

  He undoes the buttons on his pants and lets them fall. He slips off the boxer briefs and steps into the too large tub. The candles flicker over his muscles. Over his nakedness. He’s perfect inside and out. My heart should quicken, but there’s nothing in me to pump the blood faster.

  Holding his hand, I step in and we sink down together. He puts his long legs on either side of me and I press my back lightly into his now wet and bubbly chest. As the warmth from the water steams my face, I’m almost not capable of staying awake.

  He wets my hair, the warm water falling over my face in streams. He massages my scalp with shampoo that awakens my senses slightly. He rubs me with soap, and then moves around so that he’s in front of me. He rubs my feet, massaging each and every toe. It makes me smile. The way he takes care of me, like I’m delicate and his.

  “Let’s go to bed, darlin’. It’s nearly eleven.” I nod my head. He helps me up and then out. It’s cold. I know I’m alive because of my goose bumps as he rubs me down with a white fluffy towel. Then he ties it around his waist. I watch as water trickles over his chest. It reminds me of tears. It reminds me of grief. I shiver.

  He grabs Missy’s bright blue robe and lets my arms sink into them before he ties it neatly around my waist. He sets me on a chair in the bathroom, brushes through my hair softly. He rummages around under the sink and then walks over to my bag to look. My eyes open and then close. Open and then close.

  “I’m going to dry your hair,” he says. I don’t respond before the hot air begins to take my hair from stiff and cold to warm and pliant as it falls down my back in tepid strands.

  “Come sit on the couch over here so I can change the sheets.” I shuffle over to the couch and drop down into the fluffy down cush
ions and watch him in a daze as he replaces the sheets. I stare at the white pile in a rumpled heap and wonder what he’ll do with the little heart we’d slept over last night.

  I want to keep it, I think as he flaps the top sheet in the air. I’d like to help, but I don’t think I have the strength to stand on my own.

  He helps me to the bed. Takes off my robe and slips a white T-shirt over my warm hair. I fall backward onto the bed as he slips on some baggy boxers. I like the other kind. The tighter ones.

  He slides onto my right side and we fuse together like we are one. We are one, aren’t we? “Don’t let me slip away, Dillon. I’m scared.”

  “I won’t, baby. Sleep now. I’ll take you to get pancakes tomorrow,” he promises. It’s funny to me how a promise of food, sweet syrupy food, makes me feel something kind of like life flow through my veins.

  He runs the tips of his fingers along the curve of my back. “You’re mine,” he whispers in my ear. This is the second time anyone has said this to me. My eyes shoot open. For a moment I wonder where I am. No. I’m in our bed. I’m safe. It’s Dillon.

  Donnie is scared somewhere. Worried I’ll hit the switch and ruin his life.

  “Yours,” I say, with a clear conscience. Yours. There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.

  Chapter Twenty-Two—Wake Up!

  It’s been a recurring dream. Nightmare, really. It’s the kind of dream that I remember the next day with a furrowed brow. The kind that can force me to pry my eyelids open to escape from it in the dead of night. Then, when I finally get to sleep again, it starts right where I left off, as if I’d put it on pause and said, okay. Start.

  It’s always the same. Well, it starts the same, but over the years the ending has begun to get worse and worse.

  I’m in the backyard of Aunt Lotty’s California ranch style house. I’m digging up the clay dirt and mixing it with the earthy goodness from the mountain to make a thick fertile plant bed. I add the flowers and pack them in. It’s so real I can feel the dirt pushing up under my fingernails. I feel so proud of my flowers. Like they are life—thriving, and blooming. Like I’m worthy of such beauty.