by J. L. Mac
I wanted to hold on. I had hope that maybe a miracle would happen and his brain function would return. Mostly, I wasn’t ready.
I wasn’t ready to choose flowers. I wasn’t even sure what Jake’s favorite flower was. We’d never discussed death flowers.
I wasn’t ready to decide on cremation or traditional burial. We never really said much about what our final wishes were. We thought we had time for that business.
I wasn’t ready to walk through burial plots in search of Jake’s final resting place. Under a tree? No tree?
I wasn’t ready to sort through swatches of casket liners. Silk versus velvet and satin in every color under the wretched sun. Midnight blue or royal blue?
I wasn’t ready to thumb through a catalog at the florist for the perfect floral spray to adorn Jake’s casket. Simple and elegant? Extravagant?
I wasn’t ready to choose whether or not I wanted a post-burial reception or not. Memorial dinner? Memorial lunch? Brunch? What time of day is a good time to bury the love of your life? Skip on the memorial altogether? Chicken or beef?
I wasn’t ready to pack up his side of the closet. I wasn’t ready to move to the middle of the bed so I wouldn’t feel as if I was sleeping on some giant-sized mattress.
I wasn’t ready for the sympathetic stares, encouraging words, or loving pats on the back.
I just wasn’t ready and I don’t think I ever would’ve been ready. I’m still not ready. A girl like me doesn’t lose a husband like Jake and recover from it. Especially not the way I lost him.
Church prayer groups didn’t help either. I couldn’t or just wouldn’t bow my head to pray earnestly. A few of the old biddies leading the group ended up calling Mom asking if I had turned atheist and made it a point to express their worry for my “eternal soul.” Is it really that hard to believe that I’m just not in the mood for church, or praying, or pretending to revere the God who had squashed me beneath his thumb like the ant that I am? I still believe in God. I just don’t believe in me, the stupid ant.
So sue me.
Over the last two years, I’ve managed to find a few things that do help. They’re small and usually fleeting moments of respite, but each one is a tiny victory for my aching soul. Getting pissed helps. Breaking something feels pretty damn good. The occasional cigarette helps. A bottle of wine really helps. Sleep helped at first but now I’m haunted with dreams of Jacob that leave me breathless and just as broken as the day they told me he was brain dead.
I’ve resigned myself to what I’ve become. I’m bitter, and angry, and lonely, and confused. But most importantly, I am utterly and completely heartbroken that I had a fairytale life and in a split second it was stolen from me. I’m the stupid ant who sometimes thinks that I may have been better off never knowing the love I had with Jake. The crushing guilt I feel right after I think those thoughts is my punishment.
Stupid, stupid, ant.
Chapter Two
The Only Expectation
April 20, 2013
People say that you can feel bad things coming before they happen. People say that we have some kind of extrasensory receptor that alerts us to danger before it occurs. I don’t believe any of that crap. Does anyone really believe that? If I met someone who did, I’d tell them the truth of the matter.
There is no extrasensory receptor. There is no contingency plan. No animal instinct. Only horrible shit that more often than not, happens to good people, and it’s all for no reason.
I didn’t feel a thing that night when I woke up thinking that Starla had just traipsed back into the house in search of cat food and her cozy bed. I wasn’t on high alert. I had no elevated heart rate. I wasn’t jumpy. I walked down that hall, right into danger, and didn’t feel a thing until I heard that man’s voice. His voice was like the switch that instantaneously turned on every neuron in my brain. By then, it was too late. Where the hell was that receptor? Where was that instinct? Where was the God who is supposed to love me and take care of me? He was busy crushing ants. That’s where he was. I heard that intruder’s voice and that was it. Suddenly I had that pounding heart, the sweaty brow, the wide eyes, and keen hearing. I wish I had that elusive sixth sense before I left my bedroom. I can’t help but think that if I had sensed something, I would’ve done something different. I could’ve called the police. I could’ve taken the gun from my nightstand with me down that hall. I could’ve just stayed in fucking bed and allowed that man to take what he wanted—steal my purse, take the car, clear the whole damn house, but leave us alone. Leave Jake alone. Leave my life alone.
I was lucky until that night. I had been smitten with the boy next door since our finger painting days. We were playmates, then we were awkward enemies, then we were young love in the flesh. We fell in love in high school and never left each other’s side. College was tough but we held it together. He earned his degree in criminal justice as he had planned and I discovered just how accurate the term “starving artist” is. No one was interested in my abstract, sometimes visually offensive sculptures. We made it work, though. We both graduated with our respective degrees and were married six months after graduation. I became Mrs. Jacob Parker under tall oak trees covered with fall foliage. I was happy for two years after that. Then…everything changed. It became what it is now and what it is now is some screwed up realm of grief and misery that I have zero motivation to struggle through. I’d rather just stay here and admit that I’m heartbroken and probably will be for the rest of my life than to pretend to go on with life. Why lie to myself and everyone around me? I see no point in that. I’m hurt. I’m mad. And that’s just how it is. There’s no “helping” this. There’s no soothing balm, no bandage, no therapist, and no journey to healing that can save me from where I am. Meeting these organ recipients won’t change anything but it will please my family and that is the only expectation I had coming into this trip.
***
By the time I wake from my nap it’s already after three and I’ve missed my meeting with Terry Jones, the man who received Jacob’s liver. I flew here to Charlotte, North Carolina, to finally meet him. We emailed back and forth until we were both ready and exchanged phone numbers just before I flew out. I just hope this meeting is as easy as my meeting with Mrs. Hampton was. She and I met for lunch. The flight from Atlanta to Birmingham was a quick one and I was glad for it. I got there quick and left even quicker. She brought along her sister and they were kind and probably equally as uncomfortable as I was. We took it easy on each other, deciding to talk about a bunch of nothing versus anything important. I was thankful for that.
I leap from the bed and slip on my flip flops while hopping on alternating feet to grab my cell phone off the desk. “Shit,” I mumble to myself. Three missed calls from Terry. I quickly hit the send button and wait on the line, grimacing at how late I am. The quicker I meet them and get the dreaded conversation over with, the quicker I can get on a flight back to Atlanta.
“Hello,” Terry greets.
“Hey, Terry, it’s Sadie. I’m so sorry I’m late. I fell asleep after I checked in. I’m on my way in about ten minutes. Is that okay?”
“No problem. I thought you may have changed your mind.”
“No. Not at all. I’ll be there in a few.” I hang up and rush through getting presentable. I slip on the summer dress my mother insisted that I pack and ditch the flip flops for a pair of ballet flats. I touch up my makeup in the bathroom mirror and brush my straight brown hair. I grab my abandoned bottle of water on my way out the door and wash down anxiety medication about the time I make it to the parking lot where my rental car is waiting. I swing the door open and jump in, scorching the backs of my thighs on the smoldering leather interior. “Fuck!” I hiss, pulling my knees up as I turn the key.
Thankfully, it takes me only seven minutes to get to the BBQ restaurant Terry and his wife, Ellen, arranged for us to meet at. I look up at the marquee one more time, verifying that I’m in the right place, about to be near a man who has part of Jacob li
ving inside of him.
Because Jacob died, he gets to live. I’m still not okay with it. I’m stuck in a perpetual state of “it’s just not fair” and I don’t know if I’ll ever shake it.
I step out onto the sidewalk and take a look around like Jacob drilled into my head. Being married to a police officer means knowing every safety technique and trick known to mankind. Being victimized once means making sure it never happens again. I’ll never rely on that elusive sixth sense again. I can hear Jake’s voice in my head.
“Have the things you need in your purse at all times. Keep your phone charged. Make sure your pepper spray isn’t too old and is in an easily accessible pocket of your purse. Never confront an assailant. If all else fails…run. Scream. Draw attention. Keep running until you find help or help finds you. If you’re forced into a physical altercation with an assailant, use the one-on-one combat techniques that you’ve been taught. Eyes, ears, nose, neck, groin, knee, leg. All you need is a moment to get away. Be strong, Sadie. Be strong and you can do it.”
I go over his safety speech in my head and take another look around at my surroundings. A few people are milling about. It won’t be long before the dinner crowd begins filling the streets, walking to and from bars and restaurants.
It will be evening by the time I can make an excuse to leave. I’m sure I’ll cite my day of travel as the culprit, when, in actuality, I’ll likely just go back to my hotel room and channel surf until it’s time for a little room service before a night fighting against sleep simply for fear of what I may dream about.
I walk into the restaurant and come to a stop near the hostess station. My eyes scan the crowd of patrons looking for a man and a woman matching the description Terry gave me.
I spot them at a table against a window. Bile churns deep in the pit of my stomach. A thin mist of sweat sprouts up across my hairline. Trying to ignore the wild thumping in my chest, I play Jake’s words back to myself, holding tight to them like a security blanket.
“Be strong, Sadie.”
I will my anxiety medication to kick in already. I can’t disguise my unease well enough to make it through this. The medication will help.
Terry is wearing a red baseball hat with a swordfish on the cap. His wife, Ellen, is sitting beside him, her blonde hair, cut in a short bob, showing off highlights of soft white shining in the sunlight that’s coming through the window. They are just as Terry described.
I inhale deeply. In through my nose, slowly out of my mouth. It’s so difficult pretending to be pleasant. It’s even more difficult for me to pretend that I’m managing the grieving process. I’m not managing it. It’s managing me.
A polite, tight smile tilts up the corners of my mouth just enough and I make my way across the restaurant to the couple who got a second chance thanks to Jake. It’s not fair.
I need a glass of wine and a cigarette.
I try diverting my thoughts with plans to stop at the nearest convenient store on my way back to the hotel after this torture.
“Terry?”
His head pops up and his hazel eyes widen with surprise. They both scoot away from the table and stand to greet me.
“Sadie, so glad we finally get to meet.” Terry holds his arms out, subliminally asking permission to hug me.
It’s fine. I don’t mind hugging. I do a lot of it. I don’t necessarily enjoy the consoling embraces that I get nearly every time I see someone I know, but it would be trouble for me to refuse. I’ve trained myself to mechanically go through the motions, but that’s the extent of it. If I refused every hug that was offered, at some point someone would call my mom to let her know that they’re “worried” about me. That’s where the issue lies. Mom would likely then orchestrate an emergency family potluck in an effort to talk to me about it. It’s that food is love concept again. The food is good. It’s the hovering part that can screw right off. I’m so sick of that shit. Faking it works just as well as anything. It’s a means to an end and I’m not that damn hungry enough to endure any emergency potlucks staged at Mom and Dad’s house.
I hold out my arms and step in to Terry’s hug. His arms wrap around me like a father and he holds me tight. Despite his thin frame, his hold is strong. “Thank you, Sadie,” he whispers into my ear.
I smile curtly over his shoulder at his wife, who has tears glistening in her baby blues.
Please, no crying. No crying. Not today. Not now.
I swallow hard and pull away from Terry. Ellen is next. She steps in and wraps her arms around me. I can feel her trembling against me. I can’t deal with this. This meeting needs to be short and simple. The amount of effort that it’s requiring for me to keep my emotion under control is far more than I can expend right now.
Pulling away from Ellen, I locate my seat opposite them and quickly sit before I have to endure any more hugging. “This place smells really good. I’m starving,” I lie, desperate to direct us right into mild conversation. I inhale deeply through my nose in mock worship of the scent of BBQ wafting throughout the restaurant. I’m not hungry at all. My appetite for food or anything else has been minimal over the last two years.
“Best Carolina BBQ around!” Terry declares proudly.
I force a smile and look to Ellen, who has scoffed and rolled her eyes. She leans across the table to whisper, “He’s just saying that because his best friend owns this place.” She winks then rights herself in her chair and picks up the menu on the table. I can’t help but smile. It’s kind of funny.
We order our food and engage in civil conversation while we wait. The food is good and I do my best to pick at it despite my lacking appetite. Thankfully, neither Ellen nor Terry have said much about the transplant, what brought him to that point, or the night that Jake and I were met with catastrophe.
The waiter deposits the bill on the edge of the table and saunters off with a tray full of food for another group.
“I’ve got it. I’ve got it,” Terry chimes, sliding the bill to his side of the table.
“Oh, you don’t have to do that, but thank you.”
“No, ma’am. You’ve come all this way to have dinner with us. I’ll pay,” Terry explains as he pulls cash from his wallet.
“Well, I guess I’ll get going. I’m so tired from flying this morning.”
My excuse seems to work because Ellen nods understandingly. All three of us stand up from the table and walk lazily out to the parking lot.
“That’s my rental over there.” I point to the four door compact car across the lot.
“Well, Sadie, don’t be a stranger. You come see us again one day,” Terry says as he helps himself to another hug.
“Absolutely,” I lie. Again.
As soon as Terry releases me, Ellen steps in for her own hug. Her arms wrap around me and I can feel the condolences coming before she even opens her mouth. “I’m so sorry, honey. I’m so sorry,” Ellen whispers close to my ear.
I give a tight little nod against her shoulder and do my best to stay strong. I play Jake’s words in my head. “Be strong, Sadie. Be strong.”
I clear my throat as I remove myself from her hug. A disgustingly sweet smile is my only farewell.
I’m afraid to say anything. I can’t say what I think, which is that she can’t really be sorry for Jake’s death. How could she? Jake’s death is the reason her husband is standing beside her right now. They got another shot at Happily Ever After while I got ripped off. My life with Jake had only just begun, and just as we settled into married life, it was over. Unfair isn’t even a big enough word to describe how fucked up it is. I don’t see any beauty in this. I see pain and I see just how indifferent the God I was raised to revere can be. I was forced to say goodbye to my husband in the most unceremonious sort of way and I see no beauty in that. All I feel like doing is lashing out and screaming at the top of my lungs how much I hate what happened. He was my husband, my best friend, the love of my life, and I had to sign piece of paper that gave the doctors permission to end his life. How is
that even remotely beautiful?
Ellen and Terry smile back at me. I turn on the spot and carry myself to the rental car. I can’t be strong for another moment. I need the privacy that my hotel room offers to cry and get pissed and eventually pass out after I make that call. I have to call Jake. I have to hear his voice. I need to. I have to. I know I shouldn’t. If anyone else knew about my fucked up little addiction, they’d admit me to the nearest psych ward.
Chapter Three
The Greatest Ally
April 21, 2013
The house is the same. For the most part. I step in front of the bathroom sink and drag my ragged gaze up to the mirror. Without much intention, I end up meeting my reflection. My brown eyes are staring back at me and I’m struck by just how plain I am. Other than the misery that tends to lurk in them, my eyes aren’t anything noteworthy. My mouth is forgettable, which happens to be a good thing since I fight to keep a sarcastic smirk at bay in the presence of others. My lips are pink and free of gloss or lipstick. My hair is straight, medium brown and long, mostly because I haven’t been to a salon of any sort to pamper myself in what seems like an eternity. I could use a trim. My face is thin and it’s easier for me to see the weight that I’ve lost when I actually look instead of just see.
My skin is pale but clear. A tan would look nice on me. I remember stretching out beside Mom and Dad’s pool in the summer to soak up the rays. I haven’t even seen the pool in two summers. My height is average. My frame is average. My breasts, hips and ass are all pretty average. I’m average. The only notable thing about me is the sorrow that has become an integral part of my identity. It’s who I’ve become—I’m pretty sure my photo would be next to the dictionary entry. I look like sorrow. I feel like sorrow. I am sorrow. With my palms pressed to the countertop, my elbows are locked, bracing myself in place, the weight of my own stare far too much to withstand.