A Semi-Definitive List of Worst Nightmares

by Krystal Sutherland

  “Then why am I here?”

  Reginald slipped the card into his pocket and they walked up the drive together, where Death tried the side entrance to the garage; the door was unlocked. Reg looked back at the darkened street, where black trees whipped and seized in the wind, pelted by the rain. The windows of the houses across the street were dim, their curtains drawn. When he was satisfied that no one had seen him, he slipped inside. Horowitz was already looking around the garage, picking up and putting down junk with gloved hands, as enraptured by the mystery of this man as her grandfather himself. A car, concealed under a waterproof cover, sat in the shadows. Horowitz helped her grandfather peel back the fabric from the bumper. Underneath was a mint Cadillac Calais. The killer’s car.

  The men shared a look.

  Death tried the door that leads into the house and found that it, too, was unlocked. Reginald wondered if locks simply fell open at his touch; no earthly lock could keep the Reaper at bay.

  Inside the house, “Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien” by Edith Piaf played on repeat, loud enough that it masked her grandfather’s footsteps. Horowitz’s footsteps made no sound. Death nodded up the staircase. Reginald drew his service weapon, kept it at his side as he silently ascended the steps, Death a dark, protective presence at his back. There were photographs on the walls: Arthur Whittle on his wedding day, Arthur Whittle with his children, Arthur Whittle with his grandchildren. The upstairs room was smoky and dimly lit. Whittle sat in a black leather armchair, milky eyes fixed on the muted TV as he sucked on a cigarette. Reg breathed out, lowered his weapon. He couldn’t do it. Killing a murderer left the same number of murderers on the planet, and brought no peace to the families of the missing children who would never find out what happened to them, would never have any closure.

  It was Horowitz who, upon seeing Reginald falter, grabbed Whittle by a tuft of his remaining white hair and dragged him kicking and screaming to the bathroom. It was Horowitz, in the end, who turned on the faucet and held the old man under water until he stopped moving.

  Reginald sat on the closed toilet lid and ran his hands through his hair as Death, breathing heavily, sat back against the tiled walls, his gloves and sleeves soaking.

  “You said we’d only meet twice more,” said Reginald as the Reaper reached over to turn off the faucet.

  “There are some things not even Death can predict.” Horo-witz stood. Peeled off his gloves. “I’m so sorry about Florence, Reg. There was truly nothing I could do.”

  “The wake is on Friday, if you’re so inclined.”

  Death nodded. Put his wet hand on her grandfather’s shoulder. “I’ll bring some milk.”

  • • •

  “WELL I’LL BE DAMNED,” said Jonah as he handed back the card. “The Harvestman has been dead for years?”

  “No children have disappeared since Arthur Whittle drowned in his bathtub. It’s good enough for me. It has to be.”

  As she looked at him, Esther thought about how this might be framed as a happy ending if their lives were like the movies. Maybe Jonah would say something smooth, and the music would swell, and they’d run to each other and make out under one of the oak trees while some indie song played in the background and the screen cut to credits.

  But life was rarely full of clean and tidy resolutions. Good moments would inevitably, again, lead to bad moments, which would lead to more good moments, until there was nothing left but dust and stories. But that moment, right there, with him, that night—that was a damn good moment, and the good moments had to be remembered. And if all she could be, in the end, was dust and stories, she could think of far worse fates than to become dust and stories with a pickpocket, a skilled petty criminal, an underage drinker, a public nuisance, and the very best person she had ever met.

  With Jonah there in front of her, she wondered if people really fell in love with others or if they fell in love with the best parts of themselves. Love was a mirror that made our bright bits shine like stars and dulled even the harshest ugliness. We loved to love because it made us beautiful. And maybe there was nothing wrong with that.

  Maybe we deserved to be beautiful.

  “Okay. Ready to find out the most interesting thing about you?” said Jonah as he tapped the covered canvas leaning against the side of the house. It sounded like he was rapping his knuckles against something solid, like glass. “Fifty weeks later, are you ready to see what I see?”

  Esther exhaled and cracked her neck from side to side, like a boxer about to enter a ring. “Bring it on, Smallwood.”

  Jonah pulled back the sheet, a mischievous smirk on his face. For a moment, Esther was confused. There was no canvas, no paint. But then she got it, like he said she would, and she collapsed to the ground laughing, like he always did.

  Because the portrait was her. Exactly her.

  It had been all along.

  RESOURCES

  MENTAL HEALTH isn’t as simple as a suicide-prevention number in the back of a book and an author you don’t know telling you things will get better.

  So I’m going to do a little more than that.

  I’m going to tell you that I have friends and family who have suffered alone and in silence, people who only told me years after the fact that they were in incredible pain. That they had considered ending or even attempted to end their own lives.

  It breaks my heart to think that people I love and couldn’t imagine the world without—brave, smart, resilient people—didn’t seek help. Didn’t speak up. Drowned quietly, in full view of everyone who knew them, without ever asking to be saved.

  I know their struggle, because there are times I’ve found it difficult to speak out, too.

  To that end, I beseech you to read Adam Silvera’s article “Happiness Isn’t Just An Outside Thing”—you can find it on his Tumblr. It is frank, it is terrifying, and it changed my outlook on mental health forever. It is completely essential. Read it, read it, read it.

  My hope is that this book becomes a conversation starter to speak openly and honestly about mental health issues with those around you. Ask your friends and family how they are. Tell them how you are. Don’t be ashamed of seeking professional help. Be part of the movement to normalize talking about this stuff. Because it is normal.

  Mental illness doesn’t make you weak; it makes you human.

  And, in case of an emergency, I implore you to contact the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-8255. There will be someone on the other end of the line who can help you see the value of your life, even when you’re blind to it yourself.

  Whether your problems are small or large (or even if you have none at all—you may be able to support somebody else), I will leave you with this mantra. I would like you to say it out loud, right now, until you take it to heart:

  There is no shame in seeking help.

  There is no shame in seeking help.

  There is no shame in seeking help.

  “I’m not telling you it’s going to be easy—I’m telling you it’s going to be worth it.”

  —Art Williams

  NOTES

  DURING THE WRITING OF THIS BOOK, I watched many online resources about dealing with anxiety and fear. None was more useful and inspiring than Dawn Huebner’s “Rethinking anxiety: Learning to face fear” from TEDxAmoskeagMillyardWomen in 2015. Huebner’s talk formed the basis of Esther’s therapist’s advice, and has also been invaluable to me personally (I can now sleep in the dark after watching horror movies).

  For my depiction of Saigon during the Vietnam War, I looked to photographs and firsthand accounts, but I’m indebted to Sara Mansfield Taber’s July 6, 2015, Literary Hub article, “My Saigon Summer, Before the Fall,” for truly setting the scene in my imagination. Any inaccuracies are entirely my own.

  Jonah’s Shakespearean insults came from pangloss.com/seidel/Shaker/—an endlessly hilarious insult generator that
I highly suggest we all start using on a daily basis. You mewling flap-mouthed flax-wenches.

  WITH GREAT THANKS

  THE WRITING of a sophomore book is a fretful experience, made no easier when the topic of said book is anxiety, panic attacks, and fear that bites to the bone. I am forever indebted to those who made it a little easier:

  To Chelsea Sutherland, who inspired this book on a warm morning in Amsterdam when she point-blank refused to get on her damn Dutch bicycle. The story of Esther and her struggle with fear was born almost in its entirety as we (somewhat against your will) finally peddled back from Vondelpark in the summer sunshine. I am so grateful that you faced your fear that day. (Sorry again for making you cry.)

  To my other sister, Shanaye Sutherland, who is one of the bravest people I know. Your strength, generosity, and warmth inspire me every day. I couldn’t have written this book without you.

  To my parents, Sophie and Phillip, but especially to my mother, who—like Rosemary—is a quiet fighter to the bitter end. Writing this book broke my heart on a daily basis when I thought about everything you have sacrificed (and continue to sacrifice) so willingly for your children. You are, the both of you, quite wonderful.

  To my late grandfather, Reginald Kanowski, the namesake of Esther’s grandfather. Even before I dreamed of being a writer, I wanted to immortalize the story of your life on paper. So much of you lives on in these pages.

  Also to my grandmother, Diane Kanowski, who I erroneously stated would never read my first book because it was far too scandalous. I hereby retract that statement and apologize! Your continued support means the world to me.

  To Kate Sullivan, who fraudulently signed me into class so many times that I should hire her to do book signings, and Rose-Helen Graham, for keeping me sane when we were living in the waking nightmare that was Sassoon Road. Most of all, thanks to both of you for your incredible enthusiasm.

  To the Westpac Bicentennial Foundation, which supported me financially while I was studying abroad in Hong Kong and writing this manuscript at the same time. You made it far easier to juggle the two. Your faith in me and your support of young Australians has made such an impact.

  To Tamsin Peters, my sister in every way except blood. One day I’ll write you a book with dragons in it!

  To my hometown cheer squad, who dangerously inflate my ego: Renee Martin, Cara Faagutu, Kirra Moke, Alysha Morgan, Sarah Francis, Jacqueline Payne, Sally Roebuck, and Danielle Green. You make me feel like a star on even the darkest days.

  To Amie Kaufman, for words of wisdom that saved my sanity in a time of great need.

  To Katherine Webber, always, for everything. You are brilliant and I love you. Look at us, we are still authors! #LAUWASA

  Also to the rest of #TeamMaleficent: Samantha Shannon, Lisa Lueddecke Catterall, Leiana Leaututufu, and Claire Donnelly. I know you guys always have my back.

  To my agent extraordinaire, Catherine Drayton, whose opinion matters to me more than most. Once I heard that you liked my strange little second book, I knew everything would be okay!

  Also to the rest of the gang at InkWell Management, but particularly Richard Pine, for a warm welcome to New York, and Lyndsey Blessing, for being my foreign-rights goddess.

  To the lovely Mary Pender at UTA, for your continued brilliance in handling film rights.

  To my editor, Stacey Barney, who I strongly suspect has a little magic flowing in her veins. With the lightest touch, you helped this book to fully bloom. I can’t thank you enough for your faith and your patience.

  Also to the rest of the team at Putnam, especially Kate Meltzer, for much-needed words of encouragement, and Theresa Evangelista, for another stunning cover!

  To the whole team at Bonnier Zaffre, but especially Emma Mathewson, who I want to be when I grow up, and to PR superstars Carmen Jimenez and Tina Mories, for your warmth and kindness.

  Again, to the whole team at Penguin Australia, but especially to Tina Gumnior, publicist extraordinaire, and Amy Thomas and Laura Harris, who both seem to say exactly what I need to hear, exactly when I need to hear it. How do you do that?!

  Last (but certainly not least), to Martin Seneviratne, my partner in crime. Tea maker, deadline cheerleader, muesli connoisseur, all-around dreamboat. You make me feel brave every day; there’s no fear I wouldn’t dare to face with you by my side.

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