Cuts Like Glass

by Dana Feldman

  “He can’t,” I say, hoping that the burning sensation in my face isn’t me blushing.

  “And so, these visits, can you tell me why you keep going back?”

  “They stopped being about Gabe. I mean, I’ve only seen him a dozen or so times, and I’d say after the first two or three it really just became about me going to see Peter.”

  He clears his throat and shifts slightly in his chair. He’s looking at me, waiting for me to say something else. I don’t want to, not until he tells me what he thinks about what I’ve just told him.

  “Well?” I begin. “Don’t you have anything that you want to say to me about what I’ve just told you?”

  “What would you like for me to say?” he asks, his tone one of disapproval.

  “Something, anything really. Your opinion would be a good start.”

  “These sessions aren’t about me, Ella. They’re about you and my opinion shouldn’t matter.”

  “But it does, Dr. Bryer,” I say, finding that I’m now getting very frustrated.

  “Why?” he asks, not giving anything away in either his tone or expression.

  “Because you’re the doctor!”

  “Ella, my opinion regarding you seeing this man has nothing to do with anything. What really matters is why you’re seeing him. What are you hoping to get out of this relationship?”

  “First of all, your opinion does matter to me. I really want to know what you think,” I say.

  “Why? Will it change anything?”

  “Maybe, maybe not. And I’m not really hoping to get anything out of seeing Peter. I just,” I start to answer him, but find myself at a loss for words.

  “You just what?”

  “I like seeing him, being around him, talking to him. I feel like he gets me. I know how corny that sounds, but I don’t know how else to verbalize it.”

  “Ok, so here’s my opinion. Looking at this from the perspective of a therapist, you said that Peter looks a lot like Gabe. You also told me that Gabe and you had a very strong physical relationship. It would be very normal for you to feel an attraction for Peter.”

  I get up and pace the room. I’ve been attempting to push these types of thoughts out of my head, but they’ve just kept popping back in.

  “It’s very normal, Ella, after what you’ve been through,” he says, remaining seated looking up at me, watching me walk the length of the room and back again.

  “What kind of a person am I?”

  “What do you mean? You’re a person who lost her husband, who still has no answers, and who’s doing the best she can to move forward with her life,” he says, with such a kindness that I, for the first time, realize with certainty that he’s on my side.

  “I loved my husband,” I say, willing the tears to go back behind my eyes, but surrender to their power as they begin to pour down my cheeks.

  “I know you did and still do. Come, sit down,” he says, gesturing to the now empty chair across from him.

  “At first it was because Peter looks so much like his father, but then it really wasn’t about that anymore,” I say, sitting. “I actually have to say, the two are nothing alike. I mean, yes, they admittedly look alike but that really is where it stops.”

  “You said not only how similar they look, but how much Peter sounds like Gabe, how they have similar mannerisms. Do you think that it’s possible that you’re projecting your feelings for your husband onto this man?”

  I shrug my shoulders, not quite sure how to best answer him. It is possible, of course. But there’s also something about Peter that I like very much, something beyond anything that has to do with his father, my husband. I like the way he looks at me when we talk, how he understands who I am, how he opens up to me when I know that he doesn’t open up to many. I want to know him, everything about him: the good, the bad, all of it.

  But I’m not fully ready to share all this with Dr. Bryer, at least not yet. There’s still a lot that I need to figure out on my own before I do so. I decide it best not to tell him during this appointment that Peter will be coming to stay with me.

  “Yes, I suppose that anything is possible,” I say, deciding that agreeing with him is my best option at this point.

  “Fill the prescription,” he says, eyeing the paper on the table. “No one can function at a hundred percent without sleep. Things will become much clearer after a few nights of getting your eight hours.”

  I’m grateful for the change of subject and nod my head in agreement.

  “Ok,” I say, “I will.” I fold the paper into a tiny square and put it into my purse.

  I’m surprised as I look at the hourglass figurine on the desk beside me. It seems like it’s been just a few moments since I last turned it over, willing the red sand to quickly empty itself from the top glass bulb. It’s now almost empty once more.

  “You turned it over for the fourth time and now it’s already almost done,” he says, watching it with me. “This time went very fast, didn’t it?” he asks, himself sounding a bit surprised.

  “Yes, it really did,” I say, watching as the last few grains drain to the bottom bulb. This was the first session that I can say this about. It always drags on for way too long but not today. I do feel a bit guilty for not telling him about my new houseguest, but promise myself that I’ll tell him the next time.

  He stands, not taking his eyes off me as he does.

  “Before you go, I’d just like to say one last thing, and I hope that I’m not being too forward here, it’s just that I,” he stops himself.

  “What?” I ask, waiting. “Tell me, Dr. Bryer.”

  “I really don’t want to see you get hurt after everything that you’ve already been through. That’s all,” he says, his hands now in his pockets. He’s looking down at his feet.

  “I won’t,” I tell him. He looks at me doubtfully. “Trust me, I won’t get hurt. It’s just a crush. And like you said, there are many reminders of Gabe with Peter.” Perhaps he’s right, these feelings, they can’t be real.

  “Exactly, and you lost him so suddenly and with no answers. It’s very normal for people that go through a sudden and unexpected loss, to try and create some type of closure for themselves.”

  I tell myself once more that there is so much that I haven’t told him about my marriage. I’ve kept the dark sides of my husband to myself. He, like everyone, believes that before all this happened that Gabe and I had the perfect marriage. Well, other than the lies that he kept hidden from me.

  He, unlike many others, at least believes me when I say that I didn’t kill my husband. I need him to believe me. I need someone that I can talk to, someone who doesn’t question me. The last thing that I’d ever want to do is destroy his trust.

  And when I’m ready, there is so much that I do want to tell him. I just need to ensure that I can fully trust him.

  “You’re right, Dr. Bryer. It all happened so fast. I never had a chance to say goodbye. And I still don’t know what happened to him, or if he’s still out there somewhere,” I say, omitting the fact that I know he is.

  “Ella,” he says, putting both of his hands on my shoulders. He waits until I look up at him and look him in the eyes. “Gabe is dead. He’s not coming back. You need to learn to accept this fact or you’ll never be able to mourn the loss and move forward with your life.”

  “Until we find him, I don’t know that,” I say. What I really want is confirmation so that I can move on with my life. But I know that I can’t say this to him.

  “He’s gone, Ella, and I’m so sorry for that,” he says, his hands still on my shoulders. I can see that he’s really trying to help me here. I need to let him think that he is.

  “Thank you, Dr. Bryer,” I say and mean it. I do thank him for trying to help me.

  “Peter isn’t Gabe. He cannot fill that void.”

  “I know that,” I tell him. Peter is definitely not Gabe.

  I thank him again for his time and leave. My head won’t stop churning thoughts around
and around.

  I know that Peter isn’t mine to keep and that most likely once he finds out who I really am that he’ll be gone, but just for now, I want to enjoy his company. I have no hopes of anything even remotely close to forever or a happy ending of any sort with him.

  But there is something rather safe about knowing this. There’s no room for hoping or wishing. This go around I’ll just live in the moment. This time around I know there is no happy ending for me.

  I’m ok with not having all the answers for once. I rather like this feeling of freedom from the outcome.

  And then Peter’s face flashes before my eyes. There was something there that night when he told me about what happened with his best friend. He’d opened up to me, and it opened up something in me. For just that one second I felt as if there was a chance that I could love again. This was something that I’d told myself many times over that I would never have another chance at.

  What if it were possible? Maybe not with Peter, but perhaps just in general. What if it’s a possibility that loving and losing Gabe didn’t actually break my heart? What if it just broke it open?

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  BLACK WATER

  That Night, One Year Ago…

  He fully immerses his body into the black water. He pushes himself down into the darkness. He’s at first shocked by how cold it is. He’s waiting for the pain to stop, waiting for the numbness to take over. He holds his breath for as long as he’s trained himself to do. Two minutes. And then he quickly rises to the surface, gasping for air once he gets there. He’s floating now, his teeth chattering loudly in his ears. He waits for any sounds or movement. There’s nothing other than his rough breathing.

  The pain is starting to become unbearable now. It feels as though tiny shards of glass are cutting at his flesh, ripping him open. As he looks down at his body, he fully expects his skin to be pulled open, raw and bloody. There is nothing but redness from the harsh coldness of the water.

  The icy water is his main enemy now. He goes under again, this time swimming towards the boat. He rises, looks up again, making sure that she’s nowhere in sight; that she hasn’t come to the side of the boat, a gun or other weapon in her hands readying herself for battle. But again there is nothing but stillness. He knows what the silence means and it crushes him. She’s most likely dead.

  After a few moments, he takes in a lungful of air and goes back down once again. The water is too dark. He cannot see anything. He feels with his hands, just the way he’d been practicing. He’s now underneath the boat. He can feel the roughness of it against his skin. Needing to get to the other side and not knowing where she might be, or if she’s still alive up there and looking for him, he decides that his best course of action is to navigate from under here. The cold blackness is his only company, but if he can just get this done as quickly as possible, he’s home free.

  With both hands, he feels around the hull of the boat. He’d measured a dozen or so full arm lengths during his numerous practice sessions, and he now extends his right arm, knowing that he needs to follow where the tips of his fingers touch. After several seconds he pushes himself back up, gasping for air. He now knows exactly where to go, where everything is.

  Finally, after a few moments, he finds what he’s been looking for, the stern of the boat. He glides under the surface once again. Rising quietly, he stills himself the best he can despite the freezing cold. He waits for any sounds. Nothing.

  He cannot help it as he gasps for oxygen. Looking at his watch, he sees that he was only down for ninety-four seconds. He’d been practicing and was easily able to do two minutes, even just moments ago. He’s getting too fatigued to make it much longer. He begins to panic, thinking that he’ll die out here if he doesn’t get his wetsuit on soon. He knows one thing for certain: he has approximately thirty minutes before he starts to suffer from the symptoms of hypothermia.

  One thing that he hadn’t accounted for was just how cold the water would be and just how painful. This latest storm and cold front were an unexpected hindrance. His skin is tingling with the sharp stings of the cold slicing at him like tiny glass razors. The feeling, as if the water is ripping at his flesh, pulling it apart from his body, isn’t something he can take much longer. The cold is making his work that much more difficult.

  He quickly climbs up the few rear steps back up onto the boat. He cannot see or hear her. He presumes that she’s just where he’d left her, at the front end of the boat, dead or maybe still in the process of dying. He remains at the back end. He feels for the key still tucked safely inside the zipper compartment of the pocket of his jacket. He always had it there when they went sailing. Just in case this day came. He unlocks the storage compartment at the stern, a place he mistakenly thought she’d never bother looking at, or wonder about. Her questioning as to why this was locked and what it contained, was the impetus of this latest fight.

  And there it is: the box, his lifeline, right where he’d left it, locked under a bench at the stern of the boat. He’d been so worried that she would somehow pick the lock and discover its contents. Though he’d secured it in place, he had been worried when the water got so choppy that somehow it would make a lot of noise rattling around, even somehow come open of its own accord. He was admittedly paranoid. Had she found it, discarded its contents, he’d be stuck out here with nothing. Then, he too, would be dead or dying.

  He pulls the lock open, revealing the hidden contents. He takes out his hunter’s knife and cuts the thick cord firmly wrapped around the box. A preemptive measure that he’d taken in case she’d ever managed to get the outer compartment lock open.

  After a few tugs, it finally comes loose, and he pulls hard, finally releasing it. He then opens the box. He quietly stops and listens for any sounds from her or anyone else that might happen to come by. Again, there is nothing but stillness and a sharp quiet.

  Upon opening the box he quickly grabs his wetsuit and empties the remaining contents. He peels his wet clothing off and puts the pile back into the box. He struggles, but is able to put it on, despite his shivering and damp skin. He manages to put one foot in, then the other, and pulls the suit up and over his torso. He gets both arms in and flails a few moments, adjusting the suit so that it’s on right. He immediately begins to get warmer. He knows he’s dead if he doesn’t keep his body temperature at a certain level.

  He then takes and puts on the headgear with a flashlight, centering it on his forehead, the thick, plastic band wrapped tightly around his head. Then, attaching the knife to the band that’s now giving him a headache, he closes the heavy metal box that now contains his wet clothing and releases it into the ocean. He watches as it falls deep into the blackness, disappearing just as his second wife Amelia had, into an endless abyss. He’d regrettably had to kill her too, and he’s never gotten over it, and knows that he never will.

  He grabs his scuba gear. Within seconds he’s wrapped his arms securely through the straps of his scuba tank backpack. He puts on his mask, snorkel and fins, checks that the oxygen is good, and readies himself. With all of his gear now on and all evidence of his plan gone, he climbs back down the rear steps and jumps back down into the blackened water.

  He stays down for just under ninety seconds before surfacing. He’s much warmer now, from both the wetsuit and adrenaline. It’s now bearable, at least, and his teeth barely chatter. He attributes most of this to sheer determination.

  He swims backwards from the boat, just enough so that he can see it clearly, confirming once again that there’s no movement of any kind. After a few moments of not hearing or seeing anything he takes the risk and swims farther outward, away from the boat, fully aware that if she’s still alive, that he is a clear target now.

  He’s being paranoid, he tells himself. She couldn’t possibly be alive. No one could survive that blow. Even though he’ll miss her, he has to admit that he’d been quite brilliant with this. There’s no murder weapon. Using that block of ice to hit her with, that was gen
ius. It was as hard as concrete. No fingerprints on any murder weapon.

  Slicing at the bulging vein in his arm, watching as the blood sprayed across the boat for effect, was a dramatic touch. Then pouring out the six tubes he’d pulled out of his veins over the last two weeks, he knew that he’d left enough to make it look very serious. They’d search for his body but come up empty. It was truly the perfect plan. If she didn’t die out here, she’d be accused of killing him. Either way, she was no longer his problem anymore.

  He has two miles to swim; he’s practiced for this for six months. He can do this in less than thirty minutes if he isn’t interrupted, though with the water this choppy it might take him longer. He prays the coast guard doesn’t come before their scheduled loop this way. He’s been studying their movements for weeks, and they’re usually a mile southeast from this direction. So, if they’re on the same trajectory today, he should be fine.

  He goes deep down into the water and glides smoothly at first, then he can feel the pull as the waves rise and fall, carrying him along like a ragdoll. He remembers what he was taught. Go with it. Don’t fight nature. Ride the waves. And he does.

  He thinks of Ella. He’s going to miss her so much. He really loved her. He can easily say more than he ever loved any woman before her. Even Amelia. But as they say, all good things must come to an end.

  It’s going to be the look on Ella’s face just before he struck her that will haunt him the most. She’d turned around, grabbing for something behind her. He was shocked when he saw the gun, lying there beside her. When had she gotten the guts?

  There were signs, so many clues that she was planning to kill him. He estimated that she’d been planning it for weeks. It was kill or be killed. But still he had loved her so deeply. Nothing would change that.

  With Amelia, it wasn’t planned. Things had just gotten out of control. This time he had known what he was about to do. Ella had looked up at him, pretending to be so innocent, completely unaware of what was about to happen. She had been an altogether different story.