Austen Box Set

by Hart, Staci

As our bodies slowed, as he sagged against me, I felt the weight of his heart return, heavier than before. And he shook his head against me, the final fissure in the cracked surface that broke it once and for all.

  "I'm sorry, Elliot," he whispered as he pulled away, slipping away from me like smoke.

  "Why are you sorry?" I asked, though I knew the answer.

  "I shouldn't have …" He swallowed hard and sat on the edge of the bed, the pain on his face mirroring the pain in my heart. "I can't do this to you, to me. Not now. I need time."

  "Time?" I asked as I sat, my heart weak and broken. "I asked for time once, and you wouldn't give it. I've given so much." The words trembled and broke.

  He stood, and I watched the expanse of his back and broad shoulders flex and release as he reached for his pants. "I'm sorry. Forgive me."

  "No," I whispered, an answer and a plea. I'd known our fate, knew my sacrifice, but that knowledge was no consolation. My facade fell, my braveness gone — I couldn't take everyone's pain like I had so willingly. I couldn't give any more because I had nothing left.

  He pulled on his pants hastily, stuffing his feet in his boots. And then he was at the window, dejected and desolate, ashamed and repentant. The rest of his clothes and his coat were in his hands as he opened the window, casting a tortured glance over his shoulder at me before disappearing into the falling snow, his footsteps vanishing within minutes as if he'd never been there at all.

  Blank

  The page is blank

  Like new fallen snow,

  As is my heart,

  As is my soul.

  -M. White

  Wade

  My hands lay on the surface of a mahogany table, palms pressed against the glossy surface, with my eyes on the reflection of the funeral director sitting across from me. Everything was in order, the details for tomorrow approved, and I'd just signed the rest of the paperwork, finalizing the funeral.

  None of it fully reached me through the fog I'd been wandering through for the last two days.

  Everything felt far away, distorted and fishbowled, like looking through the wrong end of a telescope. We were all grieving differently. Sadie was inconsolable. Sophie spent her time wavering between finding calm for Sadie's sake and crumbling, beside herself. And I was numb, grieving by not grieving, completely empty. There were too many things to do, too many people to talk to, and I was too busy to feel anything at all. Even in the dead of night, I lay in bed, not sleeping, not thinking, just watching the moonlight stream in through the window, warming to the blues and purples of dawn. And when the clock told me it was the right time, I would get up and dress to face another day.

  "Mr. Winters?" he asked from across the table.

  My eyes snapped to his. "I'm sorry, I didn't catch that."

  He smiled genuinely. "It's all right. I just asked if you had any other questions for me?"

  "No." I pushed back my chair and stood, and he did the same, mirroring me as I extended my hand.

  "Then we'll see you tomorrow. Just call me if you need anything before then."

  A curt nod was my only response, and I turned to leave the room. I was fifteen blocks from the house, but I didn't hail a cab — instead I buttoned my felt coat and flipped the collar up against the cold, burying my hands in my pockets. But the cold seeped through, slipping into my skin, muscles, bone, and I welcomed it, wishing it would turn me to stone.

  There was only one moment since the day he died when I could still feel, and I felt everything, my grief compounding in layers.

  As he lay in the hospital bed with the light shining in on him, still, gone, I stood disbelieving at his side, knowing what I had to do. First was Sophie. I'd heard the phone drop to the ground, then Ben's voice telling me they were on their way.

  Then I called Elliot.

  Her voice split me open. The second she gave me a response, I'd disconnected, unable to take anything more.

  And when I looked at him again, I knew into the depths of my soul that he was gone.

  I knew I was gone too.

  I left the house, not knowing what I was doing or where I was going. And I walked. I walked until the sun disappeared and the snow began to fall, walked until my feet carried me to her. And as I stood in front of her window, I knew what I needed, what I wanted, the only thing I had left.

  Her.

  That was the moment I came alive. I crawled through that window and into her arms. I poured myself into her until I was empty again.

  I'd been empty ever since.

  I left simply because I couldn't stay. I'd made a mistake, crossed a line in going there, unable to see past myself. And when I left, I broke her again with my clumsy, numb hands.

  The emptiness was complete. I couldn't feel her in my arms. I couldn't feel my heartache. I couldn't feel my soul or my feet against the pavement. All I had was the stinging cold to let me know I was alive.

  The house was full of quiet movement as Ben, Lou, and Jeannie worked on setting it up for the wake. Something was baking in the kitchen, but I couldn't eat, hadn't eaten, knew I should. Instead, I hung my coat on a peg in the entryway and spoke to no one before walking up the stairs and into my room, closing the door behind me with a snick.

  The light at my desk was still on, shining down on the blank paper like a spotlight, waiting for me to find something to say. How do you write a few words to sum up a man's life? How could I explain what he meant to me, to the world, on a sheet of paper? How could I describe the loss that had consumed me, leaving nothing? Because I had nothing. Nothing to give, no words to speak.

  But I pulled out the chair and sat down, staring at the paper, blinking and breathing, heart beating, autonomous, lost to myself. The pen was heavy in my fingers, the words heavy in my mind, and when the ball-point touched the paper, words slipped out unbidden, unwanted as the tears fell from my eyes, unabashed, unashamed. And I realized then that I wasn't empty. I was broken; the sharp pieces of what was left of me were buried under shock that had collapsed, decimating me. But they resurfaced like the undead, cutting their way through the wreckage to open me up once again.

  To Live

  To live

  Is to feel

  So you know

  You are real.

  -M. White

  Elliot

  Dark eyes looked back at me in the mirror, dark hair framing my face, dark dress on my body. The world seemed to be bleak, quiet and empty, the sky shrouded in miles of fog that signaled snow. It made me feel small, a miniature in a world of miniatures.

  I was not ready for today, and there was nothing that could stop it from happening. Today was here and waiting to be endured, survived.

  I twisted my hair into a bun at my nape and turned my back on my reflection, the floorboards creaking to mark my movement as I stepped to the bed where my heels stood, slipping my feet in one at a time, smoothing the black skirt of my dress as if I could smooth the wrinkles of life away, make it straight and perfect. The poem sat on my desktop, the paper heavy between my fingers as I folded it into thirds and slipped it into my clutch. And with that, there was nothing else to keep me in my room where it was safe.

  My family waited in the living room, dressed in black, half of them with a drink in their hands. They'd wanted to come, though I believed it nothing to do with Rick and everything to do with their own devices. Even Jack was there, standing somberly next to Charlie with his hands in the pockets of his slacks, his jacket bunched up at his wrists, looking impossibly handsome. But I wanted him less today than I ever had before. Today I didn't know if I'd ever want anything again other than to turn back the clock.

  They chatted amongst themselves, moving around me as they donned jackets and gloves, and I felt as if I were the center of a storm, moving separately, more quietly than the rest. And when we were all ready, I followed them out of the house, into the cold. Jack hung back, laying his hand on my back, asking me softly if I was all right. I nodded my answer, because how could I tell him the truth? How
could I tell him that my life, my heart would never be the same? How could I tell him my soul had been shredded and thrown to the wind?

  We split up into several cabs, Jack and I ending up by ourselves. But he didn't press me, didn't speak, just let me exist, my eyes trained out the window as the first snowflakes began to fall.

  Three days had passed, and I hadn't stepped foot in their home. There was nothing to be done there, not by me, and Sophie had come to me. She didn't want to be home, either. So we spent the days in my room when she wasn't with Sadie, who'd been staying with a friend too.

  What I hadn't told her was that Wade had come to me that night. She spoke about him as if things were the same as they had been, as if he hadn't come to me for comfort and left when he'd gotten what he'd come for.

  And still, I understood him. But the truth of my sacrifice was too much. He'd finally consumed all of me, fueling his fire with my soul's tinder.

  He'd barely spoken, Sophie'd said, only gone from meeting to meeting, handling the funeral and the beginnings of the estate paperwork, all the details kept separate from her, which she was grateful for. She couldn't decide anything; not what she wanted to eat or wear, whether or not she wanted to sleep, how to occupy her time in the long hours of the day.

  My heart cracked and crumbled with every word. He was in pain (I knew, I could feel it as if I'd taken a part of him with me) and he didn't know how to manage that pain (I knew this too, without a shadow of a doubt). But I'd been used up and left alone.

  He was dangerous. Letting myself have hope was dangerous. And now, I would pay penance for that. Because I loved him still, and I always would. I just didn't want to hurt anymore.

  I didn't want to speak to him, and he didn't reach out to me, not that I'd expected him to. If there was one thing I'd learned from his return, it was that he wouldn't come to me, ever. I'd written him a dozen letters in those three days, the old habit as easy and comforting as it was painful. I'd written the words I wanted to say and never would, sometimes on tear-stained paper, sometimes on paper that met its end in the clutches of my fists. And I kept all those words secret, sacred. I couldn't trust him with them.

  The cab pulled to a stop behind the others, and Jack got out first, extending his hand to help me out. But he didn't let it go, just tucked it into his elbow to steady me. I looked up at him gratefully, my legs and heart less steady with every step, and he patted my hand with sad eyes that expected nothing.

  I wished again that I could let myself be with a man like him. But my heart wasn't mine to give. It never had been.

  Ben greeted us at the door and showed us to the second pew, his eyes lingering for a brief moment on the point where my hand hooked in Jack's elbow. He pulled me aside, telling me softly that Sophie wanted me with her. But first, I had to see Rick.

  I was last in line behind my family, and for that I was thankful. Because when I stood next to his casket, I wasn't rushed, didn't have to hurry. I couldn't have even if I'd wanted to.

  He looked different, waxy and foreign but the same as always. Just … gone. I wanted to touch him but stopped myself, wishing I could hold his hand again, wishing I could smooth his hair. But instead, I leaned into his coffin ever so slightly to whisper, "For in that sleep of death what dreams may come / When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, / Must give us pause. Goodbye, my friend, my father."

  The words caught in my throat, and I backed away, turning for the side room as hot tears rolled down my cheeks. I brushed them away before I pushed open the door and stepped into the room, stopping just in the threshold as the door swung shut quietly behind me.

  Sophie looked up, rushing into my arms, but my gaze was locked on Wade across the room.

  He stood, tall, strong, his uniform crisp and neat, dark and somber. He looked bigger, larger than life, invading every corner of the room with his jaw sharp, lips flat, eyes that cut through me, leaving me shaken. Sadie's arms were wound around his waist, her face buried in his chest, which was covered in medals, but he looked at me for a long moment, our souls tethered.

  Sophie pulled away, and the tether snapped. "You're here," she breathed.

  "I'm here. I'm always here."

  His eyes hadn't left me — I could feel them on me like a flood light, exposing me, illuminating my pain. Sadie broke away from Wade and moved to hug me. I closed my eyes and held her, and he watched me still. I couldn't meet his eyes again, couldn't feel the weight of them, didn't want it. Didn't want to know what he wanted, what he thought. Not right now. I was resigned to never know.

  I pulled back and looked her over, smiling gently as I opened my clutch and found my handkerchiefs, touching up her makeup with one. I pressed it into her palm when I was finished and gave another to Sophie.

  "We'll survive today," I said, cupping Sadie's cheek, trying to convince myself just as much as them. "Today, this will be hard, to share our grief with everyone. But we will survive, and we'll survive whatever comes next."

  The funeral director ducked quietly into the room. "It's time."

  I nodded and straightened Sadie a little more, adjusting her blazer, moving to Sophie to smooth her hair and press a kiss to her cheek, and then only Wade was left. His Adam's apple bobbed, betraying the hardness of his face, his eyes burning with things left unsaid.

  I looked away and ushered the girls out.

  They sat next to their aunt, and I kept walking, planning to sit with my family, but he grasped my hand, sending a shock up my arm and to my heart, pulling me to a stop. His eyes told me he needed me, told me he was sorry, begged me as he sat and tugged my hand, and still, against all that I wanted, I took the seat next to him, my heart hammering and soul aching. Because I loved him, and that love destroyed me.

  The warmth of his body transferred to mine as a friend of the family stood in at the podium and sang "The Only Living Boy In New York," one of Rick's favorites. But I wasn't relieved to have Wade there next to me. I wasn't comforted. I was confused about everything and nothing, the injustice of it all stifling me through the stiff collar of my dress, which suddenly felt too small, too tight.

  Rick was gone, and he'd never come back.

  Wade was back, but he may as well have been gone.

  He took liberties, doing what he liked, taking what he liked when he liked it, rejecting me over and over again in between, and I let him.

  I was a slave to my hope.

  But I couldn't hang on any longer. I watched as it slipped through my fingers, fading to a pinpoint of light.

  The singer finished and sat, marking my turn. The poem was in my purse, then between my fingers, then resting on a podium stand as I stood before the people who loved Rick, their eyes on me for words of comfort. But the eyes I felt the most were Wade's, like a stone tied around my ankle, dragging me down, down into the dark.

  I looked down at the poem, took a breath, and willed myself not to cry.

  Life is a walk,

  A very long walk

  That begins with a crawl,

  A toddle and tumble.

  But we walk on,

  Sometimes to trip or fall,

  Sometimes to run and laugh

  Throwing our faces up to the sky

  And our voices to the wind.

  Friends come and go

  Through the very long walk,

  Our paths meeting,

  Sometimes parting,

  Sometimes meeting again,

  Sometimes not.

  But we weather the days we have

  Finding comfort and joy

  In togetherness.

  When we meet the one,

  The one to walk with us,

  The one to hold our hand,

  The one whose arms we fill

  When the nights are cold,

  The one to comfort

  When their tears fall,

  Trail of diamonds

  On a porcelain cheek.

  This is when we feel

  The value of our lives.

  We
walk through the spring,

  Our eyes on the long blades of grass

  Reaching for the sun

  The smell of life and beginnings

  Filling up our souls;

  We walk through the summer,

  Lazy in the heat

  Warmed by that sun

  Which coaxed the blossoms from buds

  Opening their petals to offer themselves

  Freely, gladly;

  We walk through the fall,

  And the green leaves breathe their last

  In a riot of color as they languish

  The tree yawns and stretches bare branches

  To sleep, just for a while;

  We walk through the winter,

  And the cold is bitter

  The days of spring and life gone

  The quiet deafening, a fog with no edges

  But still we hold hands: it vanquishes our fear.

  And when our walk is done,

  The miles behind us,

  A trail of footprints

  Converging, parting;

  When we look behind us

  At all that has passed,

  The ones we love,

  What we leave behind,

  What we cherish,

  Is what makes our lives

  Worth living.

  * * *

  Wade

  Elliot didn't meet my eyes again, only folded up her paper and walked off the stage with her head down, though I willed her to look up, waiting for her to sit next to me so I could hold her, take her pain and press it against mine until they were the same. But as my fingertips tingled, imagining themselves against her skin, she kept walking, passing me by to sit in the pew behind me.

  My body went rigid, every muscle tense from my jaw to my thighs, leaving my lungs empty. A professor from Columbia made his way to the podium to read an Emerson poem, my eyes on my father's coffin, more alone than I'd ever been in my life.