I’m a horrible person.
It’s that fact that I want to run from.
I want to run from who I’ve become.
With the wind blowing through my hair, I fly down the steps, across the yard and onto the dock. I run as fast as I can, which isn’t very fast since I developed CRPS, but I try. I push myself all the way to the end of the dock, and when I reach it, I keep going, launching myself into the water like a bullet. A fully clothed bullet.
I swim under water for as long as I can before my scorching lungs force me to come up for air. I surface, gasping for air, lake water in my eyes, and sun on my face. I drag in two deep breaths before I strike out toward the open channel. I’m not thinking of anything except the freedom of fleeing, even if it’s just in this small way.
I swim until my arms and legs feel like lead. I stop to tread water, only realizing how far I’ve come when I turn to look back at the house. Good grief, I’ve got a long return trip to make.
I flip over onto my back and float for a few minutes, resting as I stare up at the evening sky. Another day is dying, as evidenced by the brilliant oranges that are giving way to the softer blues of twilight. If only all death could be so beautiful, so tranquil. If only the end of all life could be as peaceful a transition as day is to night.
Languidly, I paddle my feet and wave my arms, moving slowly in the right direction, my thoughts consumed, as they so often are, by death. It’s never far, it seems. Whether in the passing of the people around me or the gradual dying of my leg, death is a constant companion, an ever-present hound nipping at my heels.
Eventually, I turn onto my stomach and begin to swim again, the waters around me as black as spilled ink. They’re dark and fathomless, yet to me, they’re familiar and welcoming. These waters don’t scare me. They comfort me. They feel like home. The home of my heart.
I’m exhausted by the time I drag my aching body from the lake. I plod wetly up the slight incline to the front steps and start shedding clothes the moment I hit the porch. I leave my sopping shirt and pants in a heap and hurry inside. It’s nearly dark and my cabin is pretty remote, but I still don’t want to be dallying too long out of doors in my underwear.
I tiptoe through to the master bedroom, trying not to leave too much water on the floors. When I see the dark shadow in the doorway, I stop dead. My heart flutters wildly in my chest for a few seconds before my eyes adjust enough to see that it’s Sam.
Sam is here, in my house, standing in my bedroom doorway.
My heart begins to flutter for a different reason now. “Sam? What are you doing here?”
He steps into the wedge of light that slices into the living room from the kitchen, and his expression causes my panic reflex to kick in. He looks…grief-stricken.
“Oh, God, is it Sara? Is she…is she…?”
I still can’t make myself ask this man if his wife is dead.
“No, it’s not Sara.”
I slap a hand to my chest to still the ache there, exhaling in relief. “Thank goodness.”
Only as my mind stops reeling do I realize that I’m not wearing anything but a bra and panties. Instantly, I cross an arm over my breasts and one diagonal over my belly in an attempt to hide what he’s clearly already seen.
“Sara’s isn’t the death I’m concerned about right now.”
I frown. “What do you mean?”
Sam takes another step toward me, into the light. “When were you going to tell me, Abi? Or were you? Were you even going to give me that common courtesy?”
I feel the blood, blood which was only moments ago rushing toward it, drain away from my face. “I don’t know what you—”
“Drop the act, damn it. Were you going to tell me? Or were you just going to let me read about it in the paper? Or, worse, be the one to find you floating, facedown in the cove? Do you—” He stops, letting his head drop, chest huffing as he tries to control his temper. “Do you have any idea what that would do to me? Did you even once consider that? Or Noelle? Did you think of her at all?”
“Sam, I didn’t…I…I… How do you even know?”
Finally I see the piece of paper dangling from his right hand. He raises it and waves it in the air. “I’ve been calling, but you didn’t answer, so I drove over here. I knocked and knocked, but still no answer. The door was open, so I came in. Couldn’t find you anywhere. I thought maybe you’d gone for a walk or something, so I was going to leave you a note. I looked for a notepad, but couldn’t find one in the kitchen, so I thought I’d check the desk in your bedroom. I wasn’t trying to snoop, but when I saw the letter to your mother and the first words were ‘I have to say goodbye’…”
My galloping heart slams to a stop, and I feel like there is an eternal pause before it starts beating again.
The letter.
Sam doesn’t have to elaborate. I know which one he means. The letter I wrote to my mother and then forgot to take when I went to visit her. I put it back in the desk drawer to take next time.
It’s the letter that tells her about Sasha. The letter that tells her about me. The letter that tells her about my plan and the letter that tells her I made arrangements so that she will always be taken care of. It’s the letter that tells her goodbye.
The letter that explains everything.
Everything.
And Sam found it.
“That…that wasn’t meant for you.” My voice is weak. So is my reasoning. But he’s caught me so off guard, I can’t even think straight.
“That much is obvious. It seems like there’s only one person you love enough to say goodbye to, and she won’t even be able to miss you.”
I recoil at his words as if he’d physically slapped me. “Sam, you don’t know what—”
“No, I don’t know. I don’t know any of this because you haven’t told me.”
“I would’ve…” I trail off because my lips, my tongue won’t form the lie.
I can’t say I would’ve told him because I wouldn’t have. I wouldn’t have been able to tell Sam that the reason I came back to Molly’s Knob was to take my own life.
“No. You wouldn’t have,” he corrects. He says nothing for a few seconds, and I hope the worst is over. But when he speaks again, I know it’s not. Far from it. “What was your plan, Abi? How were you going to do it? How does one go about giving their life to a lake?”
My pulse thrums erratically and the muscles in my chest wall constrict, squeezing painfully. My breathing accelerates and my hands start to tremble. Panic. I feel it sliding over my head like a plastic bag. “I…I…”
My mouth is so dry I can hardly swallow and my eyes sting with tears I’ve been holding in for a lifetime it seems.
When I don’t continue, he prompts, “Can’t even tell me that much? Are you afraid I’ll try and stop you? Because I won’t. If you don’t have anything worth living for, if I’m not worth living for, I won’t try to keep you here.”
He’s angry. Furious. And he has every right to be.
I gulp, my tongue sticking to the roof of my mouth. “I…I was going to take a handful of the painkillers my doctor gave me a while back and just…drift away.”
“Great. So you were going to overdose and drown yourself in the lake? Our lake. The lake where I told you I loved you for the first time. The lake where we planned our future. The lake where we picked out baby names for our three unborn kids. That lake?”
He’s not even trying to keep his bitterness and rage in check. He’s handing it to me and I don’t know what to do with it. “Sam, you don’t understand.”
He charges at me, his long legs eating up the distance between us so quickly I can’t outmaneuver him. When he lets the letter drop and winds his fingers around my upper arms, he gives me a good hard shake. “Then make me understand. Explain to me how you could do this to me. To us.”
“This wasn’t about you, Sam.” I wrench my arms free, my own temper on the rise. “This had nothing to do with you. When I made these plans, you weren’
t even a part of my life. I had no idea all this would happen.”
“You’ve changed your mind then?”
I can tell by the steely glint in his eyes that he knows the answer. He’s almost daring me to lie to him.
“N-no.”
“So you made promises to me, to my dying wife, to my child, knowing damn well that you had no way, no intention of keeping them?”
I open my mouth. I want to deny it. I want so badly to deny it, but I can’t.
“Christ Almighty.” Sam scrubs a hand over his face. “I can’t even believe this. How could you do this, Abi? How could you even consider it? My wife would give anything to be able to live for another year, and you’re planning to just toss away all of your years. How could you even think of this?”
“How? You want to know how I got here? Well, let me give you a little history lesson on Abi Simmons.” Too mad to care that I’m half naked, I shift my weigh to one hip and start ticking things off on my fingers. “You know about the death of my father. You know that my mother moved me away from my friends, my life, from you when I was seventeen. You know that she was in an accident and I basically lost her, too. And you know that, as a result, I had to quit the job I worked so hard for and loved so much. You know that I got pregnant by a man who I tried and tried and tried to love like I loved you, but couldn’t. You know he cheated on me, and you know I killed my little girl when I fell down the steps trying to leave him. I killed my child! How am I supposed to live with that? How can I carry that weight for the rest of my life? I can never forget it, never get past it. My own body won’t let me forget. I have nothing but pain and regret. Nothing. Every day of forever. If you can’t understand why I can’t live this way, why I’ve made the choices I’ve made, then I’m not sure there’s anything I can say to make you understand.”
I’m panting angrily and Sam is staring furiously. Neither of us says a word. We simply glare at each other, tempers snapping like burning kindling in the space between us.
“But you came home and you found me, Abi. You found me. You have me. Doesn’t that count for something?”
“Of course it does. But not the way you think. You and Noelle…you’re two more reasons for me to disappear. You don’t need someone like me in your life. You deserve better. I can’t drag you and your precious little girl into my living hell. How could I do that? To either of you? How? Because my condition will only get worse. You don’t deserve that. You deserve to be happy. And you won’t find that with me. I finally understand why my mother had to leave. I get it. Sometimes you just can’t take it anymore. Sometimes getting out is all you can do. And sometimes that’s the best thing you can do for the people you love.”
“Abi, it was an accident. You don’t deserve to suffer for the rest of your life because of an accident. You can still live.”
“No, Sam, I can’t. I can’t.”
Sam stares down at me for a few seconds. With a nod, he lets his hands fall away until they’re hanging helplessly by his sides. His voice is quiet. Tired. Resigned. “So that’s it? You’ve made up your mind? There’s no changing it?”
I struggle to maintain eye contact. I want to look away. I want to hang my head. I want to escape the pain and disappointment and grief I see in his eyes. I want to escape the devastation I have put there.
“No. My mind is made up.”
Nodding slowly, Sam takes first one step away, and then another, and another, until he’s back at the bedroom door. He bends to pick up the letter he dropped, glancing briefly at it before he reaches back to set it on my desk. Then, without even looking at me, he walks around me and straight out the door. Probably straight out of my life.
And I don’t blame him.
Not one bit.
CHAPTER 27
ABI
Black Widow
It’s been two days since Sam found the letter. I haven’t heard a word from him. Not that I should expect to, but some part of me thought—and still hopes—that he was just mad and upset, and that he’ll get over it and reach out to me. I don’t want things to end the way we left them. I don’t want to leave this earth that way.
But what if he doesn’t get over it?
The thought causes a strange hollowness to open up in my chest. Like a black hole in space, it seems to have a vacuum effect on everything else around it, sucking in all other thought and purpose and whatever marginal bit of happiness I’ve been able to achieve. Everything else has disappeared. Everything except the nothingness the hollow left behind.
I force my mind into another direction, onto another question. The other side of the coin.
What if Sam does reach out to me again? Is that any better? It will feel better for a moment, yes, but then I’ll have the same problems to deal with that I did before he found out—the worry of how to extricate myself from the lives of him and his daughter without causing more pain. That’s the million-dollar question. How would I do that?
I don’t see a way.
My very presence in their lives was bound to be disruptive and painful. I knew it from day one.
But Sam didn’t.
I don’t know if I was being selfless in agreeing to Sara’s request, or if I was merely too weak to resist the opportunity to have Sam back in my life, if only for a little while.
Something tells me it was the latter. Something tells me it was selfishness. Deluded selfishness.
So now what? What would a strong, selfless person do in this situation? Let sleeping dogs lie? Let Sam and Noelle go, let them grieve Sara and find a healthy, happy way forward with their lives?
Yes. That’s precisely what a strong and selfless person would do. And I desperately want to be that strong and selfless person. Not for me, but for Sam and Noelle. They deserve better than my weakness.
My spine stiffens as determination hardens within me. I feel like I’ve made wrong choice after wrong choice after wrong choice throughout my life. Maybe now, maybe finally, after all this time, I can make the right one. One right choice in a lifetime of mistakes. But maybe that’s where true healing begins.
I pick up my cell phone and dial Anna Sturgill’s number. If I’m to stay strong, I need to get my mind off Sam and Noelle. I need to get back to thinking of others first, and Anna seems to know a lot about what goes on in town. She might know of some needs I could fill while I wait. I have some time left before my big day arrives. I’ll fill every available minute with others so that I will be less tempted to think of Sam. Less tempted to yield to the desire to talk to him, see him, spend my last days on this earth with him.
Yes, that was my plan when I got here, and that will be my plan once again.
As I listen to the ring on the other end of the line, I force my lips up into a smile. The problem is, I don’t feel that joy anywhere except in the muscles of my face.
********
Movie night in the park is much busier than I expected. The town park is adjacent to the biggest bank in Molly’s Knob, and that bank just happens to have one side of uninterrupted brick, and that side just happens to face the park making it the ideal screen to project a movie onto.
Small carts and narrow stands offering food and drink are set up around the perimeter. There are a few games for the kids and even a Port-O-John or two. It’s nothing fancy, but it’s obvious by the turnout that the townsfolk love it.
I’ve already seen half a dozen people I knew in high school, and the popularity of the popcorn stand where Anna Sturgill volunteered me to work has kept my mind off anything personal for the last two hours. Right up until Gladys Tremaine, the lady from the Community Café, sidles up to get a bag of popcorn.
“Fancy seeing you here, Joy.” She winks, and I wonder if she’s teasing or if she just doesn’t remember what my name actually is.
“Hi, Miss Gladys. How are you?”
“Better than I deserve, sweetie. Better than I deserve.” She smiles as she pulls a ten dollar bill off a roll of cash in her hand and then sticks the remaining wad into her br
a. “Ain’t nobody gonna rob an old lady if she keeps her money in here, is there?” She pats the area above her breast and laughs a hoarse laugh.
“No, I don’t suppose they will.” I don’t mention that the last time someone was robbed in the safe and sleepy town of Molly’s Knob was probably when I last lived here nearly twenty years ago. Even then, the only newsworthy crime was when a middle school boy was dared by his friends to steal a straw dispenser from the local diner. Hardly a violent crime. “What can I get for you?”
“How about a large popcorn with extra butter and a large Diet Coke?”
“You got it.” I take her proffered money, which is warm and limp, and I smother a smile over her order. Adding a diet drink to a large buttered popcorn is like throwing a breath mint into the mouth of a whale, but maybe there really is something to the “every little bit helps” mindset. Who knows?
As I go about getting her popcorn ready, Gladys talks to me through the window. “A little birdy told me you reunited with an old flame.”
I pause, scoop in one hand, half full bag of popcorn in the other. The black hole I’ve been doing my best to ignore opens up like a gaping mouth beneath my feet, threatening to swallow that last bit of me into its empty oblivion. “Is that right?”
“Isn’t that right?”
I finish filling her bag and then turn to the butter spout, drenching the fluffy kernels in liquid gold. “If you’re talking about Sam, then yes, I’ve seen him several times since I got back. He’s a great man. Got a great family, too.”
I plaster on a casual smile before I pivot back toward Gladys, who is watching me with her narrowed, perceptive eyes. “That’s not quite what I was gettin’ at, but you know that, don’t you, Joy?”
I gulp down the ball that’s lodged at the base of my throat. “Speaking of Sam, how’s Sara doing? I haven’t heard an update.”
The feisty woman tosses a few pieces of popcorn into her mouth and chews, lips smacking noisily, before she replies. There is sadness in her expression as well as her voice. “She passed just this afternoon, bless her. But she’s in a better place now.”
The Dandelion Page 20