With Abi, it’s always felt that way. These days, even more so. And with good reason.
In high school, I’d often get the sense that Abi and I were loving on borrowed time. I chalked it up to my dad’s voice in my head, but it turned out to be a sort of premonition of what was to come. I did lose Abi. Way too soon.
But then Sara came along and time stood still for a little while. A very little while. There were a few months of blissful peace. But then it sped up once again, and now she’s gone, long before she should’ve been.
Which brings me up to current speed. I find myself in the exact same spot—again—threatened by the loss of Abi—again—wishing for more seconds and minutes and hours in every day so I can hold onto her a little bit longer. Before she’s gone.
Forever this time.
CHAPTER 30
ABI
Barely
I guess one could say I’m barely hanging on. Barely breathing. I’ve gone from a woman with a purpose, albeit a painful one, to a woman with nothing at all. Unless regret counts, then I’m a woman with more than enough, rich beyond measure.
I should be happy that I don’t have to worry about hurting Sam and Noelle. I should be happy that he didn’t beg me to live, beg me to stay, beg me to love him for the rest of my days. It would’ve made what I have to do that much harder.
But he didn’t.
He accepted it as being in everyone’s best interest, and then he moved on.
Or so I thought.
But did he really?
Now, I’m not so sure. Sam and I have fallen into an unspoken routine. Every day around three in the afternoon, he brings his daughter out to play, and every day I come out to take this chair. Whatever they do, whether play in the sand, play in the water, or play in the grass, they do it where I can see them.
At first, I thought it was coincidence, but after a day or two, that seemed ridiculously naïve. Then I began to believe he was taunting me, and while that should’ve made me angry, it didn’t. I felt it was basically what I deserved. Well, less than what I deserved actually.
But now, I’m not sure what to think.
Sam watches me. Quite a bit. I know because I watch him constantly. From the moment he steps into view, it’s nearly impossible for me to take my eyes off him. I do watch Noelle a little here and there, but by and large, it’s Sam that my hungry gaze follows. Every move, every gesture, every laugh, and every curve of his lips—I memorize every tiny bit of him that I can cram into my overwrought brain.
But what I’ve noticed is that these afternoons spent with (but not really with) them has given me a totally different kind of regret. It’s a soul-deep sadness that I’m missing out on something beyond wonderful, and that all I’d have to do is give in and agree to live and I could have it.
Maybe that’s by design. Maybe Sam is doing this on purpose.
The sad thing is, it’s working. In a way. It’s making me dread what I once looked forward to. And it’s making me miss what I wanted so desperately to escape.
It’s the first time in two years that I’ve even wanted to live. He doesn’t know it, but Sam has taken away my running shoes. Now I can’t escape. Not really. Because now I’ll be taking as much regret with me to the grave as I’ll be leaving behind. He’s taken those running shoes and thrown them out the door, set them on fire, buried them in the woods, for there is no running from this. There is no running from him and all that he makes me feel, or from the loss of what could’ve been.
For me, there was never a way to escape Sam.
Never.
I just didn’t know it until now.
CHAPTER 31
ABI
Eclipse
The letter. The letter that destroyed everything and the letter that saved me from a coward’s way out—I hold it in my hand. It’s now folded into an envelope with Marlene scrawled across the front. I slide it into my purse, grab my keys, and lock the front door before I pull it closed behind me. Time is running out and I’d like to see Momma one more time before the lake and I become one.
A little more than two hours later, I’m walking the familiar halls of Serenity Gardens, making my way to my mother’s room. When I push open the door, I find that she’s asleep on her bed, curled on her side with her hands tucked under her cheek like a small child. My mother never naps anymore. At least not that I know of. My heart lurches behind my ribs, my thoughts racing to worst-case scenarios like illness or a deterioration of her condition.
I walk quietly into the room, setting my purse on the chair in front of her vanity, and I stand at the foot of the bed looking down at her. I’m struck by how much she still feels like my mother when she’s not awake and moving or talking. This way, asleep, she looks like she always has, just older. She looks like Momma.
She swims in my blurring vision and I hold my emotions in with the tips of my fingers, as if pressing them to my lips can keep me from feeling as effectively as it can keep me from making noise.
It can’t.
An intense wave of homesickness washes through me. God, how I long for the days when I could walk into my mother’s room and find her napping after a long shift or on Sunday afternoon. How I long for the days when she would open her eyes and smile that smile reserved just for me, her only daughter. That smile or a hug, or even for her to say my name, unprompted, would feel like water to my dry bones right now.
But I’ll never get any of that. Those days are gone, just like the days of so many other good things in my life.
I sit down on the edge of the bed. She doesn’t stir. I stay that way for several minutes, listening to the deep and even cadence of her breathing. Then, as gently as I can, I stretch out beside her, tucking my nose as close to her hair as I can without waking her. I can hear all the commotion going on just outside her door—residents and workers going about their business, talking, laughing, explaining—like I’m not lying in a strange bed with my mother who doesn’t even know me, telling her goodbye in my own twisted way. It’s bizarre. And tragic.
These moments seem so significant to me, but no one else would even bat an eye. To an onlooker, I’m a woman visiting her mother. No more, no less. But to me, I’m spending the last minutes I will ever spend with the woman who gave me life. She doesn’t remember my name, and she certainly won’t remember my death.
Tragic.
Like the majority of my life, but for a few short spurts here and there. My years with my parents. My years with Sam. My years with Sasha. All short-lived. All came to a tragic end. I miss them all. Desperately.
But when my eyelids drift shut, the scent of my mother’s shampoo locked as tightly in my lungs as it is in my memory, it’s not her face that drops into my mind.
It’s Sam’s.
********
I glance at the passenger seat again, to where my purse rests, unzipped, with a white rectangle poking out of its depths.
The letter.
I didn’t leave it.
I couldn’t.
And I’m still not entirely clear on why.
At first, I told myself that it might confuse or upset her, and I wouldn’t want to do that. She doesn’t deserve that. When I wrote it, I just wanted her to know why she wouldn’t see me anymore, but I think I also needed to confess, to tell someone of the awful things I’ve done and of the awful thing I ended up doing. I think I hoped that would somehow garner me a form of forgiveness. The more I thought about it, though, lying there beside my mother after I awoke from my short nap, the more I realized it might be the most selfish thing I’ve done yet. It would only hurt her.
I waffled back and forth for a little while then ended up deciding not to leave it. After I made the decision, I refused to think of it again.
I’m still refusing.
I went out and talked to the nurse when I finally got up, and she assured me that my mother was fine. She said Momma had started to develop a bit of insomnia, hence the daytime naps. And while I wouldn’t wish insomnia on anyone, I was
glad to hear it wasn’t something serious.
When I made my way back to Momma’s room, she was just waking up and she was not in the mood for company. The moment she saw me at the door, she told me to leave, and when I didn’t, she said it again, only louder. I was a bit surprised by her vehemence, so I didn’t concur right away. I was too stunned to move. Unfortunately, that only made her shriek louder and louder. She’s never not wanted me around. And I can’t help but wonder why she wouldn’t now. Now of all times.
She might have a childish tantrum every now and again, but Momma has never acted like she did today. This was…this was…different.
And, of course, today of all days, I hadn’t taken the time to stop and buy her a gift, so I didn’t have anything to use to try and calm her, to smooth things over. I’d only brought my letter, and that certainly wouldn’t do the trick. So when she continued to spiral upward, drawing the attention of the staff, I was asked to leave. Nicely, of course, but still… They had to ask me to leave because I was upsetting my mother. I still don’t know what I did wrong, but it left me with a sense of loss that only compounded the grief I was already feeling. I’d been robbed of the last few minutes of time with my mother that I’d ever get to spend.
Now, I feel as though I’m standing at the edge of that damn black hole, staring in. Only today, I’m wishing it would suck me in for good. Suck me and all these awful feelings into the nothingness where there is no worry, no mourning, and no feeling. Just…nothing.
Arriving back in Molly’s Knob and driving past the cheerful welcome sign only seemed to underscore the restlessly hopeless feeling I was already carrying. Momma’s upset swirled through my head on a loop. Then came the picture from Sara’s obituary to mingle with it, followed by visions of Sam and Noelle, the combination of which left my brain feeling like a gnarled and twisted thatch of thorns, dark brown and dripping blood.
More than usual, I found myself in need of a respite from thought, from emotion. From life. I knew I wouldn’t find that respite at my cabin. All I’d find there would be Sam. Sam is everywhere it seems. I can’t escape the sight or the thought of him for long. That’s why, as I drove back into town, I wheeled impulsively into a parking space in front of Luke’s. That familiar pink neon sign seemed to promise exactly what I needed—a temporary loss of memory. Of pain. Of feeling.
An escape.
So here I am, getting out of my car and heading into a bar, before dark, all by myself, in search of something to deaden the nerves.
I left the letter lying on the seat. It felt like a physical reminder of my predicament, and leaving it felt like a physical representation of all I wanted to avoid by going into Luke’s. So I left it. And I left everything that is attached to it.
The interior is dark despite the early evening hour, as is the case with most bars. There’s something alluring about this kind of dark, though. It’s as though the shadows pledge not to judge, but to hold any secrets you tell them. And, in my case, they offer a temporary reprieve from everything outside them. Everything outside here.
I choose a table toward the back and within a minute, a waitress that looks to be about my age comes to take my order. It’s been so long since I’ve been on a bender, I stumble and bumble over what to order. Eventually I settle on a simple rum and Coke.
It goes down easily, starting a nice warm fire in the pit of my stomach and alleviating that sensation of weight, of heaviness that I’ve carried so long. For just a few seconds, I think to myself that this is why escaping into a bottle is so dangerous. The feeling of release, of freedom could be addictive.
But not for someone like me. I don’t have that long to live. Addiction is for those with longevity. I don’t have that, so addiction is the least of my worries right now.
I order another drink, which takes a little more of the edge off. Finishing it quickly, I lean back in the booth, melting into the vinyl as I await my third push into blissful oblivion. Around me, the strains of a guitar usher in a familiar song, one of my favorites, something about taking time. When it first came out some years ago, it made me think of Sam, which should’ve been strange, but wasn’t. So, so many things have made me think of him over the years. It seemed so natural, so much a part of who I was, I thought nothing of it. It didn’t register that Sam never left me completely, or that I never completely let him go. It was just… Sam. Always a part of me.
Always.
I close my eyes, the fingers of one hand wrapped around my empty glass, and I let the melody wash over me. I let it carry my thoughts to places I can’t let them go when I’m in full control of my faculties.
But right now I’m not. And I don’t want to be.
Right now, I just want the good. I want to get lost in the what-if. In the comfort of something other than what’s real and solid and unavoidable.
Somewhere in between the lonely cords, I hear a solemn voice say my name. “Abi?”
Sam.
At first it seems like a part of my imagination, a pleasantly realistic dream. My name on Sam’s lips… Bliss! For years, it has anchored beautiful memories to one corner of my heart. Like a pushpin, it kept the memories I kept tucked away, too afraid to take them out, from being forgotten.
When I hear my name a second time, however, I’m prompted to open my eyes. I see a hand a few inches in front of my face. It’s extended in a silent offer, and a silent plea. Begging me to take, and begging me to give. The fingers are long and square tipped, steady, and competent. The hands of a healer.
Only he can’t heal me.
But, tonight, I want him to try. I need him to try. And I need to let him.
I just need.
I need Sam.
He’s my oasis in the dry, empty desert. He’s my lifeboat in the dark, lonely sea. He’s the moor that tethers me to this world and keeps me from drifting away into the nothingness.
I know better than to follow the hand to the arm, the arm to the shoulder, the shoulder to the neck, and the neck to the face because I’m afraid of what I’ll see in his eyes. I’m afraid it will kill me. I’m afraid that it will destroy one of the supports integral to my plan, sending the whole thing tumbling down around me. Then where will I be?
I can resist looking into his eyes. What I can’t resist is taking his hand. I can’t resist the hope of comfort, the promise of shelter.
I can’t resist one last chance to be in his arms.
I slide my fingers across his palm, the skin slightly rough yet warm. Frisson skitters up my arm and rains down my spine, causing me to shiver. My hand lies motionless within his for several seconds before he grips it. It’s as though he was giving me a chance to change my mind.
He needn’t have bothered. About this I won’t change my mind. Right now I need Sam. Any way I can get him.
With a gentle tug, he pulls me from my seat. I can feel his eyes on me, but I keep my face averted. While the alcohol has freed me from some of my burden, it’s also freed me of some of my inhibition, and I can’t afford for Sam to see what’s really going on inside me, what’s really happening inside my mind. That could be my undoing.
Head down, I let Sam lead me to the small dance floor, which is little more than a few dozen squares of parquet flooring off to one side of the otherwise tiled room. He walks to the back corner and stops, turning to face me as he pulls me into his arms.
Even as he slips one arm around my waist and laces the fingers of his other hand with mine, I don’t look up. I can’t. I can hardly think as it is. The only thing on my mind is the way our hands fit together and how his body feels along mine when he takes a step closer and slides one thigh between mine.
Our hips are squared, and our legs fall into a perfect tangle as he starts to sway. He seems to melt around me so that all I feel on every surface is Sam—Sam’s heat, Sam’s strength, and Sam’s tall, muscular frame. All I can smell is Sam, too, like even the smoke from the bar can’t compete with the hold he has over me.
The lights are low and the music is
soft. I close my eyes and give myself over to the rhythm, but not the rhythm of the music. I feel only the rhythm between us, the rhythm that’s ours and ours alone.
The rumble of the guitar vibrates against the soles of my feet, and I feel the beat of Sam’s heart where his chest is pressed to mine. I sigh deeply, almost happily when he releases my hand and winds his other arm around my waist. As we move, shifting slowly against one another, he lowers his head so that his stubbly cheek rasps across mine.
He exhales, and his warm breath flutters at my ear. When he speaks, his voice is so low I have to strain to hear his words. “You didn’t show up today. I was worried. I thought that—”
I frown as I try to work out what he’s saying, but my thoughts are sluggish. My brain is showing the first signs of alcoholic delay. “Show up where?”
Did I have an appointment I forgot? Did I promise to participate in something and then it slipped my mind?
As if sensing my slight impairment, Sam elaborates. “Your chair. You weren’t in your chair.”
“Oh,” is my only response. I don’t trust myself to say more. My insides are alive and on fire. The good kind of fire for once.
Sam missed me.
He missed that I wasn’t watching him from across the cove today. He missed seeing me. He missed me. And that makes me happy in a way it shouldn’t. But it does. I just can’t let him know that. I can’t let him see.
“Abi, I…” He trails off and, I think I heard pain in his voice before he stopped speaking. That triggers an alarm response in me, and for a few seconds, my pulse thumps with fear. “When you didn’t show up, it scared me. Scared the hell out of me, actually. So I drove over to your house. When I couldn’t find you, I thought…I thought…”
His arms wind tighter around me. I feel the anxious desperation radiating from his body into mine. I feel the urgency of what he felt and still feels as he considers that one day I won’t be there.
At all.
Ever again.
“But after a few minutes of panic, I realized your car was gone. My parents got in this morning and they’ve got Noelle, so I started driving the roads looking for you. I was on my second trip through town when I saw you parked out in front of this place. Christ, I’ve never been so relieved.”
The Dandelion Page 22