And I liked it. Physical pain is nothing, I’ve realized. It’s letting go of your fear, finding your rage, and feeling strong that make the difference.
Unless it’s 2 A.M., and you’re dreaming of a baby who couldn’t have existed, or your homicidal mother who certainly did, or Stan Miller and the iron spikes protruding from his bloody chest.
Did killing someone make me a badass? Or did it take more courage to continue pounding the heavy bag while my own hollowed-out face mocked me in the far mirror?
I worked the bag for another thirty minutes. Next, I hit the weight machines. Then the StairMaster, followed by jump roping. This was it, my final workout before my once-in-a-lifetime main event. The next thirty-eight hours would be spent on rest and recovery. Like a professional athlete, I would take the final two days before the marathon off. Gotta be fresh for 8 P.M. Saturday. Gotta be ready.
Six A.M., people started arriving, beginning their own daily rituals. I left them behind, staggering into the locker room, where I headed straight into a hot, steamy shower.
I stood there a long time, soaking exhausted muscles.
And I wondered, if I was so strong, if I’d made so much progress in the past year, why was I still so terrified of a baby girl named Abigail?
*
IWALKED HOME FROM THE GYM. Watched my breath puff into the single-digit air. Watched the sun crawl its way over the gloomy gray horizon. I strode past yawning college students and hunch-shouldered morning commuters, all of them heading into the brick sprawl of Harvard Square as I worked my way out.
I kept my hands jammed deep in the pockets of my coat for warmth, while my ears were wrapped in a plain brown scarf. The cold didn’t bother me. It felt refreshing after my time in the gym. I moseyed along, my body finally wrung out and ready to collapse on my bed.
Times like this, I could almost admire the world around me. I could almost feel the tang of a snowflake on the tip of my nose. Appreciate the way the dawn painted the horizon with streaks of pink and orange and made the densely packed buildings glow.
I didn’t want to die.
It came to me, walking fifteen minutes toward my lonely room.
I had regrets. I wasn’t a great person. I’d engineered another man’s death. I’d done something terrible to my own mother. And I’d lost both of my best friends.
Put it in those terms, and why I even cared about what was going to happen at roughly 8 P.M. tomorrow was a mystery. But I wasn’t ready to give up. Maybe my life was one giant fuckup. But I felt…I didn’t know. As if I was on the edge of discovery. Finally realizing the power of my own arms and legs. Finally, twenty-eight years later, learning how to be me.
I wanted more mornings like this one. More rounds with a heavy bag, more crisp winter days. I wanted to walk the dog that was not my dog, smooth my hands over her sweet face. I wanted to run and laugh and, someday, what the hell, fall in love. Have a couple of kids. Raise them in the mountains where everyone would know their business, but also look them in the eye and smile.
I thought of Officer Mackereth. His invitation to brunch. The fact that I’d worked my final shift tonight and probably wouldn’t see him again.
Thirty-seven hours to live.
What was I waiting for? I was who I was. I’d done what I had done. And in a day and a half, what would happen would happen.
No more training. No more planning. No more preparing.
Living. That’s the only thing I had left to do. All thirty-seven hours of it.
I started to think about it. Really, truly consider it.
Then I turned the corner toward my house, and discovered my aunt Nancy standing there.