I’m afraid to say anything. I can’t say what I think, which is that she can’t really be sorry for Jake’s death. How could she? Jake’s death is the reason her husband is standing beside her right now. They got another shot at Happily Ever After while I got ripped off. My life with Jake had only just begun, and just as we settled into married life, it was over. Unfair isn’t even a big enough word to describe how fucked up it is. I don’t see any beauty in this. I see pain and I see just how indifferent the God I was raised to revere can be. I was forced to say goodbye to my husband in the most unceremonious sort of way and I see no beauty in that. All I feel like doing is lashing out and screaming at the top of my lungs how much I hate what happened. He was my husband, my best friend, the love of my life, and I had to sign piece of paper that gave the doctors permission to end his life. How is that even remotely beautiful?
Ellen and Terry smile back at me. I turn on the spot and carry myself to the rental car. I can’t be strong for another moment. I need the privacy that my hotel room offers to cry and get pissed and eventually pass out after I make that call. I have to call Jake. I have to hear his voice. I need to. I have to. I know I shouldn’t. If anyone else knew about my fucked up little addiction, they’d admit me to the nearest psych ward.
Chapter Three
The Greatest Ally
April 21, 2013
The house is the same. For the most part. I step in front of the bathroom sink and drag my ragged gaze up to the mirror. Without much intention, I end up meeting my reflection. My brown eyes are staring back at me and I’m struck by just how plain I am. Other than the misery that tends to lurk in them, my eyes aren’t anything noteworthy. My mouth is forgettable, which happens to be a good thing since I fight to keep a sarcastic smirk at bay in the presence of others. My lips are pink and free of gloss or lipstick. My hair is straight, medium brown and long, mostly because I haven’t been to a salon of any sort to pamper myself in what seems like an eternity. I could use a trim. My face is thin and it’s easier for me to see the weight that I’ve lost when I actually look instead of just see.
My skin is pale but clear. A tan would look nice on me. I remember stretching out beside Mom and Dad’s pool in the summer to soak up the rays. I haven’t even seen the pool in two summers. My height is average. My frame is average. My breasts, hips and ass are all pretty average. I’m average. The only notable thing about me is the sorrow that has become an integral part of my identity. It’s who I’ve become—I’m pretty sure my photo would be next to the dictionary entry. I look like sorrow. I feel like sorrow. I am sorrow. With my palms pressed to the countertop, my elbows are locked, bracing myself in place, the weight of my own stare far too much to withstand.
I pull my small suitcase into my bedroom and breathe deeply. I close my eyes and pretend Jake is lying in bed, smiling his crooked smile that he always reserved just for me. My nose draws in the air around me, seeking out his scent.
I don’t know why I do this. It’s the worst kind of torture, but it’s reflex at this point. I know he isn’t here and I know that his scent has long since faded, but I seek it nonetheless.
I open my eyes and look to the picture of him on my nightstand. It’s the photo of him right after he graduated from the Police Academy. He’s dressed in his uniform and smiling proudly with me under his arm. I remember him tugging me to him as Jenna held up her cell phone to snap the picture. Jake turned his head right after she took the first picture and kissed my forehead. Jenna managed to catch that moment too. She emailed me both pictures right then and there. I printed both candid photos the next day.
I framed one and had meant to frame the other, but somehow it has always ended up staying in my purse. I love that photo of his lips pressed to my forehead, my smile spread wide, exposing the straight white teeth that my parents paid a fortune for. My nose is crinkled up and my eyes are shut, reveling in his affection.
I carry the other photo with me everywhere. It’s tucked into my purse right along with the letter.
The letter.
Jeff, his partner, came over three days after the funeral and handed me an envelope with my name written in Jake’s handwriting on the front. I never even knew Jake had written me a letter. I haven’t opened it yet.
Two miserable years have passed and I still don’t have the courage to open the damn letter. It feels entirely too final and I don’t know that I’m strong enough to read whatever it is he’s written. I don’t know if I’ll ever have what it takes to open that envelope and face that brand of heartbreak.
***
My cell phone rings from inside my purse and I already know who it is.
Mom.
Another ringtone assignment to make screening calls that much easier. She’d be unimpressed with me if she ever heard the ringtone I assigned to her contact. Every time she decides to call, which is entirely too often for my liking, a shrill nuclear warning emanates from the speakers of my phone. What sounds like a barrage of horns starts low, slowly climbing in pitch and volume, peaks, then slowly descends back to where it started, just to repeat the ominous sounding alarm. I set my purse on the bed and dig for my phone, sliding my finger over the screen and holding it up to my ear.
“Hello.”
“Hey, darling. Me and Dad were going to swing by, is that okay?”
No.
As if I could ever say that to my mother. She’d croak and I’d win the Bitch of the Millennia award.
That’s rich, Sadie. Real rich.
“Sure, Mom. I’m just getting packed for the drive to Tybee tomorrow.”
“Okay. We’ll be there in a bit.”