April 20, 2013
People say that you can feel bad things coming before they happen. People say that we have some kind of extrasensory receptor that alerts us to danger before it occurs. I don’t believe any of that crap. Does anyone really believe that? If I met someone who did, I’d tell them the truth of the matter.
There is no extrasensory receptor. There is no contingency plan. No animal instinct. Only horrible shit that more often than not, happens to good people, and it’s all for no reason.
I didn’t feel a thing that night when I woke up thinking that Starla had just traipsed back into the house in search of cat food and her cozy bed. I wasn’t on high alert. I had no elevated heart rate. I wasn’t jumpy. I walked down that hall, right into danger, and didn’t feel a thing until I heard that man’s voice. His voice was like the switch that instantaneously turned on every neuron in my brain. By then, it was too late. Where the hell was that receptor? Where was that instinct? Where was the God who is supposed to love me and take care of me? He was busy crushing ants. That’s where he was. I heard that intruder’s voice and that was it. Suddenly I had that pounding heart, the sweaty brow, the wide eyes, and keen hearing. I wish I had that elusive sixth sense before I left my bedroom. I can’t help but think that if I had sensed something, I would’ve done something different. I could’ve called the police. I could’ve taken the gun from my nightstand with me down that hall. I could’ve just stayed in fucking bed and allowed that man to take what he wanted—steal my purse, take the car, clear the whole damn house, but leave us alone. Leave Jake alone. Leave my life alone.
I was lucky until that night. I had been smitten with the boy next door since our finger painting days. We were playmates, then we were awkward enemies, then we were young love in the flesh. We fell in love in high school and never left each other’s side. College was tough but we held it together. He earned his degree in criminal justice as he had planned and I discovered just how accurate the term “starving artist” is. No one was interested in my abstract, sometimes visually offensive sculptures. We made it work, though. We both graduated with our respective degrees and were married six months after graduation. I became Mrs. Jacob Parker under tall oak trees covered with fall foliage. I was happy for two years after that. Then…everything changed. It became what it is now and what it is now is some screwed up realm of grief and misery that I have zero motivation to struggle through. I’d rather just stay here and admit that I’m heartbroken and probably will be for the rest of my life than to pretend to go on with life. Why lie to myself and everyone around me? I see no point in that. I’m hurt. I’m mad. And that’s just how it is. There’s no “helping” this. There’s no soothing balm, no bandage, no therapist, and no journey to healing that can save me from where I am. Meeting these organ recipients won’t change anything but it will please my family and that is the only expectation I had coming into this trip.
***
By the time I wake from my nap it’s already after three and I’ve missed my meeting with Terry Jones, the man who received Jacob’s liver. I flew here to Charlotte, North Carolina, to finally meet him. We emailed back and forth until we were both ready and exchanged phone numbers just before I flew out. I just hope this meeting is as easy as my meeting with Mrs. Hampton was. She and I met for lunch. The flight from Atlanta to Birmingham was a quick one and I was glad for it. I got there quick and left even quicker. She brought along her sister and they were kind and probably equally as uncomfortable as I was. We took it easy on each other, deciding to talk about a bunch of nothing versus anything important. I was thankful for that.
I leap from the bed and slip on my flip flops while hopping on alternating feet to grab my cell phone off the desk. “Shit,” I mumble to myself. Three missed calls from Terry. I quickly hit the send button and wait on the line, grimacing at how late I am. The quicker I meet them and get the dreaded conversation over with, the quicker I can get on a flight back to Atlanta.
“Hello,” Terry greets.
“Hey, Terry, it’s Sadie. I’m so sorry I’m late. I fell asleep after I checked in. I’m on my way in about ten minutes. Is that okay?”