The house was full of quiet movement as Ben, Lou, and Jeannie worked on setting it up for the wake. Something was baking in the kitchen, but I couldn't eat, hadn't eaten, knew I should. Instead, I hung my coat on a peg in the entryway and spoke to no one before walking up the stairs and into my room, closing the door behind me with a snick.
The light at my desk was still on, shining down on the blank paper like a spotlight, waiting for me to find something to say. How do you write a few words to sum up a man's life? How could I explain what he meant to me, to the world, on a sheet of paper? How could I describe the loss that had consumed me, leaving nothing? Because I had nothing. Nothing to give, no words to speak.
But I pulled out the chair and sat down, staring at the paper, blinking and breathing, heart beating, autonomous, lost to myself. The pen was heavy in my fingers, the words heavy in my mind, and when the ball-point touched the paper, words slipped out unbidden, unwanted as the tears fell from my eyes, unabashed, unashamed. And I realized then that I wasn't empty. I was broken; the sharp pieces of what was left of me were buried under shock that had collapsed, decimating me. But they resurfaced like the undead, cutting their way through the wreckage to open me up once again.
18
To Live
To live
Is to feel
So you know
You are real.
* * *
-M. White
* * *
Elliot
Dark eyes looked back at me in the mirror, dark hair framing my face, dark dress on my body. The world seemed to be bleak, quiet and empty, the sky shrouded in miles of fog that signaled snow. It made me feel small, a miniature in a world of miniatures.
I was not ready for today, and there was nothing that could stop it from happening. Today was here and waiting to be endured, survived.
I twisted my hair into a bun at my nape and turned my back on my reflection, the floorboards creaking to mark my movement as I stepped to the bed where my heels stood, slipping my feet in one at a time, smoothing the black skirt of my dress as if I could smooth the wrinkles of life away, make it straight and perfect. The poem sat on my desktop, the paper heavy between my fingers as I folded it into thirds and slipped it into my clutch. And with that, there was nothing else to keep me in my room where it was safe.
My family waited in the living room, dressed in black, half of them with a drink in their hands. They'd wanted to come, though I believed it nothing to do with Rick and everything to do with their own devices. Even Jack was there, standing somberly next to Charlie with his hands in the pockets of his slacks, his jacket bunched up at his wrists, looking impossibly handsome. But I wanted him less today than I ever had before. Today I didn't know if I'd ever want anything again other than to turn back the clock.
They chatted amongst themselves, moving around me as they donned jackets and gloves, and I felt as if I were the center of a storm, moving separately, more quietly than the rest. And when we were all ready, I followed them out of the house, into the cold. Jack hung back, laying his hand on my back, asking me softly if I was all right. I nodded my answer, because how could I tell him the truth? How could I tell him that my life, my heart would never be the same? How could I tell him my soul had been shredded and thrown to the wind?
We split up into several cabs, Jack and I ending up by ourselves. But he didn't press me, didn't speak, just let me exist, my eyes trained out the window as the first snowflakes began to fall.
Three days had passed, and I hadn't stepped foot in their home. There was nothing to be done there, not by me, and Sophie had come to me. She didn't want to be home, either. So we spent the days in my room when she wasn't with Sadie, who'd been staying with a friend too.
What I hadn't told her was that Wade had come to me that night. She spoke about him as if things were the same as they had been, as if he hadn't come to me for comfort and left when he'd gotten what he'd come for.
And still, I understood him. But the truth of my sacrifice was too much. He'd finally consumed all of me, fueling his fire with my soul's tinder.
He'd barely spoken, Sophie'd said, only gone from meeting to meeting, handling the funeral and the beginnings of the estate paperwork, all the details kept separate from her, which she was grateful for. She couldn't decide anything; not what she wanted to eat or wear, whether or not she wanted to sleep, how to occupy her time in the long hours of the day.
My heart cracked and crumbled with every word. He was in pain (I knew, I could feel it as if I'd taken a part of him with me) and he didn't know how to manage that pain (I knew this too, without a shadow of a doubt). But I'd been used up and left alone.
He was dangerous. Letting myself have hope was dangerous. And now, I would pay penance for that. Because I loved him still, and I always would. I just didn't want to hurt anymore.
I didn't want to speak to him, and he didn't reach out to me, not that I'd expected him to. If there was one thing I'd learned from his return, it was that he wouldn't come to me, ever. I'd written him a dozen letters in those three days, the old habit as easy and comforting as it was painful. I'd written the words I wanted to say and never would, sometimes on tear-stained paper, sometimes on paper that met its end in the clutches of my fists. And I kept all those words secret, sacred. I couldn't trust him with them.
The cab pulled to a stop behind the others, and Jack got out first, extending his hand to help me out. But he didn't let it go, just tucked it into his elbow to steady me. I looked up at him gratefully, my legs and heart less steady with every step, and he patted my hand with sad eyes that expected nothing.
I wished again that I could let myself be with a man like him. But my heart wasn't mine to give. It never had been.
Ben greeted us at the door and showed us to the second pew, his eyes lingering for a brief moment on the point where my hand hooked in Jack's elbow. He pulled me aside, telling me softly that Sophie wanted me with her. But first, I had to see Rick.
I was last in line behind my family, and for that I was thankful. Because when I stood next to his casket, I wasn't rushed, didn't have to hurry. I couldn't have even if I'd wanted to.
He looked different, waxy and foreign but the same as always. Just … gone. I wanted to touch him but stopped myself, wishing I could hold his hand again, wishing I could smooth his hair. But instead, I leaned into his coffin ever so slightly to whisper, "For in that sleep of death what dreams may come When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, Must give us pause. Goodbye, my friend, my father."
The words caught in my throat, and I backed away, turning for the side room as hot tears rolled down my cheeks. I brushed them away before I pushed open the door and stepped into the room, stopping just in the threshold as the door swung shut quietly behind me.