That’s how I’m feeling right now.
Ben; my career; Friday; my need to not be a complete and total fuck up my entire life—these things have stopped me from spiraling out of control since I left Port Royal, but now nothing seems to matter anymore. I should never have slept with Callan. Nothing has any perspective anymore. Nothing else matters. I could lose Ben tomorrow and I would be glad of it. I could never sell another painting and I wouldn’t lose sleep over it. But now, when I leave Port Royal for what I hope to be the very last time, when I have to say goodbye to Callan for what I know will be the very last time, it will be the end of the world for me.
I can still feel the remnants of the alcohol I drank last night quietly humming in my veins. I’m sober, but there’s no way I wouldn’t blow over if I get breathalyzed, so I leave the Porsche where it is in the hotel parking lot and I take my second taxi of the day out to the county morgue.
I’ve showered and changed but I must look like hell because the woman behind the counter literally jumps when she notices me standing in front of her. She’s wearing a t-shirt with a UFO on the front of it, and the slogan ‘Get In, Loser,’ which seems strange considering the otherwise sober environment I find myself in. I hand over the paperwork from the sheriff’s department and tell her why I’ve come.
“Great. Thank you. Now, all we need you to do is identify your father’s remains and we can release his body,” UFO girl advises me.
I stare at her blankly. “I’m sorry. What?”
“Yeah. All we have to do is have you view the body and then we can officially confirm that it’s your father. Then the funeral director can come collect the body and you can arrange the funeral.”
“You have got to be fucking kidding me.”
“I’m sorry, you don’t…?” She trails off, looking perplexed. “Some people find it therapeutic to see the body of their dead loved ones?” she says. Her voice goes up at the end, like a question, like she already knows from the look on my face that she’s making a grave error by even suggesting such a thing.
“I’m not looking at his body,” I say.
“Well, it’s just something we have to do to finalize our paperwork, Ms. Taylor. I’m sorry, but there really is no way around—”
I turn and I storm out of the office. No way am I even standing around to entertain the prospect of looking down on the cold, lifeless body of the man who tormented me for so long. It’s just not happening. Outside in the parking lot, I bend over double and throw up.
I don’t feel guilty. I didn’t stick my fingers down my throat this time. It didn’t happen because I wanted to take control of the situation. It happened because the very prospect of having to see him again terrified me half to death. I’m shaking as I start walking. The county morgue is a good twenty-minute drive away from the center of Port Royal, but somehow the minutes and the miles sweep by without my notice and I eventually find myself back on Main Street.
I don’t know where I’m going. I don’t know what I’m doing. I carry on walking until I find myself standing outside Willoughby’s, the hardware store Callan used to work at a very long time ago. Shane’s family used to run the place; I’m sure they still do. I head inside, not sure what I plan on accomplishing by seeing Shane after last night’s performance. I find him leaning against the counter, his forehead propped up against the support beam directly next to it. His eyes are closed, and for all the world it looks like he’s asleep.
I suddenly feel very silly. I shouldn’t be here. I should be at the morgue, screaming at UFO Girl until she agrees to release Malcolm’s body. I should be doing something about the fact that I need to get out of this godforsaken town. I’m about to turn around and walk out of the store when Shane opens his eyes and smiles at me, as if my presence was only to be expected.
“S’up, Cora,” he says. “I had this strange feeling I was gonna see you today.”
“You did?”
“Uhuh. Callan was on the phone first thing, freaking out because you vanished on him, and I thought, yeah. She’ll find her way over here at some point. No doubt about it.”
“He told you I went over there last night?”
Shane nods sagely.
“Damn, I hate him.”
“That’s the biggest lie I’ve ever heard come out of our mouth, girl. And I’ve heard you tell some whoppers.”
Years ago I might have been affronted, might have asked him what the hell he meant by that, but so much time has passed now that the lies I used to tell about why I had to be home every evening, why I couldn’t come to parties, about where the odd bruise came from…none of that seems to be relevant anymore, like the amount of time that has passed since I told them has made it all okay. I take his comment in stride.