I was awake when Sam came in, but I pretended not to be. I could feel his eyes on me, and then I could feel the weight of him on the end of the bed, and I knew he was just sitting there, watching me. My thoughts were still fuzzy from the pill. They aren’t as much now, just a little fuzzy, but when Sam was here they were all jumbled together, still wrapped up in the tunnel dream. I said something to Sam—I can’t remember what it was, something about cigarettes? But that doesn’t make sense, because Sam doesn’t smoke anymore.
The glowing red digits from the clock on the nightstand tell me it’s just after 6:00 p.m. I’m in bed at six o’clock on a Monday evening. Or is it Tuesday? I’m not really sure, but then, it doesn’t really matter what day it is. Every day is the same. Every day is the same. Misery and pills and tears and screaming, and feeling like I’m missing a limb or a vital organ, some part of me that makes me whole, but it’s not a limb or an organ, it’s my son.
I know that I should push back the covers and get out of bed, do something useful, like make dinner for my family, something I used to do. But I’m not sure if I can remember how to use the oven or a frying pan or a knife.
The pill has worn off enough for me to understand my thoughts—at least most of them. And I’m aware, now, at this moment, that even as I choose to escape these every-day-is-the-same days, that I am also allowing myself to slip farther and farther away from my own life. I am being selfish. I have stopped being a mother to my daughter, when she likely needs me most. I’ve stopped being a wife to my husband, although I’m not sure he wants me to be his wife anymore. He wants another one.
No, wait, that’s Ruth. That’s what my ex-brother-in-law, Charlie, told Ruth. Not me. Charlie wanted another one.
The only thing I haven’t stopped being is the little sister in need. Ruth likes it. I think she missed taking care of me or thinking she needed to take care of me, all these years I’ve been with Sam. When we were kids, she acted like a second mother, always telling me what to do, how to behave, criticizing my outfits, my friends, my aspirations or lack thereof. She was there for me when I needed her. Yes, she was. But I think she secretly took great satisfaction in my screwups, which were plenty, like they made her feel better about herself. And then, after all, I ended up with the perfect life, the perfect husband and two perfect children. Maybe she started hating me a little bit for that.
Now, she can pity me. She can feel better about her own life by seeing the hell mine has become. And she can torture me by holding back my pills.
But she’s right, Rachel. You need to cut back.
A sharp phantom pain slices through me at the idea of being completely lucid and sober all the time. Always, every moment of every day, I’ll be totally cognizant of the fact that Jonah died, is dead, is never coming back, will never grow to be an adolescent or a man, never fall in love, have children, win the Nobel Peace Prize or a Pulitzer. He will always be a memory, ever fading. I just can’t bear it. Cannot bear it. But the alternative is for me to fade away until one day there will be no reason not to take the entire contents of the bottle and disappear.
But then you’d be with Jonah.
And my daughter will be motherless. And my life will have meant nothing.
I will myself into a seated position, swing my legs to the side of the bed. I grab the monkey and wrap his arms around my neck, then push myself to my feet. My knees buckle, and I sit down, hard. My head is spinning. I take a deep breath and wait until my vision clears. Then I try again. This time I manage to stand without falling back down. I still feel dizzy, but I ignore the sensation. My feet slide along the carpet—I can’t seem to lift them—but after a moment of hard labor and heavy breathing, I’m standing in front of my dresser and gazing at my reflection.
What I see is a horror.
I avert my eyes and my gaze lands on the closet door, which is open about six inches, revealing one of Sam’s sport coats, which is encased in the plastic wrapping from the dry cleaner. And as I gaze at that plastic wrapping, something stirs in my memory, a thought loosens, an idea or fact or scenario I should recall. Words collect themselves in my head—angry words, my husband’s voice, my own. And I’m just on the very border of knowing when I suddenly push the thoughts away because I know, with cold certainty, that I do not want to remember.
I call for Ruth, over and over again, drowning out the angry voices and colliding thoughts, grasping at the edge of the dresser to keep myself from falling over, wondering if I can make it back to the bed or whether I need to throw up, and if so, whether I can make it to the bathroom.
Ruth doesn’t come and doesn’t come. Why should she? I was awful to her. I said horrible things to her so she’d give me a goddamn pill.
Ruth. I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean any of it.
The door opens, and blessed relief fills me until I see my daughter’s face peering in at me.
I let go of the dresser and fall to the floor.
SEVENTEEN
RUTH
I have to admit it, I’m glad to be home, even if home isn’t much, just a cramped one-bedroom apartment that I’m allowed to live in thanks to the guilt and shame of my ex-husband. My alimony includes the rent and a small monthly stipend, which is barely enough to cover my bills and groceries, and I try not to think about the sprawling estate on the outskirts of town in which he lives with the woman who was able to give him children. Three at last count, darling twin girls who were growing in his wife’s womb even before he left me, and an infant son who will hopefully have my ex-husband’s receding hairline, although I know it’s unkind to wish that on an innocent babe.
I put my purse down on the table by the door and glance at the pile of mail stacked there. I take three steps into the miniscule kitchen, with its outdated Formica counters, peeling laminate cupboards, and decades-old appliances, the tired peach curtains in the window, the ones I brought from my old house and promised myself I’d replace but still haven’t. After spending so much time at my sister’s house, I am struck by the stark contrast between this sad excuse for a kitchen and Rachel’s kitchen. I think of her gleaming blush-rose granite counters and dark cherrywood cupboards and Viking oven and Sub-Zero refrigerator. It would be perverse to envy my sister with what she’s going through, but I feel a tinge of jealousy nonetheless.
In the corner of the room sits a small round table with a single chair shoved beneath. I rarely eat at the table. Its diminutive size and the lone chair remind me of my solitary existence. Mostly I take my meals on the couch with my constant companion, the television.