Between Octobers

Aftermath

Evan—Aftermath

I've spent the last few months readying myself to have a conversation and I mean to have it. Lily says it isn't a good idea, but I need to. 

They have me in the hospital basement, alone in the hallway. There are three metal framed chairs and a long, gray wall that looks like it's been built from cinderblocks. More than an hour passes before they take me into an adjacent room lined with metal cupboards, accessible by swinging rubber doors.

A thin woman with mousy hair passes through. Her hair's pulled back in a low braid that hangs down her back. She's leaning over a lumpy gurney cloaked in a long, white sheet. Between her arms, I see traces of hair.

And there she is. Covered from the neck down by the draping white sheet. Her hair's grown out since I saw her last. It's her natural color and much shorter. Cut at the shoulder.

The room's cold, like her, and my carefully prepared speech means nothing. 

The girl is joined by an older gentleman, who seems to have nothing remarkable about him except that he's giving instruction on things that I can't grasp.

She's right there and he wants me to listen? I nod as to comply so they'll leave and move closer.

She's pale, looks like she's sleeping. And my knees can't hold me.

It's my fault.

My face falls onto her sheet. My fingertips stroke her cool cheek. Her hair's damp. I touch it with my lips and feel a lump that shouldn't be there. Grace never cared for sacrilege so I keep my cursing inside while examining the rest of her head.   

"I'm so, so sorry," my apology starts at the beginning and won't stop. I never told her about my addictions. One secret I managed to keep from the public was a short stint in rehab right after my first film took off.

"I was afraid you'd think I was no good, especially after what I told you." I think over my reason. "It makes no sense, I know. I put you in the position not to trust me when I lied about Noah's truck. I knew you'd hate the idea of him driving but . . . I wanted to give it to him. I also knew your tunneled method of thinking would never allow you to consider it. So I made your choice by putting it in front of you."

It seems like a lifetime ago when we stood in the garage, arguing over a birthday present.

"Then, the whole disaster with the rubbers," I thought I was doing the right thing by Noah. "I didn't want to offend you. I was afraid of betraying his trust and broke your faith in me. But I wasn't unfaithful, Gracie. Ever."

I imagine her eyes are open and bend in to clarify. "That night in my room, I looked in your face and knew it was over. You didn't believe me and I was so pissed."

I want her fixed, blue gaze to burn into me, make me explain myself. "I should have lied. I could've told you whatever you wanted to hear. You would've forgiven me. We'd have moved on. It was my damned pride. I couldn't let you think of me that way. Then, my vices got worse and before I knew it, I changed the way you thought of me."

My brain conjures contrasting images—one of her looking at me, smiling, and another of her that day in the back garden, crying with a red line across her forehead. From when I hit her with the chopping board. "I'd hurt you so much. I couldn't stand that piteous look."  

"I was pathetic to you. If I'd kept at you like I wanted, you would've hated me and I wouldn't have blamed you." I stare for a long moment. "Do you hate me, Gracie?"

I imagine her soft expression, her hand on my face. Forgiveness is her way—I have no reason to keep anything from her.

"What was I supposed to do? I bared my soul to you. I showed you who I was when I could barely look myself in the mirror and then you walked away. You took everything. My home, my family. You broke me before you even had the facts. You decided we were over before I knew there was a problem."

I take a deep breath, warming to my cause and imagining that she's listening. And she understands.

"It was all or nothing with you wasn't it? I chose all. You chose nothing. Not a damned word. What am I to do now? I'm here. You're gone."

I look around the room, not seeing any of it. "And I've got this boy—our boy—that I never knew existed. What do I do now, Gracie? Tell me!"

There are no answers to be had. Not from her lips, not from her table in this cold room. There's nothing but me, my empty questions, and their instructions not to touch her.

"I miss holding you."

I press my hands beneath her, shocked at how heavy she feels, and draw her into my arms. Her head falls back as I lift, and I remember how I used to pull her hair to gain the same effect, to kiss her lovely neck. Her lips pull apart, but there's no answering smile, no lighted gaze of silver blue. I squeeze her tighter, watching the sheet fall from her shoulders like her robe that first night, but her skin isn't soft and pink. It's blotched with purple. Her arms don't give back, but dangle limply from her sides.

"It's not fair."

We were supposed to grow old together. I wanna roll my eyes when she complains about wrinkles and bring her flowers for no reason. Take her to New York and her first premiere. I was supposed to show her the world. We were going to have a home in London and watch the boys grow up and be grandparents.

The room has become very noisy. White coats with high-pitched voices wrap their hands over my arms. I fight them, but soon can't hold on.

I bend to kiss her before she's gone and spot a silver chain round her neck. As she rolls away, the metal's wedged between my fingers. Her wedding ring, hanging from a broken chain.  

And the taut thread has held me for too long. All at once, the strings untwist and I'm coming undone.