Death and Other Interruptions

Chapter Five

Amy dropped me off at my apartment, its quietness welcome but, inevitably, a reminder of who was missing. I cried that night, as I would for many nights to come. The phrase "crying myself to sleep" came to mind, but it was more that I cried until my body felt empty, until I was so exhausted that I was little more than a rag draped over my couch. The crying wasn't cleansing; I felt just as miserable after, only now I was tired enough that the fatigue outweighed the anger that kept my mind running faster than I could follow. The anger propelled me all day to do what I thought was necessary to save what I could of Al, but at night it was the sadness that took over. I was grateful for the tears, and thanked the god I now possibly believed in for the sleep that fell on me, swiftly and heavily.

When I woke, I felt hung over. It was a feeling I recognized from other times I had cried so much my head hurt, those tears spilled over what now seemed like trivialities. I had slept on my couch, and I wasn't sure I would ever feel comfortable sleeping in my bed again, Al's side gaping at me in its vast emptiness. The price I paid for that, of course, was a stiff neck and sore back. I didn't feel ready to face this stage, where I could no longer bury myself in the comfort of my childhood bed and had to face our apartment instead. But I knew that I needed to. Or, I knew at least that I couldn't hide at home forever, and the sooner I left the easier it would be.

The problem was, I didn't know what to do with myself now. I had been to the police, and they would call me if they needed me. I could speak to some paper or another—I'm sure getting an interview with them would take no longer than the time it took to say "Ali Stefford's fiancée"—but I needed to figure out what I would say to them first.

The easy answer, of course, would be to go back to work. Unfortunately, I had gotten an email from them yesterday that informed me that I had been placed on paid leave, no doubt due in some small part to my dead fiancé being a suspected murderer, though they phrased it more delicately than that. Truthfully, until yesterday it hadn't even occurred to me that I was missing work by staying in bed all day, though the logic of that was probably obvious to most people.

Mulling this over, I heard my phone ringing. I dug through the layers on the couch until I found my iPhone, screen cracked in a web. I probably slept on it. A week ago, that would have been a tragedy paramount to losing a pet. Today I didn't notice until I had to squint around the snaking lines to read the number. I didn't recognize it.

"Hello?"

"Hello, Miss Shore?"

"Speaking." I felt so normal. Social conventions go so far in smoothing out the layers of true feeling and real-life situations. Especially on the phone, where the other person can't see my bedhead and corduroy couch face wrinkles.

"Hi Miss Shore!" Whoa. She's excited. "I'm just calling to confirm your dress fitting for today. It's at 3:00 and you should bring your wedding shoes so we can make sure the length is right."

Oh shit. I put her on speaker and clicked to my phone's calendar. Sure enough, today was my dress fitting, after which I was supposed to go to a menu tasting. That would be so much more pointless now that I didn't have a wedding coming up. Or, you know, a groom.

"Oh. You can cancel that appointment," I said hesitantly. How do I go about doing this?

"Okay! Sorry today won't work for you. When should we reschedule for? We're so excited"—clearly—"for you to see the dress, it's stunning," she gushed.

"Well, actually, you can just cancel it altogether. I don't really know how this works, but I'm not getting married in the end."

"Ah ha." Her chipper voice faltered. I don't think she had another setting. She paused. I let the silence linger. I was in no mood to rescue her from the flailing awkwardness that was this call.