4. Marnie
CHAPTER FOUR
Marnie
The room is quiet, aside from Ashe’s sobs and the faint beeping of the monitors. My heart breaks for him and our lost plans. His plans. Our plans. We were so close to our dreams, so achingly close. Watching Ashe crumble against his mom solidifies the harsh reality of what’s happened and pulls my remaining hopes through my fingers, unraveling the strings that hold us together. No hope-reconstruction project can salvage them. Those hopes are gone. Forever.
Poof.
A dark side of me, the part that lives in my previous abandonment like an inescapable shadow, fears that’s not all I’ve lost.
I know I have to be strong for them, but a black hole forms in my emptiness, sucking me into it. I’m here, lying in a hospital bed, but I’m not here at all. I’m lost in a new reality. I can’t have children. My Game of Life car has suddenly downshifted, backtracked, and off-roaded from the board, forced to sail over the table’s edge. Game over.
“We’ll keep you here for a few days as you recover,” the doctor continues.
“Wait, what about Jamaica?” Ashe’s sudden return to the conversation makes my shoulders jolt. And then, ache. “We leave Sunday morning.”
The doctor shakes her head. “Marnie can’t travel. Recovery will take six weeks or so.”
“That’s what they said when I had my hysterectomy,” Cora says, “and I was back to work in three.”
The doctor is nonplussed. “This wasn’t a routine surgery. Marnie’s injuries are substantial. The hip bruise alone will make it difficult for her to get around. She’ll need care.”
Ashe rushes to my side, grabbing my hand like it’s his cue. “We’ll take care of her.”
“Of course, we will,” Cora says, hand going to her son’s back. “Your family is here for you.”
Her words spin in my head, and I think ‘you’ll be good as new in no time’ just as she says the same words aloud.
I’m not psychic. I’ve heard her spiel at Sunny’s Beach Market when employees have asked for leave over illnesses, broken bones, or sick kids. Your family is here for you. You (or your daughter, son, husband, grandmother, insert relative) will be good as new in no time.
She means it. Just because she says it a lot doesn’t mean it’s insincere.
And yet.
That’s just something people say. Isn’t it? I long to demand a truth policy with them as I so easily did with Grady Tripp. But it’s too late. If not established early, it might as well not be done at all.
Besides, being family is understood, not something that needs saying. If one has to say, “We’re family,” is it really true?
Not that I know much about family.
“Thanks,” I manage, warmed by Ashe’s comfort, at least. His fingers intertwine with mine, fitting just right.
“Marnie, what’s your house number again?” Wes asks once the doctor leaves, and the room slips into silence. I eye the clipboard he’s holding, not surprised that he was tasked with filling it out.
“I’ll take care of that, Wes. Thank you,” I say, patting the movable table beside me. He sets it down, smiles weakly, and shoves his hands into his pockets. “How’re you feeling?”
I’m a conversational ringleader most days, but the question baffles me. I feel like I’m on mute and set to black and white—an old fifties-style tube television on the blink. Is this how Mom used to feel?
Can’t think about that now.
“Um, tired.” My head falls to the pillow behind me. “Sad. This isn’t… It’s hard to… I’m so sorry about the wedding.”
“We’ll reschedule,” Ashe says quickly. “As soon as you’re better... the honeymoon, too.”
Not only do his words bring relief but they remind me how much I love his excitement. Ashe is like a handsome version of the Energizer Bunny, always pushing forward.
Cora smiles admirably at her son. Seeing her softer side is a privilege I don’t take lightly. They call her Cora the Conquerer at work for her tough negotiations with vendors, employees, and distributors and her stealthy, ninja-like apprehension of shoplifters. Many people find strong women intimidating. I find them inspiring, especially her.
“What about the guests? The arrangements? Should I make some calls?” I offer, considering all of the must-haves for this wedding. Cora wanted a grand affair “the likes of which this town has never seen.” Thinking of the gourmet food, uneaten. The gorgeous flowers, unseen. The expensive wines, uncorked. And the string quartet’s music, unheard. It makes my head swim, and my stomach turn.
Of course, that could be the meds, too.
“Don’t worry your pretty, little head about any of that,” Cora says. “It’s being handled. Focus on healing, Marnie. We know this wasn’t your fault.”
I swallow a lump in my throat, suspecting her words say otherwise. I wasn’t blaming myself, though my god-awful birthday bad luck could be the real culprit. Is this my fault?
“Ashe, honey, how about we take you home and let Marnie rest?” Cora suggests.
“I don’t want to leave her, Mom.” He looks almost defiant as he reaches for the remote control strapped to the bed.
“You can change, fetch her things, and come back. Huh?”
“Mom, I want to stay.”
“You haven’t eaten,” she protests. “You’re no good for Marnie on an empty stomach.”
She gives me a look, prompting me to say, “Ashe, she’s right. I’ll need my things, and you should get out of that suit. Besides, the drugs are kicking in. I’ll be snoozing in no time.”
A gentle knock on the open door sidelines our discussion. I recognize Detective Watson from Sunny’s. He buys his wife Elena a chocolate chip birthday cake from the bakery every year, which is so sweet in more ways than one.
“Miss Strange? Sorry to interrupt. I have a few questions if you’re up for it.”
“Of course, Detective Watson.”
His appearance convinces the Sullivans to leave; they line up at my bedside, Cora’s extravagant dress shimmering as she moves in for a quick kiss on the cheek.
Cora says, “Feel better, Marnie. That’s an order.”
“Yes, um, feel better,” Wes says, following her lead, his beard tickling my cheek.
Ashe goes for my lips, soft and sweet—the kiss that should’ve come at the altar. I linger there, holding him with my hand on his cheek.
“I’ll be back,” he promises softly. “Love you.”
“Love you,” I breathe out weakly.
The room empties, leaving me with Detective Watson. He sets a paper bag on the table. “The gentlemen at the scene took the liberty of salvaging items from your vehicle.”
“How thoughtful.” I smile softly. “Is Grady Tripp still here?”
“Um, I don’t know. He probably left.”
Of course, he left—why would he stay? “Oh, I wanted to thank him.”
“Thank him?”
“He saved my life.” My light shrug hurts; everything hurts.
“He also says he caused the accident. Do you remember what happened?”
My eyes pinch. “Um, Ashe forgot the cake knife for the wedding and asked if I could run by their house. Cora wanted her mother’s pearl brooch, too. They were already at the venue—the Lakeview Club. I’m the go-to girl, you see. I couldn’t find the dang pin, but she texted that she had it after all.”
I stop for a breath. “Anyway, I was in a hurry by that time, worried I’d be late for my own wedding. I wasn’t speeding, though. Promise. It’s a curvy road; the knife kept shifting in the passenger seat, so I grabbed it. Held it here,” I explain, gesturing to my lap. “The next thing I remember is him. Grady. And the sky—it was the perfect shade of blue today.”
“Um, yes. It was.”
“It was an accident, Detective Watson.” I chuckle weakly. “You have the perfect name for a detective.”
“Well, Holmes would’ve been better,” he says.
“True. Watson should’ve gotten more credit. The accident was an accident, though. I don’t want to press charges.”
“The investigation will determine charges. At least he’ll be cited for traffic violations; this protects you and the insurance process.”
“Um, okay. How is he? Is he okay?”
“He didn’t sustain any injuries in the accident,” he reports.
“No, I know. I mean… is he okay?” I say the question slowly, hoping he understands me.
For the first time, Detective Watson shows concern. “He’s upset. Like I’ve never seen him.”
I nod, understanding, though my heart breaks a little for this grouchy stranger. I remember how distraught he was over me, his sad eyes, and unsaid thoughts—he shouldn’t suffer lasting effects over this, even if I will. Can’t think about that now. “He has to know it was an accident.”
“He’ll see that,” he says. “Eventually. He’s my nephew, you know.”
“Oh, no, I didn’t put that together.”
“I married his Aunt Elena.”
“Right, of course… chocolate chip cake on her birthday.”
His lips upturn in a distinct smile. “You remember?”
“How could I forget something so sweet?” I gush weakly.
Slight blushing appears just below the dark rims of his reading glasses. “You’re kind, Marnie. To remember.”
“I love my job.” I pull the blankets over my hospital gown. “That makes it easy to remember things like that.”
“Kind to ask about Grady, too.”
“Tell him I’m okay. Truly. ”
“Will do. You’re tired. I’ll let you get some rest. If there’s anything else…”
“You know where to find me,” I smile.
“Feel better, Miss Strange.”
He exits the room, closing the door gently behind him. I curl my body, the best I can, toward the window, locking eyes with headlights passing on the busy street across the parking lot. The sun has set, leaving orange and gold bands across the darkening blue sky.
We’d be married by now and feasting on filet mignon at the reception. I try envisioning our first dance, the champagne toasts, pressing cake into his lips, tossing the bouquet, but what was so delightfully imminent yesterday, even a few hours ago, feels weirdly impossible now.
I’ve missed my chance.
My no-tears rule takes a needed reprieve as they slip, sliding over my nose and dampening the pillow.
Mom’s voice echoes, “Don’t cry, Marnie. It doesn’t do you or anyone else any good. No one likes a crybaby.”
Still, I let them come, bargaining that I won’t allow them again, no matter what happens. But for now, they’re a must-do before getting onto the next steps of my recovery.
Only there is no recovery. Not really.
Mom sweeps into my thoughts again. “Life isn’t fair, sweetie, and it ain’t changing the rules for you.”
Until Ashe, I rarely thought about kids. Why should I? I’m twenty-five, a career woman, and happy to bypass family talk until later. Much later. Or never.
Besides, love and necessity have kept me career-focused. The only family I’ve known for the last ten years has been through work. And though Ashe and Cora talk about us having kids often, I thought it was just something people say. Something for later. Great, if it happens. No big deal, if not.
Yet.
Lying there, it hits me. The sore ache around my midsection travels upward, permeating my heart and head with a gnawing hollowness. Whether I want them or not, I can’t.
I can’t.
I’ll never know the feeling of life growing inside me. Never feel a baby’s tiny kicks and punches wriggling in my belly. Never say, “Ashe, put your hand here. The baby’s kicking,” like I’ve seen moms-to-be do with their spouses. Never have pickle and ice cream cravings, like Cora had with Ashe. Never carry that glorious basketball paunch that tells the world something beautiful and adorable is arriving soon. Never know the beauty of loving someone made from me. Would she have had my red hair? My freckles? Would he have had my eyes or my crooked smile? Would they have had the same raspberry birthmark at the base of their neck, as I do?
Now, I’m sobbing—something I haven’t done in over a decade. Sobbing for a dream that I never had the chance to grasp and hold on to and watch grow as Ashe and I framed our lives around it. Sobbing for children I can’t fully see, that I’ll never meet, who don’t exist.
My heart breaks in grief for their eyes that’ll never open, the words they’ll never say, their little fingers never gripping mine, and for the people they’ll never be. I cry over ghosts. Not even ghosts, but hints of souls in my imagination.
How can I hurt so much over what never was?
A gentle voice whispers, “I’m sorry, Marina,” behind me. I don’t turn around to see the man shadowing my bed—I know who it is. I’m crying like I’ve never cried before; I can’t face him. No one has ever seen me like this.
Broken.
Vulnerable.
Hurting.
But on second thought, that’s not true because he’s seen me at my worst. He was there, going through it with me. Accepting his comfort felt natural and necessary—I had no choice. Besides, it was easy. He’s not in my life. There are no expectations. He requires nothing of me except, perhaps, to heal. What he thinks of me doesn’t matter.
Once again, he’s here. There’s no one else. And I want to comfort him, now, too.
My hand drops to the bed behind me, reaching for him. His hand slips into mine, wrapping my fingers in his, and bringing some sweet relief. I’m okay. He’s okay.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers again.
My tears fall freely, vanishing into my damp pillow, as my grip on him tightens. He says nothing else, and it’s a relief. I can’t be smiling, cheerful, go-to Marnie with the words everyone needs to hear. All I can be is this.
The bed dips behind me like he’s sitting on the edge, but still, I don’t turn around. He caresses my fingers, warming and relaxing me. I don’t care if he’s a stranger. I soak up his comfort like a dry sponge, cracked and broken and desperate. Why didn’t I feel this relief when Ashe was here? Is that why I pushed him away? For the comfort that should have been?
Grady’s hand is rough and calloused, but I like it. In the inconceivable string of absurd events today, this grounds me. His hand feels… real. Consequential. It’s here for me .
I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve made something completely about me.
When I contracted the awful norovirus after a field trip in second grade.
At home after The Sound of Music in high school.
The next day, my birthday, when Mom left.
Now, this. This is about me . And I need someone holding me, even just my hand.
The tears spit from my eyes like they’re making up for lost time, and, for once, I don’t care about being a crybaby. I’ve earned it. Right? And if nobody likes a crybaby, then that’s okay. He doesn’t know me, let alone need to like me. A terrible day binds us—nothing else.
His breath hits my fingers. “I’m sorry,” he whispers again. I hear the tears in his voice, feel them on my fingertips. We ache in different ways, but it’s a relief to ache together. And the sad, pathetic, hurting part of me wants to lock him there forever.
But I don’t get a lifetime-hand-holder. Even with Ashe. Cursed to be alone.
Soon, my tears slow. And the ache I feel lessens. It’s okay. Everything’s okay.
Stubble grazes my fingers as his second hand joins the first. He clasps my fingertips with one and my palm with the other, gently caressing. Soon, unexpectedly, tiredness overrules my agony. The lights moving by outside the large window, the world going on regardless of me, glisten through my blurry eyes, hypnotic. With the soft press of lips against my fingers, his breath warming them, I drift into a fitful but necessary sleep.