2. Fallon
Chapter two
Fallon
The woodpecker stabbing at the gutter startles me from my daze. I look up from the bowl of cereal I’m aimlessly stirring but not eating and start to recall everything on my to-do list. At least cleaning the gutters isn’t one of them. That’ll be somebody else’s problem in a few days, and I'll have different gutters to worry about.
A few months ago, my first thought would have been to tell Rhett that it’s probably time to sweep them out. Today, when it didn’t even cross my mind to tell Rhett, the tears silently slip down my cheeks onto the table.
I cry when I think of him. I cry when I don’t.
The boxes are piling up, and I really should get to work. It’s been a draining month, to say the least. Rhett’s family was in and out, helping me clean out his things. His mother was a godsend, literally. His favorite shirts were divvied up amongst his friends. His friend Hunter took his blue Trek bike, the one he’d ride when we’d take the rail trail down to the ice cream shop. He always went for something fruity, whereas I’ve been a mint chocolate chip girl my whole life.
The local YMCA got a large donation of his old sporting equipment; almost everything from high school and college, plus the golf clubs he bought off Marketplace just a few months ago. The polos he bought a few days before his death, with tags still attached, were returned.
We donated a lot of his other clothes. The cream sweater he wore for our Christmas card photos this past year, the Hopkins lacrosse athletic shorts he borrowed from an old friend and never gave back because he wore them all the time.
His mom claimed all of his childhood memorabilia: his old yearbooks, baseball cards, schoolwork, and pictures.
The month that Rhett’s life was tucked away in boxes was one of the worst of my life. Second to the month that he died. Watching the love of your life’s belongings get packed away…. God, that’s something I wouldn’t wish on anyone.
He loved me so much. His smile would light up a room, and his easy, kind humor made everyone laugh. And now…. Now, all I have left of Rhett is in a box.
I have the gray sweatshirt he wore in college that I eventually commandeered from him. I have his pickleball paddle, the one custom-made with my picture on it. I have the outfit he proposed to me in, a box of cigars (the ones that smell like him), and the ring I was supposed to give him at the wedding.
That’s what I’m left with.
Six months since I’ve seen him or heard him speak my name. Six months since I’ve touched him.
I’m the sole keeper of our shared memories, and that guts me. The inside jokes that only I know. The special words we have for certain things.
How does time fly while also standing still?
I didn’t realize what a mindfuck the calendar was until Rhett died. My whole life is one big tornado.
I should probably call Rhett’s mom. I missed her last call, and I know she’s feeling his death just like I am. It’s hard on everyone—I get it. But she has his dad. And his sister, Cara, is about to have a baby soon, so there’s that. It’s a boy. I haven’t heard the details, but I have nightmares where she names him Rhett. Then they’ll have a Rhett, and I’ll be the only one who doesn’t.
I’ve been invited to fewer and fewer things with his family. I heard through the grapevine that Cara had a baby shower, and they thought it would be too much for me. It would have been. I wouldn’t have gone. But I still want to be invited all the same.
I deleted all my social media accounts after some high-school ex of Rhett’s contacted me, telling me she still thinks about him often. Fuck off, Hayden.
Rhett is mine. Was mine. Whatever. I don’t even know anymore.
All I know is I will have to bite the bullet and call my little brother to help me move all this stuff. It’s mainly boxes, but I’m also taking the kitchen table and the dresser. The bed, I’m leaving—I can still smell him in the sheets and on the pillow—and it’s fucking with my dreams, and I can’t keep reliving that day. The phone call. The sirens. The feeling of dread that hasn’t really gone away.
People talk about the stages of grief, but they don’t talk about the dread.
Nervous about every phone call. Scared of sharp sounds cutting through the air. Panic in my chest when I pass the hospital. The word accident triggers me, even if it’s my mom talking about her dog having an accident in the house. It’s not the context… just the word.
My mind has never been so scattered in my life. It’s like my brain works overtime weeding through what’s going to knock me off my feet. Fucking pot roast had me bawling my eyes out last week. Rhett loved my mom’s pot roast, blah blah.
I don’t go for walks anymore because that was our thing. What if I fall? What if someone kidnaps me? What if Rhett is sad in heaven because I’m walking by myself? What if he’s looking down, watching me walk alone, tears rolling down my cheeks?
See the problem?
Nothing’s normal anymore.
Crazily enough, I’m ready for this move. Same town, new house, fresh start. After something tragic happens, there's a point in time when you finally get sick of wallowing and crying, and you want to go on living your life. For me, it’s taken close to six months. For others, it’s probably a few years, or even just a few weeks. There’s no right or wrong answer.
And before you come for me, it’s not a flip of a switch. I didn’t wake up one morning and decide to never think about Rhett or the accident again. No, that’s not how it works. But imagine being at the bottom of Mount Kilimanjaro and looking up… That’s where I’m at right now. I might walk a mile up the switchbacks, then head down a couple hundred feet and start it again.
There’s no way of knowing if I’ll ever make it to the top. My life can’t ever go back to the way it was before Rhett’s death. Nor would I want it to.
But I’m sick of crying all the time. I’m sick of buying makeup to cover the puffiness around my eyes. I’m sick of going out with red eyes because I’m too sad to care about using the makeup. I’m sick of people asking if I’m okay when clearly I’m not.
I’m ready for a revival. A second coming, if you will. That’s allowed… right?
The tulips outside are blooming. The ones we planted together a few years ago. The ones someone else will enjoy in a few days.