—FOUR—
One Year Later
“You should eat something.”
I spare West a quick glance before returning my attention to the assortment of baking ingredients strewn about my kitchen countertop. “I will. After the batch of red velvet.”
“I’m not a cupcake expert, but that looks like vanilla.”
“It’s cookies and cream.” Swiping my hands along my apron, I avoid eye contact and reach for the hand mixer. “Red velvet is three batches from now.”
“Melody.”
West murmurs my name like an affectionate warning—in that way he always has, but more so lately. He’s my big brother, after all, so I suppose he’s entitled. “West.”
“You’re too old to spoon-feed.”
I blink. “I’m glad we’re on the same page.”
“But I will if I have to.”
A sigh escapes me, pausing my feet as I lean forward on the heels of my palms. “Tell Mom she doesn’t have to worry. I’m twenty-eight years old. I’ll eat when I’m hungry.”
He puckers his lips, mimicking my stance on the opposite side of the island. “You look thinner.”
My eyes flick up to my brother, catching his concerned expression. He looks exactly like our father when he assesses me this way, his eyes all sapphire and sensitive, forehead creased with worry lines. When his dirty blonde hair catches the overhead light, the faintest flecks of silver dance beneath it. He’s six years older than me, but our age difference has never impeded our bond. “West, I’m fine. I promise. I have a crap-ton of orders to get through, so I’m just focused, okay?” I smile for added effect, and because it’s something I’ve always been good at—even when it’s not entirely genuine.
My brother scrubs a palm down his face, straightening his posture, shoulders deflating with an air of submission. But his eyes don’t leave mine, and I know it’s his way of trying to get the last word in.
I can’t fault West for always checking in on me, just like I can’t fault Mom for calling a hundred times a day, or Dad for showing up and doing random house projects, or Leah for blowing up my Facebook messenger with GIFs and funny memes to keep me smiling.
I can’t fault them for caring, just like I can’t fault Charlie’s mother, Eleanor March, for abandoning me when I needed her most.
She was my final tie to Charlie.
Charlie was her final tie to me.
It took a long time for me to realize that those ties were not the same.
And when ties that bind turn to cinders in your hand, you learn to make new ties. New tethers. So, I started an in-home confectionery business in Charlie’s honor, because of his peach pie eyes and marmalade kisses. He’ll always remind me of sweet things, even on the sourest of days.
The last few weeks have been a blur of Easter baskets and springtime treats, and now Mother’s Day is right around the corner.
West watches me mix the batter, gaze drifting from my face to the ceramic bowl, then back up again. He scratches at the nape of his neck. “You’re going to burn yourself out, Mel. You have plenty of money from the life insurance policy and your savings to keep you comfortable for a long time.”
My grip tightens on the bowl. “It keeps me busy. Distracted.”
“There are other ways to stay distracted,” he counters. “Why don’t you come out for a beer with me and the guys tonight? Bring Leah.”
“Leah doesn’t like you.”
“Leah likes me. She just doesn’t like that she likes me.”
West shoots me a wink, pulling a reluctant smile from my lips.
“Besides,” he presses. “A break will do you good. You’re always cooped up here in this… house.”
There’s an emphasis on the word house—a weighty timbre that makes my skin feel itchy. It’s my house with Charlie, yes, but it feels like his house, and no one understands why I chose to stay here instead of move; why I wanted to strangle myself in these dying roots when I could plant new ones.
It’s for the same reason I didn’t wash the bedsheets for months, and why I showered with his Irish Spring soap, and why I didn’t have the heart to throw away the mail that had his name on it.
It’s why I’ll never get rid of my purse—the purse.
I’m connected to him here.
I still feel him here.
And when I finally washed those sheets, when the soap ran out, and when the stacks of envelopes grew too high… I still had this house. His scent lingers on the drapes whenever a tepid breeze blows through. His fingerprints are on these walls, and his custom-built shed sits out back, filled with his tools and hardware. Our prized magnolia tree is blooming to life, bursting with pastel petals, a deceiving contrast to the ghosts that haunt me here.
I love this house.
It’s my favorite place to be, ghosts and all.
“I’ll think about it,” I respond, my tone flat and void. I’m not doing my believability any favors. “Thanks for stopping by.”
West’s defeated sigh is a prelude to the look of disappointment that I’m certain adorns his face, but I wouldn’t know, because I don’t look up from the cookies and cream cupcake batter. I keep stirring and stirring, mixing and folding, even when I sense him rummaging around the kitchen, sifting through the refrigerator, and poking inside cabinets.
A few minutes later, I hear him retreat with a hollow goodbye. “I’ll call you later.”
“Okay. See you.”
When the front door closes and my brother is gone, I finally release the mixer and lift my eyes from my task. I swallow down a lump when I spot the peanut butter and banana sandwich sitting atop a paper plate, cut diagonally just how I like it, paired with a glass of cold milk.
“Thank you,” I whisper to the empty kitchen before picking the mixer back up and drowning myself in cupcake orders.
I keep working.
I keep going.
I keep myself busy to the point of exhaustion, because if I don’t burn out… I’ll burn away.
And that seems infinitely worse.
I’m just as surprised as West and his friends when I stroll into the brewery that night with Leah’s arm linked through mine. It was a last-minute decision after a black cloud decided to infiltrate me, all sharp teeth and long talons, and even reruns of Veronica Mars couldn’t pull me out of the funk.
I definitely look the most homeless out of everyone in the bar, with my petite frame swallowed up by one of Charlie’s old hoodies and faded leggings hanging loose off my too-thin legs. I brushed my teeth, but I didn’t brush my hair, and lip gloss is the only makeup that found its way to my face.
But I’m here.
And I’m smiling.
“Ladies, grab some chairs,” one of West’s buddies hollers over to us as we saunter up to the round table, featuring my brother and his two longtime friends, Alex and Shane.
West leans back in his seat, knees spread, beer dangling between them. The smile he sends me is laced with tenderness before it transforms into something more guileful as he sets his sights on Leah. “Hey, tiger.”
“Hey, Westley.”
My best friend gives my upper arm a light pinch, then releases me to drag a chair over to the table, situating herself beside my brother.
West purses his lips at the sound of his full name as his gaze floats back to me. “I thought I told you not to bring her,” he teases.
“Yeah, that’s totally what you said.” I watch as Leah flips her shiny black hair over one shoulder and props her high heels up on West’s thigh. These two have been ready to ignite since Leah and I were in high school. I have no idea why it hasn’t happened yet. Pulling my own chair up to the table, I return the welcoming head nods given by Alex and Shane and take a seat. “Long time, no see. How are you guys?”
Their responses disintegrate into background noise and static almost instantly. Their words are secondary to the sound of my blood pumping through sullied veins, a cruel and constant reminder of the fact that he is gone and I’m still here. Charlie should be next to me, his arm draped protectively around my waist as he talks sports with West and sips on a craft beer. He’d be deep in conversation right now, fully engaged, and yet his true focus would somehow still be on me.
Fingers dancing along my hipbone. Ankle crisscrossing with mine beneath the table. An unspoken “I love you” filtering into my ear, the affection palpable.
I realize I’m smiling and bobbing my head at Alex, watching his lips move, his hands waving animatedly. To him, I’m fully engaged.
But I haven’t heard a word he’s said—my true focus is elsewhere.
“Anyway, you look great, Melody. It’s nice to see you out.”
Alex’s words finally break through my barrier, causing me to blink. I clear my throat. “Thank you. I’ve been so busy lately with the business, it’s hard to find time to socialize.”
“I feel you. Dad life is a bit of a fun-sucker.”
So is grief.
Shane cuts in, his blue-gray eyes pinned on me. “You do look good.”
For some reason, I glance at Leah, as if he’s speaking to the wrong person.
Leah’s smile is more genuine, her laugh a little louder, her clothes fashionable and figure-flattering. She’s a vision, and I’m a blur. I never used to fade into the background, but my extroverted personality has dwindled over the last year. It’s been chipped away by scalpels and spears, leaving me feeling small.
But the smaller I get, the easier it is for me to hide, so I’m content with that for now.
Leah wiggles her eyebrows at me, almost like permission. Permission to accept this compliment. I duck my head, shifting my attention back to Shane. “Thanks.”
God, who am I?
Where did I go?
I used to be funny. Witty. Chatty.
Now I’m just a shell of my former self, spewing out lackluster words and robotic replies.
My fingers curl around the beer that’s been placed in front of me, gripping hard, and I know exactly where I am.
I’m still doubled over in the middle of that downtown street, sobbing beneath rainclouds and a sunless sky, my arms full and heavy, my heart wilting.
The bitter taste of beer coats my tongue as my gaze flicks back to Shane. He’s still staring at me, and he’s staring in a way that’s unfamiliar. West’s friends have always looked at me the same way for as long as I’ve known them.
As Charlie’s wife.
But Shane’s eyes tell a different story now, and I suppose that’s because my own story has changed. There’s been a plot twist.
I’m suddenly feeling self-conscious, drab and unkempt, so I skim unpainted fingernails through my white-blonde hair that hangs around my shoulders in long, knotted strands.
Why isn’t he staring at Leah?
She’s gorgeous and exotic, with mocha skin and eyes spun with copper and gold. She giggles at something my brother says, and her laughter sounds like music. A symphony, or an orchestra.
I am nothing but bagpipes and sad violins.
It takes a moment for me to realize she’s speaking to me, and when I do, those striking copper eyes soften with worry.
“You okay, babe?” Leah removes her feet from West’s lap and twists around in her chair to fully face me. “Bathroom break?”
“Sure.”
Shane pulls his attention off me as Alex goes on a tangent about co-sleeping. West looks as if he’s about to stand to join us, to make sure I’m really okay, but I shake my head with a tight-lipped smile, assuring him I’m fine.
I’m fine.
Such simple yet destructive words.
Leah drags me through the bar by my wrist, and we don’t even make it to the bathroom before she stops, turning around to study me. People bump into us as we come to a screeching halt in the middle of a high-traffic area, but Leah doesn’t care. She reaches out to tuck a loose strand of messy hair behind my ear, her expression full of love. “Don’t think you need to prove anything to anyone—even you. There’s no time limit on healing,” she whispers with delicate care. “I’m not going anywhere, West isn’t going anywhere, bars and fun and social gatherings aren’t going anywhere. No one gets to decide when you’re ready, except for that beautiful heart of yours.”
Tears prickle my eyes, loud and defiant. I try to hold them back with a sharp inhale. “You remind me of him sometimes.” I’m not sure where the words come from, but I know it’s from someplace raw and real, so I continue, my breaths ragged, my chest tight. “You always know exactly what to say… just like Charlie.”
Leah crinkles her nose as her hand runs up and down my bicep, squeezing affectionately. “The right words are easy when they come from an unselfish place. Don’t listen to anyone who doesn’t have your best interest in mind, babygirl.”
I nod with my lip caught between my teeth, eyes averting to the now-tattered ballet flats Charlie purchased for me when we first started dating.
This place feels so foreign, despite the fact that it was our favorite hang-out. Our most frequented establishment to grab a drink with friends, or just relax and talk about our day over beer nuggets.
Our.
It’s foreign because I’m a foreigner in my own life. A stranger. I’ve lost my way, and I’m not sure how to get back to the girl I used to be.
Before him.
Before tragedy infected me.
With a sigh, I raise my chin and offer Leah a remorseful smile. “I think I’m going to go.”
“I know.” Leah smooths my hair down, her cat-like eyes flickering over my face. “And wipe that apology off your lips. You have nothing to be sorry for.”
A chuckle slips out. “Except for these shoes I’m still wearing from 2012.”
“You can only see the holes if you look really close.”
We laugh together, and it’s a liberating sound, an eager ray of sunshine poking through my stone cracks. But the feeling is fleeting, and the clouds soon roll in, because I can’t help but think…
I wish I could say the same thing about me.
On the drive home, I remember that I’m out of butter, so I make a quick stop at the grocery store to prepare for another day of baking. A yawn escapes me as I stand in the checkout line, drained from the mental exertion of socializing and faking my way through conversations and pleasantries. I shuffle forward, distracted by my own hollow thoughts, when chitchat behind me catches my attention. My eyes remain fixed ahead, but my ears soak up every word.
“Did you hear about that hit-and-run in Lake Geneva yesterday?”
“Oh, my God, yes. Terrible. I heard the child survived, but the mother is critical.”
“My worst nightmare…”
My stomach coils as the voices fade out, and I become drenched in my own horrible memories. There were two men involved in Charlie’s murder, but only one was caught. A bystander grabbed the license plate off the truck that hit my husband, and Alfred “Alfie” Kent was quickly arrested, then eventually sentenced. He refused to give up his accomplice.
An elderly gentleman begins ringing up my items, puncturing my bleak fog. “Yer eyes are too pretty to look so sad,” the man mutters, slipping the sticks of butter into a paper bag. “That’ll be seven-twenty-one.”
I stiffen as I swipe my debit card.
He hands me the purchase, along with my receipt when the transaction goes through. “Have a nice night, Peaches.”
Something inside me freezes—a snap, a trigger. An ice-cold draft rolling in like a winter stormfront.
“You smell like peaches, Mrs. March.”
The old man flashes me a toothless smile, reminding me that I should return the gesture.
I’m good at smiling. I’m good at sucking people in like a happy vacuum.
They have no idea my real smile was sucked away almost one year ago today—that it’s now permanently shrouded in gray clouds and should-have-beens.
But I do force a smile as I tuck the paper bag underneath my arm, and it’s wide and bright, eerily authentic. “Goodbye.”
I tell him goodbye, not goodnight, because when I arrive home ten minutes later, I wander aimlessly into the kitchen to discard the butter and my purse, then pluck a paring knife out of the silverware drawer.
Swallowing, I carry the knife into the living room and collapse to the floor, my back pressed up against the front of the couch with my legs sprawled out in front of me, my heart thumping. I decide to remove my hoodie because I don’t want to get blood on it. It was Charlie’s favorite, and I can’t bear the thought of being responsible for anymore stains.
The knife feels weightless in my fist, and I’m grateful that I sharpened it not too long ago. The blade is smooth and cunning. It shouldn’t hurt too much.
Not that I’d really notice.
I inhale an abrupt breath, rolling up the thin fabric of my long-sleeved blouse until the underside of my wrist comes into view. Blue veins stare back at me, swimming with winter and twilight, so striking against my milky skin.
A hollow calm sweeps through me—a foggy disconnect. It’s almost as if I’m out of my own body, observing from afar as the knife lifts, and the pointy tip digs into the soft flesh. It doesn’t take much pressure for it to pierce through, to puncture my skin, and I watch, almost catatonic, as the blood pools to the surface. I dig a little deeper, dragging the serrated edge downward and releasing a sharp hiss when the pain hits.
The sight of the blood has my stomach twisting into knots as a wave of dizziness claims me. My eyes flutter, and I start to sway.
I’ve always had a weak stomach.
I just never knew I had a weak heart.
As the blood begins to spurt, a notification pings from my cell phone beside me. I squeeze my eyes shut, hardly hearing it at first.
Leave me alone, I’m busy.
I’m too preoccupied with dying.
But something niggles at me, pokes and prods. It buzzes in my ear until reality comes crashing down around me, detonating at my feet and stealing my breath, ripping a battle cry straight from my womb. There are explosions behind my eyes and ashes in my throat.
On instinct, I reach behind me for the blanket sprawled over the armrest of the couch and wrap it tightly around my pulse point, trying to halt the blood.
What am I doing?
My God, what am I doing?
Panic sinks its teeth into me, and my breaths come in quick bursts of chaos as I near a hyperventilative state. I sift through the pocket of Charlie’s hoodie and locate my phone, consumed by violent tremors, my blood-tinged fingers swiping to unlock the screen so I can dial 9-1-1.
I’m not ready.
I’m not ready yet.
But I pause when the notification catches my eye. The notification that interrupted my suicide attempt.
I pause because it’s an e-mail.
It’s an e-mail from… him.
I quickly open it, trying to make out the words through a wall of tears.
from:
Zephyr
to:
date:
Apr 12, 2021, 9:22 PM
subject:
Re: Widowed & Wilting
Hey.
I’ll be honest, I had no intention of writing you back. Hence the nine-month delay. A better person might apologize for that, but I’m not that person.
I’m not exactly a wordsmith either, and I’m certainly no expert on grief.
But I do know a thing about wilting.
I feel like it might be a fate worse than death, you know? It’s a slow, soul-sucking process, where you’re stuck in this limbo between fading away for good and making a comeback, but you can’t quite obtain either. So, you just wilt.
I’ve been wilting for a long time, and it fucking sucks.
Anyway, I hope you found some sunlight and have been watered properly.
Zephyr
My eyes scan over the e-mail a dozen times, soaking up the words, feeling my heart sputter and short-circuit as trails of blood trickle down my arm and saturate the rug beneath me.
A ghastly reminder of my near-fatal choice.
I try to process it, I try to process the letters and sentences and what it all means, but I’m fading, captured by a sky full of stars in the veil of night.
Before I’m fully possessed by darkness, I find the strength to dial those three numbers, to call for help, to save myself from… myself.
And when I finally come to, I’m lying in a new bed in a strange place, blinded by the bright lights overhead.
They singe my eyes.
Harsh and artificial.
But I find myself smiling as I drift away once more, and this time it’s a real smile, a sincere smile, because the ceiling lights manifest into something else, and all I feel is warmth dancing across my face as the clouds scatter.
The sun is looking for me.