7. Brinn
Chapter 7
Brinn
Today, the rounds of life seem easier. Pork Belly follows me around the house and yard as I clean and water. She has only been with me for two days, but she makes it easier. Even when she’s snoring in the other room, her presence is a soothing balm. She dulls the edges of panic that so often threaten to slice me open.
This morning, we walked to Meadow Park and played fetch off the dock again like Isaac had shown me. Sure, it necessitated a bath when we got home, but she didn’t seem to mind getting soaped up in the sunshine too much. With her short coat washed, dried, and brushed, she looks even more cute than normal as we lounge in the semi-shaded backyard, her head resting on a pillow of white clover.
I set down my book and start picking the white blossoms next to my lawn chair. I’ve always enjoyed more Earth-friendly lawns and let the clover spread through the front and backyard. My hands weave the blossoms with the muscle memory of childhood until I hold a fragrant wreath.
“Be right back, Miss Belly,” I say to the half-snoozing dog.
My camera is where I left it the other day. I run my nails gently over the woven fabric of its case, goosebumps rising across my skin from the texture. So familiar but so foreign. I pray under my breath and the soft hum of the zipper that the battery hasn’t died because I don’t think I can convince myself to pick up the damned thing again if it has.
The body of the camera is heavier than I remember. It feels like holding my own missing limb. I pull a lens out of its padded cell. As I snap it into place, the sound makes me twitch with nerves. This all used to be so normal to me. I used to relish in that click, knowing it meant I could act on the million shots I already laid out in my brain. It’s an echo of an old life. Or maybe it’s a step into a new one.
I stare at the black contraption in my hands. It’s too big and just right all at once. I press the power button, and the camera takes a breath—a digital whirring to life. It smiles at me, welcoming me home.
The birds chirping in the soft breeze of the open window remind me what drove me to take on this mission.
Pork Belly hasn’t moved from her sunny nap bed in the backyard but wags her tail happily as I come out of the screen door. “Hey girl, have you ever wanted to be a model?” I ask her, and her eyes sparkle at me.
I am shaky as I raise the camera to my eye, but the picture in my viewfinder is steady as I adjust it.
Click.
Pork Belly’s muzzle is still half buried in the clover, but her tail thumps against the ground.
Click.
“Miss Belly, can I put the crown on you?”
She lifts her head as if waiting to be coronated, tail relentless. Her expressiveness never ceases to make me grin like a child. I let her sniff the blooming crown before placing it on her head. The soft whites and pinks of the flowers match her pink nose and the white diamond-shaped spot that graces her forehead like a jewel.
“You look so beautiful, my liege,” I tell her as I step back to take more pictures.
Click. Click. Click.
Pork Belly turns out to be the perfect model for me. Sitting and standing patiently, following my hand to get her to gaze certain ways.
I wonder if Isaac could help me get some action shots when he gets home? I think before shaking my head. I don’t want to bother him more than I have. I’ll get the best of these printed as an apology to him, but I’ll leave him be after that. I blew it, and I don’t deserve his forgiveness.
When I get all the pictures I want, Pork Belly and I stroll around the neighborhood, flower crown miraculously staying on her head like a halo.
Feeling bold on our way home from playing in the meadow, I walk her around some unfamiliar streets. Sensing my nerves, she doesn’t forge ahead like normal. She walks at my pace next to me. I walk towards the ocean with her by my side. Not close enough to see it—I’m not ready for that. But two blocks closer than I have been in years.
Once I am home, fed, and resting, my brain is still pestering me. There’s still energy left in it. Something I haven’t experienced in... well, years.
My computer seems to wait like an ominous altar, illuminating my darkened office. I take my place in front of it, the camera like an offering in my hands.
My hands shake as I use the last of today’s bravery to push the memory card into the adapter. When the folder of photos pops up, I consider turning the whole computer off and never looking at it again.
However, for the first time in too long, my curiosity wins over my fear.
I copy the photos from today into a new folder, closing my eyes as the computer works. When I open them again, the folder in front of me contains the photos from before the accident. Most of them are shots of the meadow and the edge of the forest. There are some other sights around Calysto’s Cove that I barely remember.
And there, nestled in scenery shots, is Josh’s smiling face, small in the thumbnail preview. I don’t even remember taking the photo. I click on it without thinking, and his face fills my screen. He’s holding an ice cream cone on the boardwalk. The background is painted in the blues and greys of the sea and sky and dotted with boats.
I forgot about that freckle he has—had—on the center of his chin, like a marker where a cleft should have been. I have spent over two years avoiding every photo of him in the house, letting them watch me like haunted paintings and never meeting their gaze. Relics of a bygone era. I have forgotten so much about him in that avoidance. How could I do that?
I miss him. I’ve long since gotten over the idea that anything will bring him back. I still miss him, though. He had been my friend for so long. We loved each other. I miss his laugh. I miss kissing that freckle. I miss telling him about my day.
I’m still frequently angry at him. Grief is not linear, and while I’ve moved past a few of the stages firmly, it’s hard to let go of that anger. That has not gone, and it feels like it will never leave. This rage simmering in my body, this rage at him for leaving me here, at the world for everything that led to the accident, at myself. Some days, it feels like it’s scorching my will to live, melting me from the inside out.
The hot anger mixes with the icy grief and turns me to stone like lava hitting the sea, melding me to this place where they came together in the worst way.
The anger flickers in me now as I stare at his smile. Na?ve to his dwindling time on this planet.
But that’s all it does. Flickers softly, like a candle. It still illuminates dark and ugly feelings. Right now, as I stare at his image created by a million tiny pixels, the incandescent inferno is quelled to a soft, small flame. It does not howl in my ears; it does not speed my heart. It just lives quietly in my body. Maybe it always will. Maybe that type of grief can never truly be extinguished.
But right now, for the first time since I pulled my body onto those rocks and watched the tail lights blink out beneath the churning water, it does not overwhelm me.
I stare at the photo for another moment before closing the viewer and copying all the photos on the card into another folder I don’t have to look at for now. My courage is exhausted for the day.
I open the photos of Pork Belly and feel the joy of them on my face, even as tired as I am. She looks so happy and almost ethereal.
My inner critic notes all the flaws in the shots. Some shots are beautiful and joyful, others are a little out of focus or not framed properly. There are enough good ones to remind me I can do this. I used to be great at this, and maybe I can be great again.
As I open the editing software, the thought bounces around in my head.
Maybe I still know how to do this. Maybe not all hope is lost. Maybe I can be a person again.
Isaac comes home today. Which means I have to see him face-to-face, a prospect that fills me with renewed misery.. Why does he have to be so sweet and handsome?
I’m also sad about saying goodbye to Pork Belly. It’s been so nice to have her in the house and by my side. Maybe I should look into getting a dog. Or even a cat. Cats are homebodies like me. They like to sulk and sleep, something I can relate to.
Pork Belly gets me out of the house, though, even when it’s hard, like right now. The anxiety of Isaac’s impending arrival has me on edge, and I haven’t been able to stop biting my nails all morning. Isaac texted me a couple hours ago what time his flight should get in. I had planned PB’s afternoon walk to end right before he got home so she could burn off some energy and not overwhelm him.
The day is grey and gloomy as we walk through the neighborhood. The humid chill in the summer air is full with the promise of rain later. Animals flit about the area, gathering last-minute snacks and finding shelter. I have a few hours before the storm starts, so I can take something for my anxiety ahead of time.
I used to love storms, but now it’s a coin toss whether they’ll send me into the trenches of a panic attack or pass by like nothing happened. With how anxious I already am, I can’t see any other outcome besides a panic attack. I can already sense the panic’s spiked tendrils trying to hook themselves into my nervous system.
Pork Belly seems to love the cooler weather, plodding along happily. Her ears perk as she watches a squirrel dart across the street. Squirrels aren’t her chief enemy, though, so she ignores the bushy-tailed rodent in favor of sniffing an interesting light pole.
Some people like to keep their dogs on task for their walks, but Isaac lets Pork Belly sniff to her heart’s delight. I enjoy watching her take in whatever scent she finds fascinating, her tail wagging as she hurries from bush to stick to grass clump. Occasionally, she’ll find an interesting stick to take with her, proudly ignoring all else in favor of toting the stick home. Isaac keeps them in a pile next to the house.
Watching her wonder about the world is giving me some of mine back, I think. As she stops to sniff, so do I. A flower, a breeze—it’s all interesting to her, and it’s all precious to me.
She stops to stick her head in a bush, and I stop to watch a bird in a tree as soon as I determine she’s not eating someone’s discarded hot dog... again. We watch the rabbits and squirrels gather and scamper. After spending so much time looking only as far as the other side of the room and occasionally to the other side of the street, I am realizing how much I have missed.
I shiver slightly as a powerful gust of wind blows down the street, pushing my hair back and bringing my attention back to my full surroundings. I look around, trying to place where we are, but the streets of this godforsaken town are unfamiliar to me. Letting Pork Belly lead while I was lost in thought has brought me to unknown territory. And I realize I left my phone at home.
The wind blasts me again, and this time, the scent of the ocean is heavy in it. Through the gaps in the buildings, I can see the dark blue water churning with the incoming storm. The cove is so close that the bobbing ship masts are visible over a ridge of bushes.
I feel sick.
My chest is too tight.
I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe. I am dizzy. I can’t—
Pork Belly pulls at the leash, this time towards the grass next to the sidewalk. It pulls me off balance, and I lurch after her. She pulls me towards the bushes and sits with her back to them.
I think there are tears on my face, or it started raining. I can’t tell as I stumble, and I fall on my hands and knees in the grass next to her. Lightning strikes somewhere, and the boom has me scrambling towards the bushes for cover.
I can’t breathe. I’m drowning. I’m drowning again. I’m drowning on the sidewalk of this horrible fucking town. I’m going to get struck by lightning, and a wave is going to come ashore and wash me out to sea. Pork Belly is going to get lost or hurt. Can she even swim? Isaac is going to be heartbroken, and I am going to be dead and—
Pork Belly’s warm muzzle pushes against my hand, lifting it to slide along her head. Moments later, her heavy, warm body presses into my side as she leans against me. Pork Belly is still here. She’s safe for now. I wrap my arms around her and sob into her fur.
“I’m so sorry, PB. I can’t—I don’t know what to do. I’m sorry.” She leans into me further. She’s warm and solid. She still smells of my shampoo from yesterday’s bath. I try to focus on that rather than the sickening salt spray.
Lightning strikes in the distance, and I yelp and cling to her tighter. I need to get up, I need to get home, I need to get Pork Belly home. I can’t, I can’t, I can’t, I—
“Brinn?”