8. Luisa
— ? —
Luisa
My hands didn’t feel like mine.
I watched them pull clothes from hangers.
Watched them fold sweaters, roll socks, stuff everything into the suitcase I’d bought for our honeymoon.
These hands had touched him countless times, held his face, pressed against his chest, traced the map of his body in the dark.
Now they moved without me, mechanical and numb.
The bedroom door opened behind me.
“Lu, you don’t have to leave tonight.”
“Yes I do.”
“Stay here. I’ll go to my parents’ place. You shouldn’t have to-”
“I don’t want to stay here!” The words ripped out of me. I spun around to face him, a dress clutched in my shaking hands. “I don’t want to live in a house filled with the best memories of our marriage!”
He flinched. Good.
“Where will you go?”
“That’s not your concern anymore.”
“Lu-”
“You chose her, remember? You made your decision. So you don’t get to worry about where I go or what I do.” I turned back to the suitcase, stuffing the dress in without folding it. “You lost that right five minutes ago.”
He followed me to the bathroom. Stood in the doorway while I swept my toiletries into a bag, toothbrush, moisturizer, the prenatal vitamins I’d started taking yesterday. My hand hesitated over the bottle. He couldn’t see the label from where he was standing.
I shoved them into the bag anyway.
“At least wait until morning.” His voice was desperate now, that cold mask slipping. “You’re upset. You’ve been crying. You shouldn’t drive like this.”
“Watch me.”
“Luisa, please. I’m begging you. Just, not tonight. Please, Lu, not tonight.”
The crack in his voice made me pause. He sounded scared. Genuinely, terrifyingly scared. But when I turned to look at him, his face was that same blank mask, and I decided I’d imagined it.
“You don’t get to beg.” I zipped the toiletry bag and pushed past him, back to the bedroom. “You don’t get to ask me for anything.”
“I just need you to be safe.”
“Should’ve thought of that before you ended our marriage.”
I closed the suitcase. Zipped it. Lifted it off the bed and extended the handle. It was heavy, I’d packed too much, grabbed things without thinking, but I’d rather dislocate my shoulder than ask him for help.
He followed me down the stairs. “Where are you going to go?”
“Away from you.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only answer you’re going to get.”
The front door was right there, almost within reach. I could feel him behind me, could hear his breathing, could sense the way he was holding himself back from grabbing me, from physically stopping me from leaving.
“I’m sorry,” he said again.
I didn’t turn around.
“I never wanted to hurt you.”
My hand was on the doorknob.
“Luisa-”
“Goodbye, Wade.”
I opened the door and walked out into the night.
The cold air hit me like a slap. October in Boston, not freezing yet, but sharp, the kind of cold that clears your head. I breathed it in as I walked to my car, dragging my suitcase behind me, refusing to look back at the house where I’d thought I’d raise my children.
Our children.
My child, now.
I loaded the suitcase into the trunk. Got behind the wheel. Put the key in the ignition.
Wade was standing in the doorway. I could see him in my rearview mirror, just a silhouette, backlit by the warm glow of the house that wasn’t mine anymore. He didn’t move. Didn’t call out. Just stood there, watching me leave.
I started the engine.
I pulled out of the driveway too fast, tires squealing slightly on the pavement. The first few blocks were a blur. I was crying again, or maybe still, I couldn’t tell anymore. My whole face was wet, my whole body shaking.
Breathe, I told myself. Just breathe.
I fumbled with the radio. Found a station playing quiet music, no words. Let the music wash over me while I tried to remember how to exist.
The streets were quiet this time of night. Saturday at, what time was it?, past eleven. Most of Boston was asleep. Normal people with normal lives and normal marriages that weren’t exploding into pieces.
I turned onto Commonwealth Avenue. The streetlights made everything look orange and strange.
Breathe. Just breathe.
My eyes were clear now. The tears had stopped, or maybe I’d just run out of them. Either way, I could see the road in front of me, the traffic lights cycling through their colors, the occasional car passing in the other direction.
I thought about where I was going. Not home to Lancaster. I couldn’t face my parents, couldn’t explain what had happened, couldn’t watch their faces when I told them I’d failed. A hotel, maybe. An anonymous room where I could cry myself to sleep without anyone asking questions.
Tomorrow, I thought. Tomorrow I’ll figure out what comes next.
The light ahead turned green.
I pressed the accelerator.
And then the world tilted.
Later, I’d learn the story the police pieced together, a drunk driver who ran the red light and never even touched his brakes. A terrible accident. Wrong place, wrong time. I believed every word of it for four years.
In the moment, I knew none of this.
In the moment, there was only light, headlights, impossibly bright, coming from the wrong direction, and sound, metal screaming against metal, glass exploding inward, and motion, my body thrown sideways, the seatbelt cutting into my chest, my head connecting with the window.
Time buckled.
I was in the car, and then I wasn’t. One moment the dashboard, then the sky, and then I wasn’t sure if I was breathing at all.
Blood. I could feel it, warm and wet, running down my forehead into my eye.
The baby, I thought, and my hand moved to my stomach, and then the pain hit, sharp and everywhere and too much, and the thought scattered like birds startled from a tree.
Voices. Far away, then closer.
“Ma’am? Ma’am, can you hear me?”
I tried to answer. My mouth wouldn’t work.
“We’re going to get you out of there. Just hold on.”
Hands on me. Careful hands, professional hands. The shriek of metal being cut. Cold air on my skin.
“Ma’am, what’s your name?”
“Lu-” My voice sounded wrong. Wet. Broken. “Luisa.”
“Okay, Luisa. You’re going to be okay. We’re going to take you to the hospital.”
They were lifting me. Strapping me to a backboard, hard and flat. The stars wheeled overhead, smeared and too bright.
The baby, I thought again. Please. Please let the baby be okay.
I couldn’t say it out loud. The words wouldn’t come.
Someone was talking on a radio. Static and jargon and numbers I didn’t understand. I let my eyes close, let the darkness creep in at the edges of my vision.
“…emergency contact,” the voice was saying. “Notifying emergency contact. Wade Buckley.”
The darkness swallowed me whole.