To Haunt A Heartbeat
“This will be good for us,” Gavin says, breaking the silence that has hung over us the entire car ride.
He hasn’t come out and said it, but he’s strongly insinuated that I should be thankful that he’s taking initiative to fix our marriage with this trip.
I’d love to believe that, but I know, as well as he does, that this time away only came to be because our therapist suggested it.
“When couples go through the loss of a child, it’s not uncommon for the marriage to go through moments of strain. Some time away, together, could be an ideal way to reconnect and to heal what the grief has taken away.”
The problem with Gavin and I is that the strain has always been there. Losing our only child merely took what was always fractured and damaged it further. And if I’m being honest with myself, no amount of therapy, or trips away, can mend what we’ve been avoiding for far too long.
We aren’t happy.
We’ve never been happy.
All we have to do – and should do – is admit that out loud so we can move on.
Though I think a part of us is afraid that if we separate it will somehow make the loss too real.
All we have left of our son is that we created him and parented him together.
It’s not a valid reason to stay but somehow leaving him without giving it one last shot, pointless as it feels, doesn’t feel right either. A truly hopeless situation.
“You’re awfully quiet,” he says, parking the rental car he insisted on getting instead of using our own, in front of the secluded place he booked for us.
I simply nod my head to him as I unbuckle, scooting forward to get a better look at the stunning gothic revival architecture before me.
“It’s beautiful,” I whisper, taking in the abundance of symmetrical peaks with arched windows and ornate trim work staring back at me.
“Eh, it’s alright. I’ve never been one for these old houses. They give me the creeps. All I care about is that for what I paid, it better be fucking pristine on the inside. I’ll have you know that this excursion was not cheap. Not by a long shot,” he scoffs.
I turn to him, shifting in my seat. “I thought this was about us.”
He stares at me. “You look pale.”
I look at myself in the passenger visor mirror. He’s not wrong. “You know how I get on long car rides.”
He rolls his eyes and gets out of the car. “Just don’t throw up please. I’m not in the mood to clean it up.” The driver door slams, and that’s it. No asking if I feel okay now. No care for me whatsoever. All that radiates from him is annoyance. Same as it alwaysdoes.
Nothing more is said between us as we gather our bags from the trunk and bring them inside. I packed light, only a duffel bag with my clothes, toiletries, and my current read.
The same can’t be said for Gavin.
I glance down at his briefcase he’s holding along with his duffel bag. “I thought you weren’t going to work this weekend.”
“In an ideal world, I wouldn’t have to but since I’m the one responsible for putting a roof over our head, and everything else that comes along with it, I don’t really have a fucking choice, now do I?”
Unbelievable. There’s not a damn day that goes by that he doesn’t throw in my face that he’s the breadwinner.
Since the accident, I’ve been unable to hold down a job aside from some freelance writing I’ve done for the local paper’s online section.
It doesn’t seem to matter how many therapy sessions I’ve gone to, or what medications I’ve been prescribed, the panic attacks still come, and I have become a shell of the woman I once was.
A helplessness washes over me.
I want to scream at him.
I want to take my hands and wring his neck for always being so goddamn condescending.
But all of that requires energy that I don’t have.
Energy that I lost when I lost the only thing in my life that made it feel worth living.
The burden of my own mental health creates a tangible heaviness in my chest. Breathing feels impossible when I get like this.
A dry, sarcastic laugh sounds. “Oh boy, I can see how this weekend is going to go already.”
Finally, words find me. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He tosses his bags on the floor, and makes a beeline to the kitchen, opening and shutting the fridge, as if he’s expecting it to be stocked. Of course it’s not, it’s a fucking Airbnb. We’re responsible for that.
“What are you looking for? I ask.
“Food,” he mumbles.
“There’s none in there. Why don’t you give me the keys,” I suggest, knowing damn well that I have no desire to drive to the store or know where the closest one is for that matter.
But the thought of getting behind the wheels – of facing my fears – feels oddly therapeutic aside from the fact that driving somewhere – anywhere – means I get a break from him.
“Yeah right. Considering that’s how we found ourselves in–”
“Don’t,” I mutter through a tight jaw, fighting back tears as I storm past him.
How dare he.
With no clue where I’m going, I allow my feet to guide me down the darkened hall until I settle on one of the closed doors. Desperate to create physical distance between us, I open it, locking myself inside.
Heavy footsteps sound until he stops just outside the door.
“Like I said, I can already sense how this weekend is going to be. If I’m going to make it until the end, I’m going to need liquor,” – he hesitates for a moment – “and I guess some food.”
“Whatever,” I mumble, back slumped against the door.
The canopied bed across the room calls my name as exhaustion and sadness take hold of me.
The front door slams, and shortly after tires squeal in the distance. There’s no doubt that I made him angry yet once again by simply existing. Meanwhile he’s the one about to casually bring up what happened a year ago, to the date, indirectly blaming me, as he has made a habit of doing.
My tears are no longer held back; they are streaming down my face as I shut my eyes.
Today is our eighth wedding anniversary, as well as the one-year mark of our beautiful baby boy no longer being here with us.
On days like today, in moments like this when the grief becomes too much to bear, this is when I crave sleep the most. Hoping, secretly, that it’ll take me with it instead of giving me nightmares I didn’t ask for.
Each time I close my eyes it’s a gamble.
Will there be actual rest?
Will my mind allow me a moment’s peace?
I never know.
But I do know that life feels more doable with my lids shut and the world around me blocked out, even if it’s just for a few hours.
I’ll take my chances.
Anything is better than this living nightmare I’ve found myself in.
My feet dangle off the pier, skimming the water’s edge. It’s so quiet. Eerily so.
All the advice the grief counselor has given me these past few months begin to swarm my head, same as they always do when I feel sad. I feel sad so often, that it almost feels like my new norm. I’ve forgotten how else to be.
I debate opening the notebook she encouraged me to always carry with me. The intention was to write out all my feelings. The sad ones, the mundane ones, even the happy ones, if such a thing exists for me anymore.
I have nothing else to do, so I might as well.
I’m barely a sentence in when something sounds from across the lake, startling me and before I know it, the pen in my hand is in the water.
For a split second I debate diving in to get it, knowing that it’s too dark to see and that I’m a horrible swimmer.
But the thought of slipping into the water and letting it drag me down tempts me, so much so that without much hesitation, I feel myself scoot forward on the dock, readying myself to jump in.
I’m knee deep in the water, though a sound,reminiscent of something rumbling from beneath presents itself.
Rippled water cuts around me, and a whispering begins.
“Stay,” the voice urges. Soft, feminine, haunting.
It repeats itself, each time growing louder but no less terrifying.
Goosebumps prickle my skin and a fear I haven’t experienced since the day of the accident grips me.
I want to scream. I want to run away. But I can’t.
The fright causing my heart to thrash in my chest has nothing to do with why I’m frozen in place and everything to do with the woman floating in front of me.
A veil, made of lace rests over top her dark as night hair. Dressed in black from head to toe there’s an etherealness to her, a glow that I can’t quite explain. I not only see it…I can feel it.
Her lips part as she closes the distance between us, with her head nearing my bent legs.
“What’s your name?” she whispers, voice crackly.
Nothing but air comes out each time I move my lips causing amusement to blossom on her stunning face.
She inches closer, now bringing a hand to my knee. Her touch is cold, frigid, yet it stirs a warmth inside of me that I haven’t felt in so long.
The sensation, both distant and needed increases as she kneads my skin.
“What’s your name?” she repeats, and this time, despite the current of preemptive pleasure coursing through me from the menial contact, I respond.
“Cora.”
A soft hum quickly morphs to a satisfied groan as she says my name out loud as her thin, long fingers creep their past my kneecap and up my thigh
“Are you lonely?” she asks, dryly, matter of fact.
“Yes,” I practically pant.
“I thought so,” she mutters something to herself that I can’t quite make out. All I heard was that she missed something. What that is, I’m not sure. “Do you want me to make you feel less lonely?”
A chord strikes in my heart, as a silent ‘yes’ is said in the form of me scooting back just enough so that she has room to lay at the apex of my thighs.
Following my lead, she lifts herself up from the water and lays flat on the wooden surface.
“He doesn’t appreciate you,” she whispers, peppering kisses up and down my skin. “He doesn’t care.” I hear what she’s saying. I know she’s saying it. It’s coming from her mouth, but her voice sounds like my own.