CHAPTER 28
ABI
No More Chances
I can’t run.
There’s nowhere to go.
But I can hide.
I can hide in my little cabin, as though it’s a bubble floating in the air, high above the trouble and strife of the world.
Only it’s not.
It’s not high above the trouble and strife. The trouble and strife are within me. A prison that I can’t escape no matter how far I run or how long I hide.
The hours tick by like microcosms, like miniature lifetimes strolling slowly past. I use the never-ending minutes to stalk the town’s website like a woman obsessed. Because that’s what I am—obsessed. I search continually for any information on the arrangements of one specific resident, one Sara Forrester. I refresh and refresh and refresh, but never is there any news.
Not until two days after movie night. That’s when I finally see something. It’s a listing very similar to an obituary, giving a few nice paragraphs about Sara’s life and a short single paragraph about her death. Those are followed by the how, the when, and the where she will be honored.
The viewing is tonight, open to the public, a public that clearly adored Sara according to the writer of the article. The funeral and graveside will happen tomorrow morning. It gives the name of those who will officiate the services and where each will be held. I make note of them as though it matters.
It doesn’t.
I won’t be going.
While I would love to pay my respects to Sara, I wouldn’t dream of bringing conflict to Sam and Noelle, or to Sara’s parents at a time such as this. The last thing any of them needs is a black widow of the heart making an already-awful day worse.
No, as much as part of me wants and needs to go, I will keep my venom here, locked away where it can’t hurt anyone.
Anyone but me.
I stay put and do the one thing I can do better in private than I could do in public at a funeral service anyway: I mourn. I could cry and grieve anywhere. But I can do it better here. I can mourn Sara and the loss of her short life. I can mourn the memories she won’t make and the milestones she won’t witness. I can mourn the marriage she had to leave and the child she had to abandon. I can mourn the woman who, if left here longer, would’ve been a good friend to me. And I’d have been a good friend to her.
Or I would’ve tried.
My mourning doesn’t stop there, though. In the quiet of my cabin and, later, in front of the placid waters of the lake, I mourn the loss of Sam, the love of my life. I mourn the Sam I knew and the Sam I won’t get to know. I mourn the love we have and the love that was ripped from us far too soon. I also mourn the love we could’ve had.
A little girl died today, too. I mourn her as well. Some part of Noelle’s innocence will be buried today, a part she will never get back. I mourn how she will grow up without a mother, and I mourn how her life will always feel a little bit empty, even when she’s at her happiest.
I mourn the could-haves and would-haves and if-onlys. I think I mourn those most of all. Those and all the second chances I’ll never have. For me, there are no more chances, first, second or otherwise. Like Sara, my time is coming to an end.
I mourn my life, too—the loss of it, the consequence of it. I mourn the loss of what should’ve been a full and happy existence, and I mourn what now will never be.
********
The funeral was two days ago. I don’t feel any better than I did on that day, or the two days before it. In fact, I may feel even worse.
I’m sitting in what has become my favorite Adirondack chair, the one Sam knelt in front of. That day, the day he came to take me to his house and proceeded to cook my favorite dish, seems a lifetime ago.
With each passing hour, I fall deeper into nothingness. Hopelessness. Despair. What’s left of my heart is dying, slowly, painfully. Like my foot. But it’s as that death occurs that I see the first evidence of life after death. It’s here, from the yard of a rented cabin that feels like home because it’s the only place I’ve ever really loved, that I witness the true resilience of the human spirit. I see it in the sun on blonde curls and I hear it through the laugh of a little girl.
Noelle—she looks like life and she sounds like hope.
I hear the high-pitched tinkle of Noelle’s laughter before I see her. When she comes darting from the left to streak across the yard near the lake’s edge, I can’t help smiling. To see her this way—as though she hasn’t just lost one of the most important people in her life—is like witnessing a miracle. But that’s the beauty of being a child. At this age, it’s easier to separate the bad from the good. It’s easier to reject the one and cling to the other, to leave the sad behind in favor of chasing a butterfly or building a sand castle. Or to race across the yard as your father, who’s pretending to be a bear, is chasing you. At least that’s what I’m guessing is going on, judging by his bungling walk, clawed fingers, and bared teeth.
My breath hitches in my throat when Sam comes into view. I watch, rapt, as he speeds up and swoops in to capture his daughter, throwing her high into the air and catching her in his strong and capable arms. She links her tiny hands at the back of his neck and looks into his eyes. I see his lips move as he speaks to her, and I see her respond. I see her expression shift to one of excitement just before she nods enthusiastically. Whatever he’s offering must be irresistible.
But that’s Sam in a nutshell.
Irresistible.
Sam sets Noelle down and she runs away, back to the left, back out of sight, and he turns to watch her go. I watch him watching her, and I know I could spend hours doing this—watching. Watching Sam. Observing him. Drinking him in. Tucking him away in the loneliest part of my soul.
As though he can feel my eyes on him, Sam’s head swivels in my direction. Even across the calm waters of the lake, I feel the burning intensity of his stare. He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t frown. He doesn’t move at all. Not a single muscle. He just stares me.
I can’t look away. I can’t look away because somewhere in the back of my mind, I wonder if this is the last time I’ll see him, and I want to commit every detail of him to memory.
As if I’d ever be able to forget.
There will be two images swirling through my head as I take my last breath. One will be the cherubic features of the most beautiful child I’ve ever seen, with hair like mine and eyes like her father.
My Sasha.
The other will be the face I’m staring at now. The face of love. And of loss. And of all the things I can never have in this life.
My Sam.
His gaze holds me captive until Noelle returns. She’s dragging a net stocking filled with beachy toy equipment, all in bright, bold primary colors. She races by Sam, snatching his hand as she goes and, together, they make their way down to the sandy area that joins the lake.
I should move. I should go inside and let them have this time together, in private, without the intrusion of prying eyes.
But I don’t.
Because I can’t.
I can’t move and I can’t look away. It’s as though they’re the breath of life and I will suffocate without them.
For over an hour, I watch Sam play with his child. I wonder a thousand things, like does he cry and does she, are his in-laws still there, did his parents ever show up. I wonder if he’s tired and if he’s hungry, I wonder if Mrs. Sturgill is cooking their meals. I wonder if he’s lonely and if he’s hurting, even though I have no doubt that he is both.
When they pack up, dusting off sand and stuffing shovels and buckets and rakes back into the stocking, I miss them already. I mourn them like another tiny death. Like my lungs will soon mourn air.
Sam takes the toys in one hand and his daughter’s fingers in his other, and they begin the trek back to the house. He looks back over his shoulder as they walk away. His eyes hold mine until he’s out of sight. I hold them right back.
And, when he’s gone, I sink deeper and deeper into darkness.