Between Octobers Bk 1, Savor The Days Series (41 page)

The floor greeted me, driving shards into my
bare legs as the butcher board brushed the top of my head. I
scrambled far beneath the dining table as the wooden block
skittered across the table, knocking off the vase before sliding
down my back.

All of a sudden, it seemed so noisy. Maybe
because I was screaming—I wasn’t sure why, but I couldn’t stop. To
see his aftermath is one thing, but to watch this animalistic
dismantling was another.

Evan made his way over to me. He was saying
something, probably “sorry”—but I couldn’t make out his words over
the noise. Everything was just a continuous, spewing stream of
nonsense.

The glass shards dug further into my flesh
as I stood. My hands felt weak, shaking as I shoved him away. I
shouldn’t have come, that was clear now.

It was a race to the door.

He gripped my arms, pulling me back. I
slapped his hand away and he traded it for the other. I removed
that one, only to find it replaced somewhere else. Besieged,
shuffling towards the broken exit as quickly as I could, I ignored
the searing pain. I couldn’t control my anxiety as he fumbled,
trying to force his comfort on me. I broke away just outside the
kitchen door and dashed through the gate, across my lawn, and up
the path to my patio.

Outside my back door, I took the time to
survey my wounds. The tongues of my shoes were bright red. The
fronts of each leg were lined with small cuts, but my knees got the
worst of it. I grabbed the hose and gently washed away the excess
glass and blood to better see the wounds without exposing myself to
further injury. I needed to know the cuts were as superficial as
they seemed before I moved, again.

Evan charged through the gate, his eyes
blazing. He was panting and sweating. His pulse pounded in his
neck, the veins in his arms bulged. Fear shot through me. There was
something in his hand, and for a split-second I was surprised it
was only a hand towel.

I reminded myself how stupid I was being. He
didn’t see me—it was an accident.

“Gracie, are you alright? I didn’t know you
were there! I’m sorry! I hurt you! I’m a fucking idiot!” He raised
a clenched fist and beat it against the side of his head, over and
over.

I told him I was fine, but he either
couldn’t hear me or wouldn’t. So, I lifted the hose and sprayed him
until he stopped his nonsense.

“I’m fine!” I shouted, repeating myself
several times until I knew he’d heard. Then, I turned off the
water. “It’s a few scrapes. I’m just a bleeder.”

He huffed, wiping the water from his wet
hair and clothes. He looked as shocked as I felt. “Gracie, I’m so,
so—”

“Save it! Just go. Get yourself some help.”
I wondered if he heard the panic as plainly as I did.

“But—”

“
I mean it, Evan! If you come near me
or my children—” I couldn’t speak the threat, choking on the lump
in my throat. “What you need, I can’t give.”

I limped into the house and locked the door
behind me.

When I turned on the light inside my
bathroom, the first thing I saw was a lump growing on the side of
my forehead, near my hairline. There was no bruise, just a red
line. I ignored it and propped my burning knees on the counter to
wipe them down with cotton swabs and make sure there was no more
glass, before splashing them with alcohol. That made me yelp. The
bandages went on easily after. I changed into some sweats to cover
the dressings, and took down my hair because I didn’t want to
explain anything to anyone. The kids would be home from school soon
and having to bury Arnold was enough for one day.

Too depressed to think, I limped to the
family room with plans to ice down my throbbing legs and zone out
with television.

Evan was sitting in the oversized chair in
the family room. His hair was wet, but his clothes were dry. His
hands pressed across his forehead as he stared into nothing with
his elbows propped on his knees. There was no antagonism, simply
empty eyes and a blank face.

“Please. Don’t be afraid.” His tone was
soft. “I don’t know what’s happened to me.” He ran his hands
through his hair. “Are you alright? Do you need to see a
doctor?”

I shook my head.

“I see I’ve effectively immunized you to my
apologies. I won’t say the word, though, I want you to know I am
more—” My brain filled in the missing word. “—than you will ever
know. I could’ve seriously hurt you. I couldn’t live with myself
if—” He started to snivel and stopped, working the sound into a
cough.

“I’m leaving, so you don’t have to worry.
You’re right about me, but you’re not right about everything.” He
met my eyes for a split second. “I’m grateful you have quick
reflexes.”

He cleared his throat and stood. His house
keys dropped on the counter as he passed to the front door. He
swung the door open and turned. “I won’t come back, I promise. But
might you do one, final favor?”

I nodded.

“Don’t tell the kids?” His voice
cracked.

“I won’t.”

He shook his head and walked quickly
out.

The finality was tangible. I felt the
disconnection like a cord pulled from an outlet. He was doing what
I asked and it was the right thing, but it felt abrupt and wrong
and I was afraid I’d never see him again.

My knees burned and throbbed as I limped for
the entry. I must’ve missed some glass; it shouldn’t hurt so much.
Flinging the door open, I ran for the wall that separated the front
yards, but couldn’t bend my bandaged knees enough to crawl over
before the black SUV disappeared down the hill. Desperate, I limped
back to the kitchen and reached for the phone. The line rang and
rang before finally going to voicemail.

“Evan, I need to talk to you. It’s
important. It has nothing to do with whatever just happened. I need
to speak with you, so please call me. Please, please.”

I crouch into my alcove, disgusted and
relieved, as I draw my knees up but can’t get my arms around to
hold myself. My burning, cold arms tuck between them, huddling in a
folded position around my belly.

All I did was throw a rock.

I didn’t push, I didn’t prod or lead. I
threw a rock over a ledge—that’s it. She was the one who assumed it
was my feet making that noise and made her own choice to follow
it.

I just tossed a rock.

The cold is bitter, like the long night. The
merciless moon won’t show itself and I can’t move in the black, for
fear of receiving penance. I’m doomed to wait over the grave and
ponder while I freeze.

I breathe into my hands, thanking God for
every wretched, undeserving breath.

At the first sign
of light, I scurry away from the ledge, keeping my morbid
promptings at bay. Part of me wants to see, to make sure she’s
really down there, but I know if I look, I’ll never stop
seeing.

It’s easy to find the path I carved. There’s
only one way to go—away from the precipice. I follow the fallen
grass and imprints in the dirt until I come to the drop. The climb
that zapped all my strength. It’s very rough and steep, and it
looks like I long way down. I examine my captive hands and consider
how best to proceed. Gently, I plop onto my butt, inching—sometimes
sliding—my way down the steep, coarse path, using my feet to
control speed and direction.

During the frightening night, I was sure I
was standing on a hill of fire ants. I thought I felt them biting
and stinging me with their pinching mouths. But in the light of
day, the burn and itch looks like poison ivy. The hillside is
covered with it.

As I reach the bottom of the steepest
incline, my course becomes increasingly difficult. I can walk now,
but there’s no more trail in the dirt or fallen grass to follow;
only tall trees, shrubs and bark. I do my best to plot a straight
line, but have no way of knowing if the line I made the previous
night stemmed out straight or at an angle.

The sun rises higher in the sky, bringing
the heat. I soak up the warmth, still feeling the icy cold in my
bones and dread the sight of my shoulder. The low temperature
helped keep it from swelling, but in the growing heat, I can
already tell, the pain and swelling will soon immobilize it. The
smallest movements send wrenching pain through my upper body.

My wrists are red and purple around the
binding zip-tie. The dirt where I stayed was trickled with dried
spots of blood. The windburn on my cheeks has a scaly feel. My
mouth is as dry as the air. Every time I swallow, the sensitive
mucous membranes of my parched palate stick together. My lips feel
like they may crack if I use them. I think there’s Carmex in the
first aid kit. There should be a few water bottles, too.

The woods thicken until there’s no more sun.
The heat is lost under the canopy, where I struggle through the
undergrowth. I try to remember the conditions I ran through the
night before, but other than the oppressive terror, I can’t
recollect. I keep on in the general direction I think I came from,
praying and trusting I’ll find the way.

After a while, the thick mess of trees
begins breaking up. I keep my path in the sunny spots between the
towering trees. As I come down the wooded hillside, the patches
break into a wide field of tall brown and green grass, with
scattered patches of dirt.

The field.

When I look back at where I’ve come
from, the sight stops me in my tracks.
Dear, God.
It’s a mass of mountains, sheer and
high, blocking out half the sky. The vast hills stretch out behind
and before me. I’m merely a speck among them. Even if they know
where to look, they may never find me.

My head continually throbs and my arms are
on fire. I need to scratch them. I can’t even wipe my hair from my
face because the rash from the poison ivy will spread. I stomp my
feet and snivel in frustration, turning towards the field to search
along the forest edge for tire tracks. I clearly remember the Jeep
being on the edge of the trees, with no road in sight.

Maybe there’s calamine lotion in the first
aid kit, too.

The months were slow and redundant and I
found myself feeling lonelier than ever. The morning sickness was
not so much sickness as complete lethargy. It took ten times the
effort to go through the motions.

According to Fame Tracker, Evan really did
check into rehab, and left after thirty days. He’d been keeping a
low profile since. Translation: no one knew where he was. He’d left
his cell phone on the couch in Marcus’ place and never came back.
And he’d had his number changed at least twice since then.

I figured he was hoping I’d take the hint
and stop calling. So I did. Well, sort of. To help combat the need
to call him, I began writing to him. Every mundane detail. Just to
share with him, like we were still together. I got up and dragged
through my routine so I could write to him about it. And I could
pretend I was going to send him my letters, and that he looked
forward to reading them. My guess was I’d written about a hundred
different letters. Not all of it was the deep,
we-need-to-have-this-talk talk. Some I wrote just because I missed
being able to pick up the phone and hear his voice. I missed
feeling the weight of him in the bed beside me, waking up cold
because he was a blanket hog. I missed laughing with him during our
late-night talks that always ended with us making love. I missed
his lips on me and his hands in my hair while Pink Floyd played on
in the background.

I made a mental note to mention that in my
next letter.

My hands were swollen as I opened the
refrigerator for some water and spotted the Kool-Aid. Suddenly, I
had to have it. I shouldn’t . . . but my mouth watered, imagining
the sweet and tangy fruit flavor. I gave in to temptation and
poured a tall glass.

Chugging the last drops, my enjoyment was
short-lived. The intense need to purge overtook me and I dove for
the sink, giving back everything.

The prospect of going through this whole
matter alone was beyond depressing and I had no one to blame but
myself. I sighed and rinsed my mouth. The bout of emesis had soiled
what little appetite I had. These days, I could hardly keep
anything down before noon. I should have been well past the nausea
and swollen hands by now, but they were still going strong. My
favorite foods disgusted me. I used to love toast slathered in
peanut butter for breakfast after a run. My stomach rolled with the
thought. Even the slightest whiff of peanut anything caused instant
nausea.

It was the first day of my twenty-sixth
week. Start of my third trimester. It was also my birthday. I’d be
twenty-five. Again.

I’d been doing my best to keep up with the
demands of everyday life, but my body was under the impression was
I done. More and more lately, I found myself feeling completely run
down.

Unable to find the will to get on the
treadmill, I headed straight to the shower. As I washed my swollen
abdomen, I wondered what Evan was doing. Considering it was before
eight, a safe bet was sleeping. I smiled to myself, remembering the
way he looked in the morning. His out-of-control hair sticking up
in every direction, accented by red lines on the side of his
face—trace marks of the wrinkled pillow case, noticeable long after
he woke.

Change had always been a task for me. Not
when I initiated it—on those rare occasions, the transition was
easy—but times like these, when I felt forced into something, I
required a long, laborious adjustment period and sometimes a
lengthy pity-party.

I’d noticed an inconsistency—not just in
relation to my thoughts versus actions and the hypocrisy there—but
I never thought about things the way normal people did. For me,
there was no analyzing. I simply reacted and then had to deal with
the consequences.