Thirty Days: Part One (7 page)

How frickin’ melodramatic is this rubbish?

“Fine, I’ll go. Now is this thing over?” Biting at my lip, I cringe, hoping they will butt out of the remainder of my life.

“Not yet,” Sammy says. “It’s time for you to talk about Mike. You need to let it out. You need to heal. Plus, Leza’s husband, Andrew, is a shrink, so he can help. Can’t you, Andrew?”

Andrew just smiles before nodding.

I hate Andrew.
Pretentious arse, with glasses too big for his small face and brown hair too thin for a thirty-year-old. I want to scream.

“I told you there is nothing to talk about.”

“But there is, Abigail.”

“What do you want me to say? Well, what? That he dumped me on my arse the day I bought my wedding dress? That he has never told me why? Or is it the fact that I never asked and just left? Let me think.” I tap at my chin in an overstated way. “Is it that he’s getting married to a much prettier version of me? Is that what you want to hear? What about the fact that he still, to this day, has no idea Bella died? Not once has he called, messaged or checked up on me or our fur baby. So yeah. I’m fucking hurt, okay? Drop it.” Every muscle in my body tenses.

The sounds of their gasps fill the air as my head begins to spin. I’m unable to focus as my hands tremble violently and my feet move fast.

“I can’t breathe, Sammy, help,” I whisper, pulling the door open and running. Then everything goes fuzzy.

I hear the sound of rain. Soft droplets fall against my skin. The smell is fresh.
Where am I?

“Abi, Abi, open your eyes. Please, Abigail, for me.”

“Sammy?” My throat is dry.

“Yes, it’s me, please open your eyes.”

“What the hell happened?”

“You ran down the stairs, out into the drive, and we found you lying here. I think you passed out. I’m going to call your mum.”

“Don’t. It’s okay. Just help me sit up.”

“No! You need medical attention.”

My eyes open to the faces of friends looking on with worry. For some reason I feel completely calm.

“Guys, I’m fine. Help me get to my feet already.”

Mosby’s hand grabs mine and pulls me onto my now wobbly feet. “Are you balanced?” he asks, his voice deathly quiet as he holds my shoulders for stability.

“Yep, definitely balanced. You guys do know it’s raining, right?”

Laughter fills the air. It’s a mixture of relief and uncertainly.

“I’m going to go home. Any objections?” Before anyone has time to answer, I add, “Good.” My feet pedal my body backwards. “I will go to the interview tomorrow. I promise. Right now I’m going home. I’ll be in Maroochydore at his office at ten forty-five a.m.” I tap my head to imply the information is stored.

“Wait,” Ange calls. “We wrote some letters for you. They’re in here.” She points at a white plastic bag I’d noticed her holding in the room.

“Great, thank you. I’ll read them when I’m ready.”

“Abigail...” Sammy’s voice wavers.

“Good night.” My feet find the concrete, and I run until I’m standing in the middle of the street
. Fuck.

As the streets pass me I become more refreshed. The rain is keeping me cool, on a warmer than normal November night. I guess my little spell was another one of those panic things my mother mentioned. I find myself wondering why, all of a sudden, I’ve had two in two days. Maybe it’s something I should talk to her about again. The night is quiet, apart from the sound of rain falling on metal objects.
Peaceful.

***

“Are you sure you want to do this?” I said as tears threatened to fall. But I reined them in.

“Yes.” His voice faltered as his hands ran over his head. Brown eyes brightened from the liquid that pooled in them.

I should have asked why. But I didn’t. “Okay,” was what I managed to choke out through the lump that had formed in my throat.

“Do you want me to leave?” he asked with a strained tone.

“I can’t stay here,” I muttered to myself.

“Okay.”

My empty suitcase felt heavy, painfully heavy, as I threw it onto the bed. The opaque bag containing my dream dress was lying across the doona. I wanted to screech from the pain, but didn’t.

Moving each piece of clothing from the drawer into the open case, I became angrier. I wanted to ask, ‘Why?’, but I also didn’t want to know the answer. The top was hard to zip closed. It wasn’t everything I owned, but it was enough to see me through the next week, the last week of school holidays. The thought of returning to work as a single woman destroyed my soul. My imagination summed up a pretty good picture of the faces full of pity. Even though I’d only been there a short time, I’d already made some great friendships with my colleagues. They were close enough that they knew I was engaged. Close enough that they even knew the story leading up to it. The wheels of my tiger-printed suitcase were loud against the flooring.

“Come on, Bella,” I called out. She appeared quickly.

“I’m sorry, Abi.” His tears flowed freely down his cheeks. His arms reached out for me.

I batted them away. “Don’t touch me,” I warned, hurt pulsating through my veins.

“I’ll always love you, Abi.”

“No, you won’t,” were the last words I said to him. Bella looked sad when I loaded her into my VW. I wanted to say, “Say goodbye to your daddy, Bella.” I didn’t. Instead, I climbed into the driver’s seat and stared at all six foot two of him hovering in the doorway.

Flip him off, my mind encouraged. I didn’t. I just drove away.

***

The key opens the door with ease. The house is dark and lonely.
God! What has my life become?

“Vodka.”

My hand slides down the wall and flicks the switch before fetching a glass tumbler from the top cupboard in the kitchen. Filling it almost to the top, I decide this moment calls for no ice. No beverage accompaniment. Straight numbing vodka is needed.

Locating the plastic bag filled with letters that I assume will express how very fucked up my life is, I make my way into the lounge room and slump down onto the couch, allowing it to nurture me. The softness is welcoming. My eyes water as heavy gulps of warm liquid plough into my empty stomach. Silent, in the dark, I drink until the glass is empty. It drops from my hand against the side table. Not accidently or because I’m drunk, but because I wanted it to smash. The rug is now covered with fragments of glass. A satisfying smile emerges. My tired hands reach for the cord belonging to the lamp twisted around the stand. The switch flicks over. Untying the knot in the white plastic bag, I remove five letters. A pink envelope grabs my attention, so I open it. It’s from Sophie. I read the first paragraph.

Life is full of challenges. It can change in an instant. Our character determines how we handle these situations. You are not coming off well. I’m actually disappointed because I’ve always looked up to you for strength. I admire you, Abigail, and always have.

“Rubbish,” I tut, refusing to read the rest and scrunching the page, adding it to the pile of shattered glass on the floor. “Next,” I call out, like a customer service liaison. A plain white piece of paper folded into four becomes my new reading material.

Dear Abi,

I came here today because Sammy made me. I wrote this letter because she said she would cut my balls off if I didn’t.

I laugh.

So you’re having a rough time? It happens. But seriously please don’t beat up any more fourteen-year-old school boys. I know it was only one, but it was a stupid call. I hope you get back to teaching sooner rather than later. The whole situation blows. For now, you have to do something for work.

It was stupid, but that punk needed an ear clipping. Parents are too lenient with discipline these days.

What I can’t understand is how it took almost two years for you to lose your shit. I know I wasn’t around then, but Sammy talks fondly of how you handled the entire situation. Bella dying was pretty fucked and that douche ex of yours getting engaged probably hurt. But is it worth throwing your whole life away for? It’s not. For months, Abi, you’ve been nothing of who you once were. Do you think you’re going to snap out of it soon? I hope so because I’m getting sick of Samantha talking about tragic Abi. I was trying to score the other night. Instead, I had to listen to her talk about how messed up you are. Get it together already. You’re fucking up my sex life.

“Sucked in, Mosby.” I giggle.

First step, take the job, Abs. Trish’s dad has been kind enough to offer you something. Hey, I know that boy was a turd and he had it coming. But you should have controlled yourself. Please go to the interview, dude, for your sake and ours. This curse is rubbish. Yeah, it’s rubbish, dude. Let it go already. Find peace, Abigail. Live again. Find happiness. You deserve it.

Peace out, Mosby.

“Fuck you, Mosby.” I laugh hysterically.
I like Jackson Mosby.
Sammy chose a keeper. Unlike me.

Deciding not to read the remaining letters, I pull my mother’s blanket from the top of the couch, where it has been folded neatly, and curl up into a ball.

“Looks like I’ve got an interview in the morning,” I mumble, turning on the television.

Hung Over

Beep
…
beep
…
beep
. The alarm sounds loud. It’s obnoxious.
I hate obnoxious things.

My hand slaps at the bedside table. At some point in the night, I must have set the piece of shit, before climbing into bed. Finally, it sits under my palm, one that strikes it hard. It still sirens. Cranky growls escape me as my hand grasps the alarm, tossing it with displeasure. It keeps sounding.

“Stop it!” I yell before kicking the blankets off and finding the culprit on a pile of clothing beside the bed. It’s forcibly disarmed.

Somehow I’d managed to make it to bed and set the fucker last night.
Great!

***

Water beats hard against my skin as the shower begins its heated assault. My head thumps to an unwelcomed beat.

“Why did I agree to this interview?” Bloodshot eyes greet me as I wipe a foggy mirror. “I look like shit. No shock there.”

The towel restricts my movement because it’s wrapped like a Boa constrictor around me.

“What to wear?” I chant, sliding hangers, stopping when a navy blue dress comes into sight. Hoping it still fits me, I pull it over my head. The zip is hard to slide, but soon fastens in place.

“Mum,” I call, walking out of the bedroom. She doesn’t answer. “Mum…”

I clomp up the interior stairs that lead to the upper level of our house. Opening the door to her bedroom with little disregard for her privacy, I see her sound asleep. This doesn’t stop me from waking her.

“Mum, wake up,” I whisper.

Her eyes spring open, then squeeze shut. “Abigail, what’s the matter, petal?”

Your breath stinks.
“Dude, you need a mint.”

“Abigail, if you’re just going to be cruel, leave me alone.”

“Sorry. I need makeup. You don’t want me looking like a troll for my job interview, do you?” I announce, hoping she will be excited by this latest development.

Her lips move until they have formed a half smile. “Yes, the interview,” she croaks, pulling her body into a sitting position, her back supported by the dark wooden bed frame. “I’m glad you’re going.”

“You knew?” I’m shocked.

“Yes, of course.”

“So you let them do that to me? The stupid intervention?”

She combs her fingers through her hair. “You invented the silly thing with your friends all those years ago. I knew you’d abide by your own creation.”

Putting my hand over my chest, I mouth the word, “Pain.”

“You’ll survive. Makeup is in the top drawer in the en suite.”

I huff before entering. “It’s spotless in here,” I yell.

“Yes, because I care, unlike you.”

“Whatever,” I say in song. Her laughter reaches my ears.

“Don’t forget to moisturise first.”

Forget that.
Rummaging through the drawer, I find some liquid foundation. Our skin types are very similar in colour, no need to buy my own.