Dropping the book, my shoulders quake as the dreams I had flood my brain. Running from men in white coats, the water, the hands, white room with the bright metal that hurt my eyes, the restraints and the voices talking to me, telling me I’m a failure.
Yaya’s journal doesn’t
say if I ever tried to escape the hospital, but she wasn’t there all the time. Could my dreams be memories? Could they have happened to me?
Pushing off the floor, I go to the bathroom and switch on the light. Leaning into the mirror, I stare deeply into my eyes. I don’t know what I’m looking for. A break? Some sign of insanity?
I do hear voices, only it’s different now. I have dreams. Sometimes I see colors when I think of my friends’ names. Messages appear in my mind when I look at coffee grounds. Yaya said it was a gift, but is it actually fissures in my sanity? Are they tremors? A warning that something bigger, a breakdown far worse is lingering out there, around the corner?
My gaze travels to my hair hanging over my shoulders in long waves. I look at the line of earrings up my ears and the necklaces I’m wearing. Stepping back, I look at my clothes, the rings on every finger.
“It’s all a lie,” I whisper.
All this time, I believed I had a gift. I believed what my grandmother had said about being able to read auras and predict the future. It’s why I never saw a clear message in the coffee grounds. There was no message! Perhaps it was a lie told to protect me, but it doesn’t change the fact that it was a lie.
Walking to my room, I go to my dresser where a square, red-satin jewelry box sits. Opening it, I remove every ring from my fingers and drop them inside. Next I reach up to my ears, carefully pulling the backs off one earring then the next and the next. I drop each one into the box. I lift the necklaces from around my neck.
Turning away, I go to the bathroom and pull open the cabinet under the sink. A silver basket holds hair ties, tampons, and headbands. I dig until I find a pair of pointed scissors. Standing in front of the mirror, I lift a long lock of hair. I hesitate only a moment before pushing the blades closed, cutting it.
A ribbon of chestnut falls into the sink and I release the lock of hair I was holding. It now skims the middle of my neck. Grabbing the next clump, I repeat the procedure, only this time I must have grabbed too much. I have to saw-saw-saw with the scissors before it cuts. Still, the ribbons of chestnut fall away, dropping into the sink in a soft heap.
I move to the next piece, and as it falls in silky locks, I see Stuart’s hands holding them, cupping them away from my face in the strong breeze. Pain cramps my insides. He was the man of my dreams… Only, it’s not true now. If my dreams were all a lie then we were a lie, too. It’s why we couldn’t last. It’s why when something really awful hit us we couldn’t survive it.
Oh, God! It hurts so much! I lift another piece and I see my hand shake. Still I cut and cut and cut until my insides shudder, and my heart rips open. I drop the shears in the sink on top of the mound of brown hair and sit on the floor, my face in my hands as tears flood my eyes, spilling onto my cheeks.
18
Believe
Stuart
The silver axe head splits through the pine with a satisfying CHOP! Two split-yellow pieces fall on each side of the large chopping block, and I straighten, evaluating the pile of wood stacked under an eave at the side of the house. It’s at least three or four cords, a good start on the winter, and the muscles in my arms and upper body are proof of how hard I’ve worked this last month.
Starting with the tack, I cleaned and oiled all the leather and polished the metal, dragged and watered the outdoor arena, cleaned and scrubbed all the water troughs, replaced the rotting boards along the outside of the barn, picked up enough feed and lime to last through the winter, unloaded and stored it all, laundered the blankets and saddle pads, swept the aisles, and changed out the hay in the loft. Then I trimmed all the horses’ hooves and had them reshod, rubbed them all down and checked for lumps or any signs of infection, de-wormed them, and called out the vet to have them vaccinated and their teeth checked.
Working with Ron, we emptied all the stalls, cleaned them, and changed out the hay…
All except one, which Ron handled by himself. He actually had it done before I arrived in the barn that morning. We never discussed it.
Ron and I never speak about that day in the barn, and as far as I know, no one has seen any signs of the little horse that ran away since then. I work my ass off every waking moment trying to forget. When I finish one thing, I find something new. I do more and more and more, but nothing takes away the memories. I dream of Mariska every night, and I ache for her every day. The hole in my chest where she belongs refuses to be filled no matter how punishing the tasks. Everywhere I look I see her face or I find something that reminds me of her. The scent of jasmine almost rips me apart.
I have to accept it. This pain will be with me to the end. As I drag a heavy tree limb across the yard, I think of my mother’s words. Maintaining this ranch is a fucking shit-ton of work. It’s too much for Bill at his age, even with Ron’s help. I pick up the axe and slam it down with a hard chunk into the block. Then I do it again. The ache of longing in my stomach is fierce today. I miss Mariska so much it hurts. Lifting the axe, I carry it to where the tree is lying. I’ll cut it up, and I’ll be finished with the wood. After that, I haven’t decided.
A while later I’m done. My muscles are loose with exhaustion, and I’m thirsty. My boots thump on the wooden slats as I cross the porch. Bill is inside talking to Winona, planning her monthly trip to the store. I give them a nod as I go to the fridge and grab a bottle of water. My sister returned to Chicago a while back, right after… My mom flew back last week. It’s only Bill and me here now, besides Ron and Winona.
“Finished with the wood?” Bill grins at me.
“For today,” I say. “You’ve got about half what you’ll need to get through the winter at this point.”
“I don’t need any of it, truth be told.” He goes to the fireplace and leans his elbow against the hearth. “The heater does all the work. Fire’s just for show.”
“Still, you like having one.” Even though I’ve decided not to stay, I don’t want Bill out there hauling limbs and chopping firewood.
“You’re a mess,” he laughs, and I look down at my sweaty tee covered in flecks of wood. “Get cleaned up, and we can go into town for dinner. I gave Winona the night off.”
Nodding, I head to my room to shower and change into something clean. It’s been a month since my life went to shit. I confess, I stopped caring at that point. If it weren’t for Bill holding the reins, I’d probably be off in the cabin a drunken asshat right now, but my uncle won’t tolerate such behavior. So instead I’ve spent the last four weeks on as much grueling manual labor as possible.
As a result, my body is one lean strip of muscle. My hair is too long, and my beard is fucking Grizzly Adams. I couldn’t care less. There isn’t a person in this world I’m worried about impressing. Correction: The only person I care about is long gone.