Best of 2017

I grimace at her. “Yeah. I think so.” She gives me big puppy dog eyes and I can’t help but laugh. “Okay, I’m going to hop in the shower. Do you want to go out for dinner or order in?”

“I say we get Chinese and get drunk off food. A little MSG will make you feel better.”

“Syd, I’m pretty sure that statement is actually reversed. I think they have banned MSG for being really bad for you.”

“Tomato, tomaaatoe.” I snort at that and she giggles.

Once dressed after my shower, I follow the smell of Chinese permeating the air. It leads me to the living room, where little white cartons are sitting on the coffee table.

“Wine?,” Sydney screams through the walls of the kitchen.

“Sure.” A few minutes later she comes out with two glasses filled to the rim with Pinot Grigio. I hope and pray this night with her will help drown my misery. Somehow I doubt anything will, but I smile anyway and try to forget.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

EVE

WEEKS PASS SLOWLY when you’re sad. They don’t ebb and flow like a passing tide. Rather, they are like quicksand, and the harder you attempt to pull away, the more stuck you become.

It’s been one month since my trip with Preston and I’ve sworn to Sydney I’ll get out of my funk, but really I’m learning to fake it better. By Friday after work I can no longer pretend to smile. I have nothing left in me.

I throw myself into work and organizing Richard’s estate. Today I’ve decide to take up the task of cleaning out his closet.

Walking into Richard’s apartment wakes up all sorts of feelings. Sadness is laced with smiles. There were some great times here. There were also some not so great times, but the good outweigh the bad. I’m overcome with emotion. I blink away moisture, and the room comes into focus. It’s just like the last time. Except it’s different now . . . empty. A picture on the console table pops out at me. It’s the same picture I have in my apartment, the one from my graduation. Instantly a smile forms.

Right after Richard died, I had the apartment professionally cleaned. Since the windows haven’t been opened in weeks the air is stale; bleach still wafts through the air.

All the furniture has been sold through an estate sale, and all that remains to be done is to go through Richard’s personal belongings. With a deep inhale I set off for the master bedroom. Suits still hang in the closet. Shoes are still displayed along the wall. Goodwill. Or maybe a charity that helps men get back on their feet. I’ve heard of a few that train and dress the unemployed for interviews. Richard would like that. Yeah, that’s what I’ll do. Grabbing my phone, I make a note to look into companies that provide that service, then I set off to do my task.

There’s a step stool in the back of the walk-in closet that Richard obviously used to store boxes on the top shelf. For twenty minutes, I rummage. There are bills and receipts in one box. The next box has old pictures. They make me smile as I take a few out and remember the better times. Every muscle starts to ache after two hours of sorting, and by the time I’m ready to give up for the day, I see one more box in the back corner. In order to grab it I have to climb to the highest step of the ladder and lean my whole body up and onto the shelf. My fingers are barely able to reach it, but as I stretch one more inch, I secure it in my hand.

It’s marked “Miscellaneous.” As I pull the box down and almost have it safely on the floor, it slips and it crashes, turning over on its side.

Papers spread against the hardwood floors.

Just my luck, now I have to go through everything. I hop down to clean up the floor. The first thing that becomes apparent is that some of these papers are actual legal documents. Some are contracts. There’s an operator’s agreement between my mom and Richard. LLC paperwork. Banking information. With a huff I pull the lid fully off and decide to see what else he has in here. There’s a picture of Richard and myself. A few small envelopes, nothing that seems too important. A book. I pick up the book and notice it’s a Jane Austen. It looks to match my mom’s old collection—the ones that sat in our library growing up. When I lift it to get a better look, a piece of paper falls out. I reach out and turn it over.

My heart stops.

An arctic chill runs up my spine.

Every last bit of oxygen leaves my body.

I’m stuck. My feet heavy like cement.

What the hell is this?

I see crimson.

I crumble to the ground.

I’m desperately gasping for air.

I can’t breathe.

I can’t stop the memories that flow into my brain.

All at once consuming me with pain.

There was blood on my hands.

Get it off! Get it off!

A rush of broken visions flashes in my mind. Take shape and tell me a story.

My heart races in my ears and I can no longer hear anything.

The vision of me is so clear, and I bite back a sob.

I was small.

So small.

An innocent child.

I sat on the floor, my doll in hand and I gently brushed her hair. In the distance I heard a sound. I wasn’t sure what it was, but it was loud, like the fireworks we saw on the Fourth of July. It made my ears hurt and the walls shake. I hugged my doll to me tightly. Where was Mommy? Maybe she knew where the loud bang came from. The sound was scary.

“Mommy?” She didn’t answer. My feet pressed against the cold wood floor as I peered out of the playroom. “Mommy?” Where did she go?

Maybe Daddy knew. A smile grew on my face and the fear I felt left my body. He always knew everything. Mommy always said he’d protect us from harm. The house was silent as I padded down the hallway toward the library. He often sat in there for hours.

“Daddy?” My little hands pounded on the door, but he wouldn’t answer.

Turning the knob, I peeked my head inside. “Daddy, are you in there? I can’t fin

d Mommy,” I said as I flung the door open. “Daddy.” I couldn’t see him. Where was he? The room smelled funny, like he had blown out a candle. What was that smell? I walked in farther and from where I stood I could finally see him.

“What are you doing there?” I walked to where I saw my dad.

“What are you looking for on the floor? Did you drop something?”

He was turned to face under the desk. “Daddy?”

My foot slipped out from under me and I fell and hit the floor. My hands hit the wood first, then my stomach.

“Ouch!” I yelped as I brought my hand forward to lift myself back off the floor.

I slipped on something warm.

It was thick against my fingers.

It was all over my dress.

My hands were red.

Why were my hands red?

Everything was red.

Looking around me, I noticed I was sitting in a pool of red liquid. Red spread over the surface of my skin. Was this blood?

Why was I bleeding? I shook my head. My heart rate sped up.

I wasn’t bleeding.

It wasn’t blood.

It was . . .

“Daddy!” I could barely call out to him.

The blood was flowing from the back of his head.

I tapped at his shoulder and fear spread throughout my body when he didn’t answer. “Why aren’t you answering me, Daddy. Daddy!” I shook him with all my might, and his head flopped forward. His open eyes stared at me. But he still didn’t answer. “Please, Daddy. Answer me.”

Why wouldn’t he answer?

“No!” I manage to scream. I press my palms against my eyes to force the memory out of my mind. “No. No. No. No.” I rock in place.

A knot is lodged in my throat but I can’t swallow. I can’t breathe. I can’t move.

My father.

Dead.

I found him.

It was a suicide.