The Story of Me (Carnage #2)(17)
“Jim?”
“What, babe?”
“I don’t know if I want to be back. I don’t know how I feel about it. It’s not even been a year, I feel bad. It feels wrong.”
“No, no, no, George; if you’re feeling it, then it’s right. Do not do this to yourself, George.”
“Have you and Jackson been reading the same grief and bereavement manual? Coz I swear to God, you just quoted him word for word.”
“Well, I read some leaflets when you were in the hospital, but I didn’t know there was a manual.”
“I’m joking, Jim. I’m joking.”
“I know you are, George. I know you are.” The line goes quiet for a while.
“I love you, Georgia Rae.”
“I love you too, Jamie Louise.”
“I’ll call you in a coupla days.”
“Kiss all of them babies for me, and tell my brother I love him, even though he is a pervi car wanker.” We both scream with laughter as we say our goodbyes.
I shower and head down to the bar with the biggest smile on my face, a tingle in my belly and the sensation that my heart’s not being squeezed quite so tightly in my chest.
*
The morning is bright, sunny but really windy; the surf is up and the bodies are out in force. I don’t perv over all of them, but some of them I do, just a few, and the morning flies by.
I’ve noticed a change in myself today and I can’t put a finger on what it is exactly, but I just feel a little different, not so weighed down by life. Just as I say goodbye to John and the girls I’ve been working with, Jackson turns up.
“Can we talk?” He gestures upstairs so I silently lead him up to the apartment. He follows me into the kitchen and sits himself down at a stool.
“What’s up?” I ask.
“What happened last night?” His eyes meet mine.
“When last night?” I’m not sure at this moment how much I want to tell him.
“When you left the bar and when Roman came up here?” I wasn’t going to tell him that Roman came up here, but if he knows, I might as well be honest. I get us both a beer from the fridge and pass one to Jax. I lean on the bench top opposite him and take a swig.
“When I came up here, I lost it. I completely lost it, like, to the point where I wanted to break things. I just had this uncontrollable anger; the only time I’ve ever felt anything like that is when I bumped into Whorely that night.” I let out a deep breath, my heart rate accelerating just thinking about that conniving cow.
“What were you angry about?”
I walk around the bench and sit on a stool and turn to face him. “I was angry at Roman. I was…” I try to find a word that would fit the level of anger that I felt last night, but I can’t. “I think… I think I might actually have been capable of murder last night. I was angry with Roman for being alive. I was angry at Sean for being dead, and I was angry at myself for not being able to do a f*cking thing to change it.” Despite the beer I’m drinking, my mouth is really dry. I take another swig, and I’m actually feeling amazed at myself for not crying.
“Have you ever heard of the five stages of grief, George?” I look at him over my beer bottle and roll my eyes. Not that old chestnut.
“Of course I’ve heard about the five stages of grief. I don’t have enough fingers and f*cking toes to add up how many times they were quoted to me when I was nutted off.”
He chuckles over his bottle. “You’ve got such a way with words, George.”
I shrug. “Well, how’d ya want me to phrase it? My husband and I were mown down by an out of control car. I was almost nine months pregnant at the time. My husband sustained massive head injuries and nothing could be done to save him. My uterus ruptured. My unborn child either choked or suffocated to death. I don’t know; I’ve never asked, and I never want to know. My injuries were such that an emergency hysterectomy had to be performed, and now I can never carry a child. My husband died, my baby died and as a result of all of this, I suffered a small mental relapse… does that sound better?”
He tilts his head to the side and says, very quietly, “You do realise you’ve just recounted the most horrific moment of your life and you’ve done it without crying?” I wasn’t crying because I was too pissed off.
“I’m too angry to cry, and what has any of this got to do with the five stages of grief?” I ask.
“I totally agree with the concept of there being five stages. However, having been through it personally, right alongside Travis, my mate who also survived the car accident, I’ve realised that every person does them in a different order or sometimes skips certain aspects all together.”
I lean my back against the stool and think about what he’s saying.
“The order should go: denial and isolation, anger, bargaining, depression, then acceptance.” He pauses for a few seconds, as though he’s figuring out how to word whatever insightful advice he’s going to offer up next.
“Were you ever in denial, George?” I start shaking my head before he even finishes asking. “No, never, how could I be? I was there. I witnessed it all. I was part of it; the accident and the decision to switch off his life support. He died holding onto me and our dead son, our baby boy.” I sob out the last three words as images of Beau flash through my mind. I wipe away my tears and take a deep breath. “I’ve never been in denial over it, but I felt isolated, and I s’pose if you consider wanting to kill yourself being depressed, then I was definitely that. Although, really, it wasn’t even that.”