Don't Look for Me(3)

Not to me. To your own husband!

I can’t see what’s right in front of me. He never comes home for dinner. He pretends to be asleep when I come into our bedroom.

My husband doesn’t love me anymore. My husband loves someone else.

This thought feels old, like a jagged stone I’ve been carrying in my coat pocket, trying to rub it smooth. But no matter how much I dig my fingers in, the edges never soften.

And then, the words I had not heard before, but had felt many times. Still, hearing them from my own daughter twisted the knife.

I hate you!

Tears fall as I run.

Annie. Wispy blond hair resting on delicate shoulders. Big, round eyes and long lashes. I can still feel her in my arms. Her life just beginning. Annie.

Annie!

And now I know why the thoughts have all come. They have been leading me to this one, last thought. This naked admission.

I am not a good mother because I did not drive four hours to watch my son play football so that he would feel loved. I drove four hours so that I could feel loved.

The log in that fireplace. My daughter’s words. I hate you.

Evan was all that was left. I had to see his face, see him thriving, so I could validate my life.

Gasps of breath. The wind is strong and the air cold. My lungs are on fire.

Maybe Evan knew. Maybe he could sense it seeping from my skin. The need I wanted him to fill which must have felt like poison. A mother shouldn’t need things from her child.

I caused Nicole’s demise. She is certain of it and it now feels real, though disorienting. I went to my son under false pretenses, caused him pain. Caused him to lash out with cruelty. My husband pretends to sleep so he won’t have to look at me.

Yes, I think as the grief spins violently in my head. I am a bad mother. This is an objective fact. There’s no way around it.

I let a child die.

I am at the entrance to the Gas n’ Go. I look up and see there are no cars. No lights on inside the store. Orange cones stand in front of the pumps.

The rain comes suddenly. The blanket covering the sky is now a broken dam. It’s dark but I can still see the writing on a cardboard sign. Closed for storm!

I stop and let the rain wash over me as I stare at these words.

Evan, Nicole, John. I am a burden to them now because they don’t love me. Because they can’t love me.

It’s been five years to this very day that they stopped.

Five years since Annie died.

Five years since she ran into the road.

Five years since I struck her with my car. Since I killed her.

Tears, rain, wind. I walk a few paces to the intersection, to the road, Hastings Pass, that leads to the town. There is nothing but pavement and dirt riding over hills, and the dead cornstalks in fields that go on and on. Not another car in sight.

The hurricane is a category four. That’s what they said on the radio. I remember the voices now. I remember the name of this town. Hastings. I have driven into the eye of the storm. I hear the mantra in my head. Don’t give up. I feel the weight of my guilt like a rock I hold above my head. How I fight to keep it from falling. I think now that maybe it’s time. Maybe I can just let it fall.

Maybe I can just walk away.

These words bring a sudden, jarring euphoria.

Walk away. Just walk away.

The road with the brown cornfields, darkened by the angry storm, is now a thing of beauty. An oasis. An escape. My legs begin to move, pulling my body. My mind is in a trance. Sedated by these words and the promises they offer.

You can leave all of this behind.

You can start again.

You can put down the rock, the burden you carry.

I walk along this road until I am part of the storm. Numb to the wet. Numb to the cold. Numb to the truth about the promises. And for the first time since I killed my child I am at peace.

Please let me go. Let me walk away. I feel the words in my head like a prayer.

Please, they whisper. Don’t look for me.

I don’t know how long I walk, or how far, when I see light coming from behind. I turn to find headlights moving slowly toward me. They’re high and bright. It’s a truck of some kind. Tall but also long. And in spite of the trance I am in and the peace it has brought, I feel both of my arms rise above my head and wave wildly, the purse still clutched in one hand.

The truck pulls in front of me and comes to a stop.

I walk closer until I am inches beside the passenger window. There are two figures inside.

I make a shield with my hand, just above my eyes to keep the rain from my face. I lean in closer and see the window come down a few inches.

“The storm’s coming, you know—you shouldn’t be out here.” It’s a man’s voice. Friendly. But also urgent. “Do you want a ride to town?”

Another voice calls from the truck. The window comes down a few more inches.

The voice of a little girl. The face of an angel.

“Well? Do you or don’t you?” she asks.

I stare at her, at her blond hair and bright eyes, and beyond her to the man.

I stare at her, this young girl, and, God help me, for a split second I see my dead child.

And then I see this road for what it truly is. A mirage. An illusion. And the words that caused my legs to carry me away from my life—liars. Their promises nothing more than cheap deceptions.

The guilt will never leave me. I will never leave my family.