Who was I to help her? The guilt washes through me and the back of my eyes prick with unshed tears as I take in a shuddering breath, shoving my hands in my pockets and turning back to her grave.
As much as I’d like to believe I’ll let her rest now, I know I’ll be back. It’s selfish of me. She just wanted to be left alone. She needed that so her past could fade into the background. I know that now; I wish I knew it then.
“She’s in a better place,” Karen whispers and my gaze whips up to hers. She doesn’t have the decency to look me in the eyes and I have to wonder if she just said the words because she thinks they’re appropriate. Like it’s something meant to be said when talking of the dead, or maybe she really believes it.
Karen turns to walk toward her car as the sprinkling of rain starts to fall onto us. She looks back over her shoulder, waiting for me and I relent, joining her.
I’m sorry, Marie.
As the cold drops of rain turn to sheets and my hair dampens, my pace picks up. It doesn’t take long until we’re both jogging through the grass and then onto the pavement of the parking lot, our heels clicking and clacking on the pavement with the sound of the rain.
I barely hear her say goodbye and manage a wave behind me as I open my car door and sink into the driver seat.
I just wanted to help Marie. I could see so much of myself in her. We were almost the same age. She had the same look in her eyes. The same helplessness and lack of self-worth. I wanted to save her like my psychiatrist saved me.
But how could I? I’m not over my past. I should have known better. I should have referred her to someone more capable. Someone who had less emotional investment. I pushed too hard. It’s my fault.
The pattering of rain on the car roof is eerily rhythmic as I dig through my purse, shivering and shoving the wet hair out of my face. The keys jingle as I shove them into the ignition, turning on the car and filling the cabin with the sounds of the radio.
I’m not sure what song’s on but I don’t care because I’m quick to turn the radio off. To get back to the silence and the peace of the rainfall. I slump in my seat, staring at the temperature gauge. When I look up, I see Karen drive away in the rearview mirror. Watching her car drive out of sight, my eyes travel to my reflection.
I scoff at myself and wipe under my eyes. I look dreadful. My dirty blonde hair’s damp and disheveled, my makeup’s running. I lift the console and grab a few tissues to clean myself up before sluggishly removing my soaked jacket and tossing it in the backseat. The heater finally kicks on, and I still can’t bring myself to leave.
I look back into the mirror and see that I’m somewhat pulled together, but I can’t hide the bags under my eyes. I can’t force a false sense of contentment onto my face.
I close my eyes and take in another deep breath, filling my lungs and letting it out slowly. I need sleep. I need to eat. It’s been almost a week since I found out about Marie. A week of her no longer being here to call and check in on. Tears stream freely down my cheeks. I tried so hard not to cry; I learned a long time ago that crying doesn’t help, but being forced to leave her is making me helpless to my emotions.
That first night I almost cried, but instead I resorted to sleeping pills. A wave of nausea churns in my stomach at the thought of what I did. It was so easy to just take one after the other. Each one telling me it’d be over soon. After downing half the bottle, I knew what I was doing. But the entire bottle was too much and it all came back up before I could finish it. Thank God for that. I’m not well, and I’m sure as hell not in a position to help others.
My hand rests against my forehead as I try to calm down, as I try to rid myself of the vision of Marie in my office, but other memories of my past persist there, waiting for this weakness.
I can’t linger any longer. Putting the car into reverse, I back out of my spot, turning and seeing Marie’s plot in the distance as I back up.
Grief is a process, but guilt is something entirely different. It’s becoming harder and harder to separate the two, and I know why.
She reminds me of him.
Of a boy, I knew long ago. The turn signal seems louder than ever as I wait at the exit to turn onto the highway. Click, click, click.
Each is a second of time that I’m here and they’re not. Click, click, click.
The cabin warms as I drive away, merging onto the highway.
Maybe all this has nothing to do with Marie.
Maybe it’s just the guilt that summons the vision of his light gray eyes from the depths of my memory.
Maybe it’s because I’m to blame for both of their deaths.
Chapter 2
John
The faint sounds of the radio disappear with a loud click as I shut it off. It’s an old ass black box, covered in oil and grime from the shop, but it still works. Without it, the garage is silent. I wipe my hands with the blue shop towel, picking under my short, thick nails and scrub against the rough callus on my left thumb.
I'm a blue-collar mechanic, and there’s not much more to me. Day in and day out, I work at my shop on the outskirts of town. The old oak trees and converted barn on the far side of the property are everything I need. I like my peace and quiet out here. I’d be a liar if I said I didn’t get a bit lonely at times, but I don’t need companionship. I don’t need anyone.
I turn to look over my shoulder at the banged-up cherry red Chevy truck. That’s going to take a bit of work tomorrow when Steve gets in. Fixing that side door would be a pain in my ass to do alone. And now that Steve’s gone home, it’s just me.
That damn truck can wait till tomorrow.
All the tools are back where they belong except for a few wrenches on the bench. The shop itself is old, with a cracked concrete floor and chipped red paint on the far wall where the hangar's attached to the garage. When I bought this place, it was rundown and in desperate need of fixing up. I love the charm of it though, how it's beaten down but still standing strong. The history is what I look forward to when I come here every day. The property itself is large. An old pilot used to live here. He loved two things in his life, the ducks on the lake out back and his airplanes in the hangar.
Poor old man didn’t live long after he sold the place to me. I’ve still got an old Ercoupe from the 1940s he left here. I meant to fix it up, but time’s gotten away from me and work’s been steady.
I toss the cloth onto the bench and stretch my back, reaching my arms over my head and letting out a deep sigh. My back cracks, and it feels damn good. It's been a long day of hard work. And I'll have another one tomorrow. That’s what I live for.