Page 106 of Dark Ugly Places

Oh, Nicola. Weren’t you paying attention?

A small sob escapes me. “I want to go home.”

Yes. And this is your home, too. Haven’t we taught you anything?

“You think I could have saved Emmy and spared Ben’s life? Is that it? Because life doesn’t work that way. You can’t look back and see what could have been.”

That’s right. But consider this: the crow isn’t real. It was never even there.

“What are you talking about? Of course it was there.”

There was no crow. There was only you, Emmy, Ben, and us.

“But I saw it!”

You saw what you needed to see for it to make sense. She was talking to you, so you saw the crow.

“No! There was a bird. I watched it land.”

Try and remember, Nicola. Remember the day.

The truth is, I’ve forged a memory out of pieces and fragments of a broken recollection, out of things Emmy has told me, and out of the whispers I’ve gathered here in the darkness. But the crow, I am certain I saw it. It’s been locked in my mind, harnessed there and holding on, vivid, as if I were not even in my own body at the time.

Try and remember what really happened when you looked up.

“I can’t. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Think, Nicola. Try to remember.

“I can’t. I can’t.”

Then let us help you.

The breeze of the day—that day—hits my skin. I open my eyes. I’m outside under the dappled light of the trees. The sun behaves as if it has risen only to shine on us. Everything in the road is clear. Ben walks up ahead, head bowed, the steady shuffle of his gait that indicates he is staring at his phone.

Missing button. Emmy’s frayed shoelace.

Emmy turns, her smile soft, but also sad this time, the slight glimpse of wanting in her eyes. Ben’s hands are quivering as he tries to work his phone through the shattered screen.

Emmy said the night before that we probably should get a divorce if we were going to argue like this. She was right.

I look at Ben, and I see it: the bills piling up at home, his shuffling, uncertain gait, him sitting in the kitchen working on one of his various creative projects, the house needing to be cleaned, the dishes needing to be done. I see myself coming home from work and doing all the laundry, the dishes, the cooking, the grocery shopping, and then starting again the next week, getting up, going to the office, holding meetings, running my team, keeping clients happy, keeping my boss happy, answering emails at all hours, being sleep-deprived and earning less than I should, never being allowed to finish my complete thought, always waiting for the underhanded compliment, the backbiting, the man who will take the promotion instead of me, the younger, prettier, less bedraggled version of me that will soon take my job.

It grows inside me like a full picture coming into focus. Why couldn’t I see it before? The colors, the depth of it grows darker at the center.

We were going to lose the house. At long last, that’s what everything had come to. And it was Ben’s fault.

Back to the night before, I see him sitting there, hatred for what he had done spewing from me, uncontrollable anger.

What did you do, Ben? Forge my signature or something?

He sighed, a long, frustrated release. I told you. I had no choice.

Bullshit! There is always a choice!

There is always a choice, isn’t there?

Flashes crowd my vision. I see Ben. Good Ben. Kind Ben. Smart but not intellectual Ben, who did pizza nights for Emmy and her friends and let them stay up late and watch scary movies. Ben who knew how to make a crazy amount of friendship bracelets, or do Emmy’s hair when it got frizzy, or expertly carve a pumpkin. Ben who everyone liked best and noticed first because of his smile. Ben who everyone found funnier and a lot more charismatic than I’d ever be. I see it all like a whirlwind, circling, circling around me.