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I know I am depressed. I can feel it, but the strange thing is that I find it comforting. All of my life I have run from my own emotions. Now, alone in my apartment, cut off from everyone, I revel in my pain, swim in its warm waters. I don’t even pretend to work on my book. The sleeping pills I take at night leave me feeling fuzzy in the morning and slow-moving, and even with them in my system, I toss and turn at night; sweats and hot flashes have me alternately boiling and freezing.
Until Christmas Eve. Thirteen days after the fight at Marah’s dorm room.
On that morning, I wake up with a plan.
I stumble out of bed and make my way to the bathroom, where a mirror reveals a middle-aged woman with bloodshot eyes and hair that needs to be colored.
I fumble with the Xanax container and take two. I need two because I’m going out, and just the idea of it sends me into a panic.
I should take a shower, but I am feeling so shaky and weak, I can’t do it.
I gather the presents I bought weeks ago. Before.
I put them in a big gray Nordstrom bag and walk to the door.
I stop, unable suddenly to breathe. Pain spikes in my chest.
This is pathetic. I am pathetic. I haven’t left my condo in almost two weeks. That’s no time at all. When did I become unable to open a door?
I ignore my rising panic and reach for the doorknob. It feels ember-hot in my sweaty hand and I make a little sound—a yelp—and let go. Then I try again, more slowly. I open the door and step out into the hallway. When the door closes I fight an urge to turn around.
This is ridiculous. I know it’s ridiculous. I just can’t get ahold of myself. Still, I have made a plan. Today is Christmas Eve. A day of family and forgiveness.
I release my breath—how long have I been holding it in?—and walk resolutely toward the elevator. All the way there—fifteen feet of marble floor—my heart is skipping beats in my chest, stopping and starting.
The elevator ride to the parking garage is a test of my will. It feels heroic to make it to my car, to get in the driver’s seat, to start the engine.
Outside, the streets of Seattle are dusted white with snow. Holiday decorations fill the windows on either side of the street. It is four o’clock on Christmas Eve. The only shoppers I see out are men in heavy coats, their faces hunched into flipped-up collars, shopping at the last possible moment.
I turn right on Columbia. It feels canyonlike in the snow, this hidden street, huddled as it is beneath the aging concrete viaduct overhead. Here, there are no people out and about in the falling snow. It is like driving through a black-and-white painting; my headlights are the only color I see.
I drive onto the ferry and park, deciding to stay in my car for the crossing. The movement of the ferry, the idle chugging, the occasional blaring of the foghorn, lull me into a kind of trance. I stare through the boat’s open end at the snow falling in front of us; flakes disappear into the flat gray Sound.
I am going to apologize. I will throw myself to my knees if I have to, beg Johnny to forgive me.
“I’m sorry, Johnny,” I say aloud, hearing the way my voice trembles. I want this so much. Need it. I can’t go on the way I’ve been. The loneliness is unbearable, as is the guilt.
Kate would not forgive you.
On Bainbridge Island, I drive slowly off the ferry. The few blocks of downtown Winslow are dressed up for the holiday; white lights flicker in storefronts and wind up streetlamps. A red neon star hangs above Main Street. It looks like a Norman Rockwell painting, especially with the snow falling, sticking.
I drive down a road that is as familiar as my own hand but feels exotic in the snow. The nearer I get to their driveway, the looser my hold on panic becomes. At the last turn, my heart starts skipping beats again. I turn into the driveway and stop.
I take another Xanax. When did I take the last one? I can’t remember.
I see a white Ford sedan in the driveway. That must be Bud and Margie’s rental car.
I put the car in drive and inch forward. Through the curtain of falling snow, I see the Christmas lights strung along the eaves and the rectangular golden glow of the windows. Inside, the tree is lit up; shadowy people are gathered around it.
I park, turn off my lights and imagine it. I will go to the house, knock on the door and Johnny will answer.
I am so sorry, I will say. Forgive me.
No.
It hits me like a slap, so hard I snap back. He will not forgive me. Why should he? His daughter is gone. Gone. She has run away with a dangerous young man and disappeared because of me.
He will leave me standing there with my presents.
