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I shut the notebook and set it on the nightstand. Then I take a long swig of my water and stretch slowly. Still no daylight peeking through the blinds. Not even a hint of blue.
I give in and check my phone. It’s 4:02 a.m.
Well, then.
I don’t feel sleepy. Not at all. In fact, my brain is churning. I tug my black cotton shorts out from wedgie position and straighten my hot pink sports bra before grabbing my fluffy purple robe from the corner of the headboard. This robe always makes me feel so cozy. It’s the little things. That’s what I’ve realized, I think, as I slide down off the bed, aiming my feet at my R2D2 slippers. This house has hardwood, and I’m thrifty, so I keep the heat on 65 at night—meaning it’s cold when I get out of bed. Colder if it’s 4 a.m. and the sun isn’t up.
I walk into my office, which adjoins my bedroom. There I turn on the desk lamp and push the curtains open. I drift into the den, turn on my half-moon lamp—the one that sends small dots of light all over everything, the lamp version of a disco ball—and walk into the kitchen, where I whip up some cranberry oatmeal muffins and make myself some minty green tea.
I spill a long tendril of local honey into my tea and stir, then take a seat at the small, round, wood table I bought at a pawn shop and painted dark powder blue. It’s bare except a stack of napkins and a set of squirrel salt and pepper shakers. After the first muffin, I pull my phone out of my pocket and navigate to YouTube, then type Elvie Wesson.
I listen to his latest hit—“Dirt and Girls”—while I polish off another muffin and drain my teacup.
Elvie’s voice is everything I remember. Better now, of course, with years more practice, studio polish, and some of the best producers in the country on this last album. I don’t hate him anymore, but I’m not happy for him either. Feeling like a knot’s been loosened in my chest, I play “24 Frames” by Jason Isbell. Him, I’m happy for.
Robe tied tightly, I make myself another cup of tea and do some dishes. Memories of Elvie and me keep popping up in my brain, so, ironically, I sing. I’m feeling slightly masochistic, so I go with “Hallelujah,” the Leonard Cohen song Jeff Buckley covered so famously. It’s what I sang for Aaron Tomlin, head of Lighthouse Records, when he saw my stills for End of Day and finally listened to the demo my agent had been pushing on him. It’s this song, combined with pictures of me in the movie, that got me a record deal.
My post-accident articulation isn’t perfect, but in my own house, I don’t care. I sing “Hallelujah” with the full force of my pipes, which hasn’t diminished much because I still sing almost every day. It’s who I am, even if no one wants to pay me for it anymore, or watch my messed up lips move as I do it.
While I sing, I step into the laundry room that adjoins my kitchen to water the gardenias I keep under the fluorescent light there. I’ve got six plants now, so there’s never a time when the laundry room doesn’t smell overwhelmingly sweet.
Once upon a time, gardenias were my favorite scent, and then after the accident, I couldn’t stand them. And by couldn’t stand them, I mean the first time I smelled one, I fainted dead away—and in a downtown Memphis restaurant, no less. My brother Rett loved that.
I freaking love gardenias, though, so I powered through. I water them and tend their leaves, and I like feeling busy, so I keep on cleaning. The kitchen is clean enough, so I move into my small living room. I straighten the pillows on my burgundy leather couch, move a pair of boots off my plush, beige rug and over to the shoe rack by the door, and re-fold the turquoise throw blanket over the arm of my khaki and white chevron-patterned armchair.
I grab the dusting brush I keep on the bottom of the wide, horizontal bookshelf that houses my small flatscreen TV and sweep it over the half-dozen frames on the top two shelves, lingering a minute longer than I need to of the image of myself, Rett, and my parents. I’m wearing a graduation robe and cap. My hair is boy-short, an
d the scar above my left eyebrow is still slightly pink. I’m smiling, happy and relieved. My parents are on either side of me, and Rett is standing by my mom. My eyes rove our four faces, then lock onto Dad’s. I feel the stinging heat of tears in my eyes, followed almost instantly by heaviness in my chest: the oddest blend of dread, regret, and want.
I look at Mom. She seems so happy here. So peaceful. With a sigh aimed at my brother’s image, I move on to the next framed photo, this one of Jamie and I hugging at Fall Creek Falls. I dust the rest of the shelves, package two stuffed bears in my office, and still feel too wound up for sleep.
I’m a disappointed by the nightmare and my early waking, but I tell myself it’s bound to happen sometimes. I did all I could, writing a better scenario in my journal. I’ve got therapy with Helga this afternoon. I plan to talk about the dream then…and, I realize as I dress in leggings and a light jacket, the guy next door.
I try to analyze my feelings as I step outside and lock the door behind me. I feel annoyed by his presence here. Annoyed and…sad. Living out here in the woods the way I do is isolated. Lonely. I tell myself the benefit is that it’s also peaceful. This property is mine. I can be myself and do my own thing. When I’m at home or with the bears, I’m in my comfort zone.
I walk around the corner of the enclosure and veer into the woods. The tall fence rises to my left, climbing up the wooded hill alongside me.
When I’m here, I forget the way I look.
There it is.
As always, I feel superficial. Silly. No one cares how I look. No one but me. And why do I care? The answer whispers to me from the dark hole where I keep it buried.
Because you’ll never find someone now that you look like this.
I tell myself that isn’t true. I think about what the woman said to me in the meeting Tuesday. I’m still pretty. And I’m smart, and kind, and sometimes funny. I’m fun.
Ooh, fun, my inner bitch mocks.
It’s normal that I sometimes have sad days, a kinder me insists.
I sigh loudly enough to drown out all my inner monologue and hike at a punishing pace until I reach the clearing midway up the giant hill. The peak of the foothill is maybe another 300 yards past my workout clearing, but my property doesn’t go that far up. Instead it expands southwest for 300 acres, bumping into the Smoky Mountain National Park on the south and west sides, up against my own backyard on the north side, and running about 100 yards from Blue Moon Road on the east side.
Shit. I didn’t check the tracking app before I left the house. I look down at my phone, even though I know I don’t have service here. Without the cell phone signal booster in my house, I wouldn’t have more than a bar there either.
I tell myself the bears will be okay, remind myself I haven’t seen anything weird on the cameras since last time, and even then, it could have been a random hunter. Theoretically, at least.
I start stretching in the gauzy gray of early dawn.
