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FINALLY THE LAST ONE is on and drying. My glider has its own FAA registration. November. Nine. Five. Two. Echo. Charlie.
Echo Charlie.
I look up and the light is fading. It’s late. My first thought is that I can show this to Ana.
No more Ana.
I clench my teeth and stretch my stiff shoulders. Standing slowly, I realize I haven’t eaten all day or had anything to drink, and my head is throbbing.
I feel like shit.
I check my phone in the hope that she’s called, but there’s only a text from Andrea.
CC Gala canx.
Hope all well.
A
While I’m reading Andrea’s message the phone buzzes. My heart rate immediately spikes, then falls when I recognize it’s Elena.
“Hello.” I don’t bother to disguise my disappointment.
“Christian, is that any way to say hi? What’s eating you?” she scolds, but her voice is full of humor.
I stare out the window. It’s dusk over Seattle. I wonder briefly what Ana is doing. I don’t want to tell Elena what’s happened; I don’t want to say the words out loud and make them a reality.
“Christian? What gives? Tell me.” Her tone shifts to brusque and annoyed.
“She left me,” I mutter, sounding morose.
“Oh.” Elena sounds surprised. “Want me to come over?”
“No.”
She takes a deep breath. “This life isn’t for everyone.”
“I know.”
“Hell, Christian, you sound like shit. Do you want to go out to dinner?”
“No.”
“I’m coming over.”
“No, Elena. I’m not good company. I’m tired and I want to be alone. I’ll call you during the week.”
“Christian…it’s for the best.”
“I know. Good-bye.”
I hang up. I don’t want to talk to her; she encouraged me to fly down to Savannah. Perhaps she knew this day would come. I scowl at the phone, toss it onto my desk, and go in search of something to drink and eat.
I EXAMINE THE CONTENTS of my fridge.
Nothing appeals.
In the cupboard I find a bag of pretzels. I open them and eat one after the other as I walk to the window. Outside, night has fallen; lights twinkle and wink through the pouring rain. The world moves on.
Move on, Grey.
Move on.
SUNDAY, JUNE 5, 2011
* * *
I gaze up at the bedroom ceiling. Sleep eludes me. I’m tormented by Ana’s fragrance, which still clings to my bedsheets. I pull her pillow over my face to breathe in her scent. It’s torture, it’s heaven, and for a moment I contemplate death by suffocation.
Get a grip, Grey.
I rerun the morning’s events in my head. Could they have unfolded any differently? As a rule I never do this, because it’s a waste of energy, but today I’m looking for clues as to where I went wrong. And no matter how I play it out, I know in my bones we would have reached this impasse, whether it was this morning, or in a week, or a month, or a year. Better that it happened now, before I inflicted any further pain on Anastasia.
I think of her huddled in her little white bed. I can’t picture her in the new apartment—I’ve not been there—but I imagine her in that room in Vancouver where I once slept with her. I shake my head; that was the best night’s sleep I’d had in years. The radio alarm reads 2:00 in the morning. I have lain here for two hours, my mind churning. I take a deep breath, inhaling her scent once more, and I close my eyes.
Mommy can’t see me. I stand in front of her. She can’t see me. She’s asleep with her eyes open. Or sick.
I hear a rattle. His keys. He’s back.
I run and hide and make myself small under the table in the kitchen. My cars are here with me.
Bang. The door slams shut, making me jump.
Through my fingers I see Mommy. She turns her head to see him. Then she’s asleep on the couch. He’s wearing his big boots with the shiny buckles and standing over Mommy shouting. He hits Mommy with a belt. Get Up! Get Up! You are one fucked-up bitch. You are one fucked-up bitch. Mommy makes a noise. A wailing noise.
Stop. Stop hitting Mommy. Stop hitting Mommy.
I run at him and hit him and I hit him and I hit him.
But he laughs and smacks me across the face.
No! Mommy shouts.
You are one fucked-up bitch.
Mommy makes herself small. Small like me. And then she’s quiet. You are one fucked-up bitch. You are one fucked-up bitch. You are one fucked-up bitch.
I am under the table. I have my fingers in my ears and I close my eyes. The sound stops. He turns and I can see his boots as he stomps into the kitchen. He carries the belt, slapping it against his leg. He is trying to find me. He stoops down and grins. He smells nasty. Of smoking and drinking and bad smells. There you are, you little shit.
A chilling wail wakes me. I’m drenched in sweat and my heart is pounding. I sit bolt upright in bed.
Fuck.
The eerie noise was from me.
I take a deep steadying breath, trying to rid my memory of the smell of body odor and cheap bourbon and stale Camel cigarettes.
You are one fucked-up son of a bitch.
Ana’s words ring in my head.
Like his.
Fuck.
I couldn’t help the crack whore.
I tried. Good God, I tried.
There you are, you little shit.
But I could help Ana.
I let her go.
I had to let her go.
She didn’t need all this shit.
I glance at the clock: it’s 3:30. I head into the kitchen and after drinking a large glass of water I make my way to the piano.
I WAKE AGAIN WITH a jolt and it’s light—early-morning sunshine fills the room. I was dreaming of Ana: Ana kissing me, her tongue in my mouth, my fingers in her hair; pressing her delectable body against me, her hands tethered above her head.
