Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 107643 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 538(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107643 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 538(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
Regrets, regrets.
Someone, God, anyone, please fucking tell me where I went wrong. I want to tear the sky in two and scream at life for explanations, but all I do is go down on my knees and press my forehead to my daughter’s dead hand. I pray to know. I need to know, but there will be never be an answer. No understanding. No absolution. No forgiveness. Only guesses and guilt. Only should haves and what ifs.
When they come to take her, I find Magda waiting in the hallway. The exterior she works so hard on maintaining breaks, and her unspoken accusations show through the cracks.
“Francois took Sylvia home,” she says. “The doctor gave her a tranquilizer.”
“I’ll take care of the funeral arrangements.”
“You better. I doubt Sylvia will manage.”
“Can I give you a lift?”
“Scott will drive me.” She hesitates. “Will you be all right?” Her voice breaks on the last word.
For a brief moment, she pulls me to her, enveloping me in her embrace. It’s the first time my mother put her arms around me. It feels foreign, and after a heartbeat she pulls away. The cracks in her veneer break all the way open. Tears stream down her cheeks, running black mascara rivulets through her foundation.
“I’ll never forgive her for what she did to this family.”
It takes me a second to understand who she’s talking about. It’s easier to shift the blame, but not even Magda can be so blind.
“It’s not Valentina’s doing.”
“It’s the baby,” she whispers, “and everything else.”
Dumping everything else in my lap, she leaves me with that heavy burden and walks away. She’s right, of course. I’ve always fucked up everything in my life. My relationships. My daughter. Valentina. I should be under that white sheet. It’s me who doesn’t deserve to live. Albeit, ironically, here I am.
Parking in the garage at home, I sit quietly for a long while. The life has been sucked out of me. I’m numb. I can’t cry, rant, or rave. I can’t sleep or eat. I can’t work or think. Most of all, I can’t face myself. I sit in my car, because I simply don’t have the willpower to do anything else.
The door connecting to the house opens and the light comes on. Valentina stands in a pool of tungsten brightness that shines through the thin fabric of her nightdress. It throws a spotlight on the roundness of her body, the lies and mistakes I planted in her belly.
“Gabriel.”
My name is a sob. She must’ve heard. Scott or someone from Magda’s staff would’ve called Quincy. She doesn’t come closer or speak. She waits for me to make the first move, to see what I need.
Steeling myself, I force my body to comply and exit my car. Her arms reaching for me are too much. I don’t deserve her sympathy or soothing. I did this to her. I did this to Carly. I’m destruction. I’m a monster. A look of pain filters into her eyes when I sidestep her embrace.
“It’s late,” I say, facing away from her. “Get some sleep.”
As I stalk away, her soft whisper reaches my back.
“I’m sorry, Gabriel.”
I keep on walking. It’s what she wants. It’s best for her.
I take a blanket and pillow to my study. There’s not a chance I’ll sleep, but I need the pretense of routine like I need the Scotch I pour. I down the hard liquor and pour another, then another. Alone, I fall on my knees and wail into the pillow, grieving for the life I created and destroyed.
At some stage, I must’ve passed out, because I wake with a headache from hell and my throat on fire. It’s five in the morning. Quietly, I walk through the big house, going from room to room of nothingness and empty meaning until I’ve done the full round and am back in my study. The bag from the hospital sits on my desk like a shrine, a reminder that will never let me go.
My hands shake as I reach inside. It’s like plunging your arm into a box full of snakes. I don’t know what I’ll pull out or how it will poison me with further self-blame and sorrow, but I can’t stop myself. I remove a white tank top and blue shorts. Underwear sealed in a plastic bag. Her favorite pair of sandals. A raw sound leaves my throat. The clothes are familiar, yet strange. Not on her body, they look like someone else’s, and the estranged sentiment scares me. I want to hold onto every memory, not lose a single fiber of intangible emotion or the lifetime of movie reels imprinted in my head. Her first tooth, her first smile, her first step. God, it hurts. It cuts and cuts until I’m nothing but meat shredded to the bone.
I fall into my chair, fighting my shirt collar and tearing at the button strangling me. I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry. Forgive me, Carly. I’ll never forgive myself. My hands curl into fists. I bang them on the desk so hard my knuckles bleed. I want her back. I want to turn back time. Smoldering anger burns through my body, shaking my muscles. Every ounce of that thick, black fury is directed at myself. How could I not know? How did I not see?