Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 91504 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91504 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
He raked a hand through his hair. “I know. I’m an asshole. I just feel so useless, and I don’t know what I’ll do if I can’t play again. It makes me feel all this rage inside. But I shouldn’t be taking it out on you. It’s not an excuse for treating you badly. I’m really sorry, babe. You’ve been amazing through this. I’ll do better. I promise.”
I nodded. “I’m concerned about you, Connor. Mood swings and anger are side effects of opioid abuse.”
A beat of silence.
Then it was like a switch flipped. His face twisted with anger. “Opioid abuse? My mood is not a side effect of the damn painkillers, Doctor. It’s a side effect of my career being over at twenty-fucking-nine. Of course I’m goddamn angry.” Connor shook his head. “I can’t expect you to understand, not when your career is taking off so fast you have to hire someone to have a damn baby.”
“That’s not fair.”
He moved toward the door on his crutches. “Yeah, right, my comment is what’s not fair.”
I stood. “Connor, wait. Don’t run away. Let’s talk.”
“Why, so you can psychoanalyze me like I’m a patient? No, thanks.” He ripped open the front door and hopped through. “Don’t wait up. One of us has to work in the morning.”
I sighed as the door slammed shut. So much for his promise to do better.
CHAPTER 7 Now
Another month alone. My new normal, as my therapist calls it.
I’m coping, I guess. But coping well? Well enough to fool Dr. Alexander. At least I think I am. But my new normal has its routine. The early morning walk for coffee. The wait for Gabriel, because despite what I told Dr. Alexander, I can’t help following him. Gabriel goes to the storage unit nearly every day. And today, like every other day lately, I walk past, turn right at the little alleyway a few buildings down, and sip my coffee, scribbling in my notebook, contemplating Gabriel’s secret to happiness.
After twenty minutes at the storage place, he’ll head to work, and I’ll take off on my newest pursuit—finding his family. Finding where their bodies are buried. I’ve been to ten cemeteries in the past month. Sometimes I ask an attendant and get a quick no. Other times I wander for hours, seeking out the shiny, new granite headstones, spots where the grass hasn’t yet filled in as much. I could go online; there are databases of burial locations now. But I don’t, and I’m not even sure why. Instead, I walk through fields of the dead, reading gravestone after gravestone until I’m sure I’ve examined them all. It’s oddly soothing, being among the dead. Often it feels like I belong there with them, yet I’m somehow trapped in the world of the living.
I check my watch, then take one last drag of coffee in the alley. He’s late today. He never takes this long at the storage stop. Twenty minutes, no more, no less, and it’s been forty now. While I wait, I take out my notebook. I’ve already jotted down all of my normal stuff:
Walked down 23rd Street at 9 a.m.
Regular coffee stand. Same order as yesterday. Small coffee, corn muffin.
No cigarettes again today.
Did he stop smoking? Maybe the ones I saw him buy were for someone else?
Stopped at storage unit.
I flip the page and begin writing things I need from the grocery store. My appetite has come back. I suppose it should’ve a long time ago with the miles of walking every day.
Cheese.
Cucumbers.
Almonds.
I’m not exactly eating well-balanced meals, but at least I’m no longer living off coffee and wine, though there’s still a good amount of both in my diet.
Another watch check—forty-five minutes now. Maybe I missed him? Maybe I checked my phone, read that text from my brother as Gabriel strolled by. Or maybe for once he went straight home. But it’s not a holiday or between semesters. He has class today.
I sigh. Ten more minutes. I’ll wait ten more minutes, then go on my way. I found a new cemetery to check, one with plots still available for purchase—maybe that’s why I haven’t found his family yet. Because they hadn’t expected to die. Didn’t have a place nearby to be buried. Or maybe he had them cremated?
Though something about cremating a child seems wrong. I can’t be sure I’ve ever heard of such a thing. I chew the end of my pen and flip the notebook pages back to some of my early research notes.
Ellen and Rose Wright. Their names are underlined twice. Ellen had been a teacher, too, but at the local high school—English. Something they shared in common. She also coached the girls’ soccer team in spring. A graduate of the University of Virginia, but originally from Rhode Island. The single picture of Rose the papers had printed was taken alongside her mother as they volunteered at a soup kitchen on Thanksgiving. Of course. Of course they were good people.