Just Let Me Die Here (A serialized novel)

Prologue

This is the absolute best. There is no one else on the trail with me and I stop for a moment to take in the view, and the quiet. The wonderful, delicious, delicate quiet. It hovers, suspended in the air like a thin sheet of ice just waiting to crack. It’s been a long time since I’ve experienced such peace. The view is beautiful, beyond anything I could have imagined when I dreamed of skiing these mountains. The snow-frosted pines stretch on for miles, an endless sea of evergreen glittering in the afternoon sun. The snow beneath my skis is pristine, the groomed path stretching off to the horizon then curving down to the valley below.

I take a deep breath and feel the crisp air crackle in my nose, the fresh scent of icy cold filling my head. The chill rushes across my cheeks. This is perfection. This moment, this point in my life. All of it, perfection. I can’t imagine a better life than the one I am living beyond this mountain, but I take one more second to enjoy the amazing view before I get back to it. And, just so I can return to this moment when I need a quick reminder back home, I pull out my phone and take a photo. I smile at the stilled image on the screen and slip it back into my jacket, zipping up the pocket.

But before I can head off towards my wonderful life below, I hear something. A distinct noise that I was hoping not to encounter in my own little remote part of paradise. The slicing of someone else’s skis through the crusted snow. I glance over my shoulder just in time to see a man skiing full-tilt in my direction. His skis don’t turn with the path of the run. They aim themselves at me like arrows. The skier himself seems in complete control, the definition of calm and focus. I try to move out of the way, but my skis are locked in the snowbank at the side of the trail. I am stuck.

“Hey!” I shout. He continues to pick up speed. Does he not see me? He is moving at a pace that I cannot comprehend until it hits me. Literally hits me. The man crashes into my side, sending me over the edge of the forested slope. There is a moment where I feel my entire body freed from the ground, flying, floating, falling.

I land awkwardly and heavily on the mountainside, the snow neither powdery nor soft. I feel every rock, every sharp edge hidden below. I tumble, skis jettisoned in one direction, poles in another, and brace myself for the crash I know is coming. The picturesque view flashes in front of me, first upright and then sideways. I miss one tree before slamming, side first, into the next. The world stills, the agony strikes.

As the din of my fall dims to a painful silence, I have only one thought. Please, don’t let me die here.

Chapter 1

“You know what you need, August?” Tucker asks. My husband sits across from me at our kitchen counter, taking sips from his glass of scotch to avoid chopping the vegetables on the board in front of him. He spins his phone on the counter with his free hand. The bubbling pot on the stove in front of me spits sauce into my face and I wipe it away.

I look down at my pants covered in different kinds of pureed foods and my ‘Moms Are Cool’ t-shirt, which I am pretty sure I haven’t changed in three days. A shower. I need a shower. This reminds me that we are out of shampoo and I make a mental note to buy more. And clothes detergent.

“A vacation,” he interrupts my thoughts. Vacation. I sound the word out in my mind, savoring the luxuriousness of each syllable. The smoothness of rolling waves and the sugary grittiness of a beach. A cold drink in my hand. Or even better, a warm one. A hot Irish coffee, steaming my face as I sit on a balcony overlooking a winter wonderland. I sigh. I miss real winters. But a real vacation? They have showers on vacation, right? I can’t remember the last time we went on one. Strike that. I can. It was the trip to Hawaii where one evening at the poolside bar left me very hungover and very pregnant. I look over at Millie who sits, gnawing on a cracker in her high chair at the end of the counter. Just a few months away from celebrating her first birthday, she is slowly gaining the mastery of solid foods. It hits me anew that Millie is almost one. My baby. One whole year old.

“We can’t go on a vacation,” I say, returning my attention to the stove.

“Why not? We deserve it. You deserve it.” He looks at me with those eyes he knows I can’t resist. I haven’t seen that look in a while.

“Just the two of us?” I ask, glancing at him nervously.

“No, of course not.” He beams at our daughter’s crumb-covered face. “We’ll take Millie too. Our first real trip as a family.” I could never leave Millie behind, but I am also hesitant at the prospect of taking her with us. I think of the amount of packing it takes to just get Millie and I ready for a trip to the park. And spending any extended amount of time away from our very nicely child-proofed home does not sound very relaxing. I imagine her falling on a hard, stone hearth or crawling off the edge of a flight of stairs or simply climbing out an open window. She’s becoming increasingly mobile every day. The possibilities for injury in an unknown space are endless. It’s just too much. We can’t go on a vacation. I shake my head at the thought of it.

“Come on,” he says. Millie throws a half-eaten cracker on the floor and Tucker jumps from his stool to pick it up. He makes a string of googley noises as he boops her on the nose with the cracker before placing it back in her hand. She screeches with delight, cracker crumbs spraying across the counter. “We could go to Banff.”

“Banff?” I ask, my interest piqued. The microwave beeps. What did I put in there?

“You know? Canada.” Tucker returns to his seat and his drink. A message pops up on his phone and he swipes it away without looking at it. I reach across the counter and grab the chopping board with the vegetables.

“Yes, I know where Banff is,” I say as I quickly chop up a carrot and toss it in the bubbling sauce. I discovered the joy of skiing while I was in college. Ever since then, Canada has been one of my dream places to go for a ski trip. Incredible slopes. Soaring views. Amazing conditions. The Canadian Rockies have always been a “someday” dream. Could this now be someday?

“The holidays are coming up,” Tucker says. “We’ll leave the day after Christmas. Stay a week or so. Really enjoy our time there. I found this great place. It’s perfect.” I know what Tucker’s definition of “great place” means. Cheap. He will spend a lot of money, but only on things he thinks are worth it. Hotels do not fall in that category. “You just need a bed and four walls,” he always says. “It’s not like you’re going to live there. Why waste the money?” I’m sure he’s found a good deal on some motel close enough to the ski resort that it can still be considered in the same town. But even the cheapest motels have showers in a bathroom that I can have all to myself, right?

“But how can we ski with Millie?” I ask, trying to make it sound like I am actually considering this. We can’t go. We just can’t.

“I’m sure there is a daycare at the resort,” he says. I scrunch my face at the idea of someone else watching our child. “Or we could take turns watching her. I’ll even take most of the turns. You know I don’t need to ski that much. We’ll figure it out.” He pauses and his face twists. “Is something burning?” Fingers of smoke are beginning to curl out of the oven.

“Shit!” With one hand, I throw open the oven door while sliding the other into an oven mitt. I grab the pan of chicken that is now more than slightly charred and drop it on the stove next to the bubbling pot. Millie bangs her cracker against the tray of her high chair, sending another spray of crumbs and exuberant laughter into the air. The pot on the stove spits at me again. I turn down the burner and give the sauce a quick stir, trying to scrape off any bits that have stuck to the bottom. The timer on the oven dings, telling me the chicken is ready, right as the microwave beeps again. A vacation? Right now, I can’t even take a few minutes to sit. We definitely can’t go on vacation.

“Dinner’s ready,” I say with a forced smile.

I watch as Tucker picks Millie up out of her high chair and spins her around in the air. “Dinner time, little one.” She giggles and a trail of drool makes its way towards his shoulder. He brings her exposed belly down to his mouth and blows a raspberry on her side. She laughs hysterically again. My heart aches at this scene in front of me. My perfect little family makes me so happy it hurts. I would do anything for them. They are my entire world.

But you’re not enough for them. The voice that has haunted me since the day I found out I was pregnant whispers in my ear. I swat at the voice and the lingering smoke with the oven mitt and then try to piece together three plates of food.

At the dinner table, accompanied by Millie’s babbling and the sound of food being thrown to the floor, Tucker talks more about the vacation. He has yet to touch his dinner. Understandable. The sauce has done little to conceal the ruined chicken.

“It will be the perfect getaway,” he says. “A great chance to recharge and start new for the new year.”

“I’m just not sure,” I say. Millie has started squirming in her chair and is refusing all the food on her plate. “Looks like someone is done.”

“Come on, Millie. Don’t you want to eat your yummy food?” Tucker says. “Look, Daddy eats it.” He takes a small piece of zucchini from her plate and tosses it in his mouth, accompanying the display with over-acted yummy noises. Millie throws another handful of food on the ground.

“Yep. Definitely done,” I say.

“Are you done with your dinner, Millie girl?” Tucker coos at her. “Alright, missy. Bath time. Let’s go.” He wipes up the food from her tray and the floor, then takes Millie out of her high chair and carries her off down the hall. I lean back in my chair and take a long sip of wine.

While Tucker gets Millie ready for bed, I get up and begin washing the pile of dishes that has built up in the sink. The ever-present pile. As the sink fills with hot, soapy water, I let my eyes wander across the space around me and let out a frustrated sigh. This house of ours still needs a lot of work. We bought it as a fixer upper, with dreams of the home we could turn it into. But in the three years that we’ve lived here, we haven’t done much to work toward that dream. Life got in the way, as it does. We were both busy with work and then Millie came along and it remains a fixer upper. I shut off the water and begin scrubbing at food remnants on a dried cereal bowl. Things definitely have not gone according to plan.

I am back at the table, halfway through my second glass of wine, eyes closed, just enjoying the comfort of sitting when I feel Tucker come back into the room. He runs a strong hand across my shoulders before pressing his lips to my neck.

“So, what do you think?” he whispers in my ear. “Vacation? Will you just think about it?”

“Mmm,” I softly moan into my glass. “I’ll think about it.”

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