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Just Let Me Die Here (A Serialized Novel) 26

Chapter 26

By Megan ClancyPublished 3 years ago Updated 2 years ago 12 min read
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Just Let Me Die Here (A Serialized Novel) 26
Photo by Mick Haupt on Unsplash

It’s three in the morning and I am awake. But this is my new normal. These hours that used to be spent calming a crying child are now vacant spaces for a childless mother. Here, I am always awake. I try to sleep, hoping to escape this nightmare, knowing that nothing that my unconscious mind could think up would ever be worse than what I am living. But my body and conscious mind won’t cooperate.

You were never meant to be a mother.

You were never meant to be at all.

Childless is how you and I should have always been.

Yesterday, I left The Scarlett House. Ruth was nice enough to let me stay for the entire original reservation. She didn’t even charge me for all of the days. But she had another booking that needed the room and, even if she hadn’t, I couldn’t stay any longer. It hurt to be in that room, stripped of everything that filled those last days with my family. And the empty crib in the corner was just too much to bear anymore.

A month before Millie was born, Tucker and I spent an afternoon building her crib. ‘Top of the line comfort for your precious little one,’ the website had claimed. ‘Some assembly required.’ Some.

“You know we don’t have to do this now,” Tucker had said. “She’s going to sleep in the basinet in our room for the first few months.” We were in the center of the room that would soon be the nursery, wooden parts and screws and mounting frustration surrounding us. I was trying to fit together piece H with piece S2 and it was not going as smoothly as the picture in the instruction manual indicated.

“I know, but I want everything to be finished and ready in here.” I adjusted myself on the floor, hunching over my swollen middle to reach for another screw. “I can put her in it during the day for her naps. Plus, it will just be easier to do it now rather than later when we’re trying to take care of a baby as well.”

“Sure. Easier,” Tucker said with a huff. “Can you hand me the wrench over there?”

This was one of the most complicated DIY projects I had ever attempted. But all the parenting sites guaranteed it was well worth it. ‘The best crib of the year,’ said one. ‘The safest crib for your baby,’ said another. ‘Well worth the money,’ a third raved. And it had been a lot of money. But it also claimed to grow with your child, changing from a crib to a toddler bed to a full-sized double, so I figured it was a good investment.

I handed Tucker the wrench.

“Thank you,” he said. “Oh, by the way, I have to get up early to catch my flight.”

“Your flight?”

“Yeah, the conference in Seattle starts tomorrow.”

“I thought that was next week.”

“No, silly. It’s this week. Remember? They had to change the dates and there was that whole issue with the flight cancellation.”

“Oh. Yes. Right.” I twisted piece H slightly and the screw set into place. I didn’t remember this at all.

“I think the pregnancy is screwing with your brain again,” he said.

I remember standing in the nursery over the next few weeks, looking at the empty crib. Each time, I would imagine the little child that would soon be resting in there. I thought about rocking her to sleep in the chair just next to the window and then placing her in the crib, swaddled in one of the many beautiful blankets people had given me at the baby shower. That empty crib held so much hope and promise and coming joy.

The empty crib in The Scarlett House was anything but that. It was loss and misery and hurt. I couldn’t look at it any more.

I got a single room at a motel next to the train tracks. The name is optimistically French. I imagine the original owners picking the signage to give an air of class and luxury to an otherwise lackluster building and location. It hasn’t aged well.

The manager, Duke, only grunted when I said I didn’t know how long I was staying.

“A week,” I had then said. “Maybe two.” I had to hope it would be less.

“Sure,” he said. This seemed to be the place for people with undetermined futures. “Not really in high demand right now anyway. Just don’t trash the place. And, you know, nothing illegal. I don’t need any funny business.”

The whole place feels like a home for despair. The perfect place for me right now. The building must be nearly eighty years old and I doubt it has had any renovations in the past twenty. My room is on the second story which looks down on the empty parking lot. It is dark inside, even when I turn on the dim light that hangs above the small sink in the corner, and it smells of an odd combination of cigarette smoke and cleaning products, the latter of which I am certain merely sat open in the room but were never actually used. All of this is muted by the frequent passing of the trains, which seem to stretch on for miles and whose whistles rattle the windows. The view outside those windows, however, is still stunning. I try not to look at it too much.

There is an old tube television sitting on the dresser in the center of the wall at the foot of the bed. Last night, I didn’t want to turn it on. I worried that the news would show me something I didn’t want to see and that other entertainment would just feel insulting to my mood. So, the screen remained dark, reflecting only my shadowed face as I sat up in bed. And I watched myself for a long time. I looked sick and disfigured, my eyes sunken into shadows and my features warped by the curve of the screen. The longer I watched, the angrier I got at the person I saw. And the angrier I got, the more upset I became with myself for being angry. There were other things, other people, that deserved my anger. Deserved much more than anger. But at least, I thought, I wasn’t thinking about Millie. And then I was thinking about Millie.

You didn’t love her enough.

She’s gone and it’s your fault.

This circled over and over, dragging me into a pit, only to be shaken from my spiraling thoughts by the occasional passing train, the sound obliterating any stream of consciousness until it hummed into the distance. The combination of noise inside and out sparked a headache behind my right eye that has been a constant companion ever since. This morning, I turned the television on and it has stayed on, tuned into the weather channel, meteorology becoming the background noise to my sorrow.

It’s snowing outside. And I only know that because the television tells me so. I have not gone outside since I got here and the drapes are pulled shut, only a sliver of gray daylight slipping through the break in the fabric. The television is muted, but the numbers tell me all I need to know of what it has to offer. Cold and snowy today. Colder tomorrow. Rain the following day.

I put a call into Detective Singh but I get the same response as yesterday. They’re still looking. Nothing new to report. She’ll let me know if anything changes. Try and be patient.

“I know it’s hard, August,” she says. “And I’m sure these all sound like hallow platitudes coming from me. But please, try to trust me. We’re going to figure this out.”

I hang up the phone and collapse back onto the bed. A woman dressed in an ill-fitted navy dress is pointing to the graphics moving across the screen. She is wearing too little make-up and the camera lights have washed her out so that her pale face blends with the clouds. A storm is heading west across central Canada.

I glance over at the door leading to the bathroom and try to remember the last time I took a shower. It’s been too long. Hopefully a good soak under some steaming hot water will help clear my mind and ease the aches that have been growing over the past few days.

The small bathroom is dim. I pull back the stained curtain and turn on the water. It is immediately scalding hot and I rush to adjust the cold-water knob. I strip off my clothes, pull the curtain back a bit further, and climb in.

It’s even darker in the shower, which I should be thankful for as it doesn’t allow me to see exactly how old and dingy the tub and curtain really are. I close my eyes and let the hot water flow over my shoulders and down my sore body. It burns the scrapes that run down my body and I try to breathe through the pain until it dulls. But I can’t fully relax. I think about the first shower in The Scarlett House. The release of realizing I was alone to enjoy the experience, to really indulge myself in a long, luxurious shower. But now, equally alone, the feeling is all wrong. Unenjoyable and agonizing. I run my hand once again over the scar just below my belly button, reminding myself that she is in the world. But I am no longer sure of her being protected. I try not to cry, but the water that now runs down my face as I turn towards the showerhead is spiked with saltiness.

I spend the majority of the shower trying to raise the shower head so that it reaches anywhere above my shoulders and adjusting the knobs to maintain a decent temperature. After the initial shock of hot water, it is nearly impossible to keep the water any warmer than tepid for more than a minute. It’s not long before I give up. I get out and grab the towel that is folded on the back of the toilet. It is rough and smells of bleach.

I am considering ordering take-out. I haven’t eaten all day, and don’t really feel the desire to now either, but I know I should. I go to grab my phone when it buzzes with a text. It’s from Sasha. I haven’t responded to any of her texts since the accident and I’m sure she’s starting to wonder why.

‘Having too much fun to text? When are you coming back anyway?’

I take a deep breath. I don’t feel like talking to anyone, really, but something like this can’t be done through a text. I exhale loudly and press the call button. It only rings once before she picks up.

“Hey vacation lady! How’s it going on the slopes?”

“Sasha?” My voice breaks. How am I going to tell her?

“August? What’s wrong?” I am instantly grateful that there is a person in my life who can tell from just a word what my emotional state is. That kind of connection is rare and I am lucky to have such a friend. She really is my friend. I don’t think I even have that with Tucker. Had that with Tucker. Whatever happens from here on out, our relationship is definitely over. Everything with him is past tense.

“It’s Tucker.”

“What happened to him?” She sounds curious, but not overly concerned.

“He’s gone.”

“What do you mean he’s gone? Where did he go?”

“I don’t know. He left. And he took…” I don’t know if I can say it. “He took Millie.”

“What? When?” I don’t answer right away. I know how long it’s been. I can feel every single minute that’s passed, each one stabbing deeper into my core. “August? When did he leave?”

“Five days ago.”

“What! He fucking what?” Her anger pushes me over the edge and the tears break through in a rush that I am not ready for. “Five days! Wait. Are you still in Canada? Did you call the police?”

“Yes, I’m still here. And yes, I called them. Well, when I realized he was gone, the woman who owned the hotel where we were staying called them.”

“And what did they say?”

“I told them everything and they’ve put out an alert. They have people looking, but that’s all they can do right now. There’s not much to go on.”

“Oh, August, I can’t even imagine what you’re going through.”

“I should go,” I say, just wanting to hang up, wanting to not be listening to a familiar voice. It hurts too much. This was a bad idea.

“No, August wait. I mean, what are you going to do?”

“I don’t know. Right now, I just have to be patient. At least that’s what the police keep telling me.”

“That’s bullshit.”

“I know.” A new wave of tears crashes.

“Why don’t you come home. I’m sure we can figure out what to do from here.”

“No,” I nearly shout. I can’t leave. I can’t go back alone. “I am not leaving here without Millie.” She is the only one I care about now. Tucker is gone to me and, after everything he’s done, I truly don’t care to ever see him again. I just want my daughter back.

You should have wanted her more in the first place.

“I have to go,” I say into the phone and I hang up before Sasha can respond.

I wake in the middle of the night to the sound of a baby crying. I look around and find that I am in my own room, back in my own house. And the cry is coming from just down the hall. Millie! I jump out of bed and race down the hallway, but it stretches on and on, as if each step I take pushes her door further away. I run faster and finally get to her door, crashing into it with a stumble. The cries are getting louder. I throw the door open and rush to her crib. But it’s empty. I turn to see if she is somewhere else in the room but it’s empty. Everything that was there when I put Millie to bed earlier is gone. And when I turn back, the crib is gone too. I am standing in an empty room and the cries are getting louder and louder until the force of the sound smashes down around me, sending the entire space into a silent vacuum and I wake.

I am in the motel. The thin comforter, pulled from the foot of the bed, is twisted around my body, wrapped with the sheets and spare pillow. I am soaked in sweat and shivering from the cold. Outside, a loud, beeping delivery truck thunders down the alley on the other side of the wall. It is morning.

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About the Creator

Megan Clancy

Author & Book Coach, wife, mother, adventure-seeker.

BA in English from Colorado College & MFA from the University of Melbourne

Writing here is Fiction & Non-Fiction

www.meganaclancy.com

Find me on Twitter & IG @mclancyauthor

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