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Just Let Me Die Here (A Serialized Novel) 29

Chapter 29

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) 29
Photo by Hans Vivek on Unsplash

It’s been over a week since the last time I saw Millie. And she is the only one I want to see. As if to commemorate this passage of time, a blizzard sets in. For three days, it snows without stopping. With each layer of snow that falls over Canmore, I worry that another trail, another clue, another possibility of hope, is being covered, lost forever to the frozen land. I have received several worried texts from Sasha, wanting to know how I’m holding up and if there’s been any news. I don’t respond. I also have a reply to the email I sent to Jack, in which he demands that I call him. I don’t.

I live on the bag of groceries that I got a couple days ago at the gas station across the street. Breakfast, lunch, dinner, they’re all the same. Microwave noodles or oatmeal, a piece of fruit and a handful of nuts. Nothing tastes of anything. I only eat because I have to. And some days, I don’t. The monotony is actually comforting. Recently, change has not been a positive thing for me, and so the sameness of these snowed-in days wraps me in security. Nothing bad can happen if I just stay inside these four walls. I try to be awake as little as possible, but my dreams, terrible flashes of my biggest worries, shock me into consciousness. And when I am awake, I try to drown my thoughts with mindless television. It’s the silence that haunts me. In silence, my fears take over. In silence I hear my mother’s voice again.

You didn’t love her enough.

You are what I was.

She is gone and you are what you deserve. Alone.

It is the darkness of dreamless sleep where I find my only escape. But my supplies quickly dwindle and I am left with my only option being to venture out of my motel room.

On the fourth night of the storm, I decide to get some dinner at the diner around the corner. I bundle up in a layering of all the clothes I have with me and step out into the frigid darkness. The parking lot is silent, as is the road that I walk down. No one else is out tonight. I imagine everyone else in Canmore, in the world, tucked away in their warm homes, surrounded by people they love. The lack of other people outside only reminds me of my lack of people in general. As I walk, the freezing temperatures and the quiet seep into me, a stabbing liquid that fills my body. My steps begin to struggle against the ache and I focus on the neon light of the diner sign just a block away. In the distance, the horn of a train echoes through the darkness. It’s too loud, as is the quiet left in its wake.

At the door of the diner, I hesitate. I have intentionally kept myself from interactions with people for days now and I’m not sure whether I want to ruin that. I worry what piercing that bubble might do. But the pull of my stomach is stronger than my will to avoid others and I push through the door. The stale warmth inside the restaurant is shocking. I quickly begin stripping off my layers, struggling with the hindrance of my injured arm, conscious of the fact that there are several waitresses and a few customers watching the spectacle. Once comfortable, I proceed, good arm wrapped around my bundle of discarded clothing, to the nearest table.

“How ya doing?” the waitress asks when she arrives moments later. “Decided to brave the cold did ya?” Her name is Monique, or so her slightly askew badge says. It clings to the uniform that is stretched across her chest, the buttons straining to hold back what’s underneath.

“Yeah,” I say, stuffing the extra clothes onto the chair next to me.

“What can I get ya?” Monique says, shifting her stance to lean her hip against the table. I look up over her shoulder at the large chalkboard hanging on the wall. It lists the day’s specials and a few of the chef’s favorites. I am still trying to collect myself and the words on the board appear to swim. I can’t tell if some of the items are beef or bear. Can you eat bear?

“What would you recommend?” I ask, more to fill the expected return of conversation rather than an actual interest in her tastes.

“All greasy, all good,” she says with a laugh. “I am a fan of the poutine though. And our elk burger is pretty great. It’s fresh. Not that frozen stuff you get in other places.”

“I’m not sure,” I say, still scanning the board, vision settling. “Can I just start with a coffee?” Monique gives a slight affirming smile and walks away.

A family is sitting at the table just across from me. It’s a young mother and father. I can’t imagine they are more than nineteen or twenty years old. They look more worn down than their years should allow and they lean against one another, as if the other’s presence is all that’s keeping them upright. Across from them in a high chair is their son. He’s probably about two years old. He is in yellow footie pajamas and sucking a pacifier. He is playing with some sort of pasta with sauce, splatters of which cover his pajamas. When Monique returns with the pot of coffee, I am staring at them.

“Such a cutie, isn’t he?” she says, nodding toward the little boy, his face and hands now covered in sauce, as she pours me a cup of coffee.

“Yes. Yes, he is.” I grab two packets of sugar and a handful of mini creamers from the bowl in the center of the table and begin emptying them into the steaming cup.

“You got kids?” Monique asks, settling her hip back down against the table as if she’s planning on staying for a bit to chat.

I pause for a second, collecting myself before speaking. “Yes.” I don’t look at her.

“How many?”

“Um, just one. A girl.”

“Awe, how old?” Is this really turning into a conversation? I should just make something up. Twenty. She’s twenty. Oh, I know I look far too young to have a twenty-year-old, but it’s true. Strangers never care about older kids. Just the young, cute ones.

“Ten months,” I say. I should have lied. I should have just said no in the first place. I don’t have a child. Cut this waitress off completely from any entry into my personal life. But right now, that is the last thing I could do. To say that I don’t have a child would be like wiping Millie out of my life completely and that is impossible.

You should try it.

It’s easier than you think.

“Precious,” Monique says. “I’m sure she’s just adorable. You got pictures?”

“Not with me, no.” I don’t want to invite this woman any further into my world than she already is.

“Are you thinking of having another one?” Really? Aren’t we done with this?

“We’ll see,” I say. That should be the end of it. Move on, Monique.

“Oh, come now,” she pushes on. “How can you not want another one?” I stare straight ahead and shrug, lifting my coffee to my lips. “I have two,” she continues, shifting her weight a bit on the table. “You need two. You have to have two. You know your little girl wants a brother or sister.”

“We’ll see,” I say again. How is this woman not getting the signal? “Actually, can I just order a-” I start, hoping to get our relationship back on a business transaction level, but she cuts me off.

“Natural or C-section?”

“What?”

“Your daughter. Her birth. Was it natural or a C-section?” This is beyond too personal. I am so shocked, though, that I answer honestly.

“Um, C-section.”

“Oh, so you’re scared about going through that again. I get it. I never had one, but I’m sure it’s awful. But you should really have another one. A child that is.” I am completely speechless. Where does this woman get off? I am trying to piece together some semblance of words to respond but I am blank. Thankfully, an order comes up from the kitchen and she goes to pick it up, telling me she’ll be right back to get my order. When her back is turned I get up, collect my things, and leave.

Walking back to the motel, as snow begins to fall again and the ache in my stomach threatens to consume me, I see the only other building on the street that has its lights on. A small liquor store stands like a beacon in the darkness of my storm. I slowly walk down the sidewalk, across the street from the shop, scanning the interior through the windows. A single person stands behind the counter while a customer comes out of the shop gripping a six pack of beer. At the end of the block, I cross the street and head back towards the liquor store. When I reach the shop, I stop. My motel is just around the corner. I could just go back there and go to sleep. Except I won’t be able to sleep. Like every night for the past week and a half, my night will be just more hours filled with agony. I need something to stop the pain. Something that, for at least a moment, will help me to forget all that’s been taken from me. All that I’ve lost. And then I think about my mother. The one person I didn’t want to become when I became a mother myself. But without a child, am I a mother at all? I grab the handle on the door and pull with a strength I didn’t know I had.

Trust me, it’s the best way out.

The man behind the counter gives me an unsympathetic look as I enter. He appears to have ridden out the blizzard sitting on the very stool that he sits on now behind the till. He is unshaven and the dark circles under his eyes do not speak to a fun, up-all-night party. He watches me as I walk the perimeter of the shop, scanning the shelves of bottles. There is wine and beer, but that won’t do it. I need something more. My eyes land on the whiskey and then the vodka. I grab the cheapest bottle of each and head to the register. The man rings me up and I slap down a few bills to cover the total. Neither of us say anything and neither of us look at the other. After the episode in the diner, I want to hug this man for his lack of personal interaction.

Back in my room, I walk directly to the bed and sit. I place the two bottles on the nightstand and play a mental game of eenie-meenie-miney-mo to decide which to open first. There are two, semi-clean glasses next to the sink, but I ignore them. There is no sense in pretending that portion control will play any part in what is about to happen. I choose the whiskey, rip off the plastic wrapping, and unscrew the top.

This is where I’m at. Alone, in a fucking motel in Canada. Terrible, gold-framed motel art the only witness to the death of my hope. I take a long, deep swig on the bottle and hold the liquid in my mouth for a moment, letting my tongue start to burn, before swallowing and taking another drag. Then, I reach into my purse and grab my phone.

For the next hour, I hold the whiskey in one hand and my phone in the other. On the phone, I scan through old texts from Tucker. I read a text, then take a swig from the bottle. Another text, another swig.

‘You are the brightest star in the constellation of my life.’ Ugh! Swig.

‘You are the best person in the world.’ Bullshit. Swig.

‘I love you, forever and always.’ Fuck you! Swig.

And on and on and on.

Halfway through, I switch to vodka.

‘I can’t wait to meet our beautiful baby girl!’ Kill me now.

At some point, I black out. When I wake, my face is in a puddle of vodka that is soaking into the comforter from the overturned bottle I grip in my hand. I drag myself up to a seated position and grab the sheets for balance. I am instantly hit with the feeling of a knife stabbing me in between my eyes, the pain so real that I actually touch the spot on my face to check if there is something there. I look to the window and see, through the crack in the curtains, that the light is growing in the sky outside. Or is it getting darker? What time is it? I grab my phone, still open to that final text from Tucker. ‘Our beautiful baby girl!” The words swirl on the screen. I swipe down to check the time. It’s four o’clock in the afternoon. I’ve been out all day.

I pull myself up and trudge to the small sink outside the bathroom. I flip the faucet on and watch the water running down into the stained porcelain basin. I don’t look up at the mirror. I don’t want to see what I look like right now. I bend over and stick my face into the running water sideways, swallowing mouthfuls and letting the rest run over my cheek, into my ear, and down my neck. I hear her in the echo of the waterlog.

Not enough.

You’re not enough.

You didn’t love her enough.

I turn and walk back to the bed, grabbing a granola bar from the side table. I need something to put in my stomach. And then I sleep. The alcohol has done its job.

The sound of a passing train rips me from my slumber. The rattling windows feel like they will shatter with the harsh blare of the whistle. I fling myself from the bed, certain that I have to catch the train. Tucker has taken my baby and they are on that train, rushing away from me. I throw open the door and the gust of wind from the stream of railcars whipping by throws me back. The whistle pierces the air again and I go deaf. I know I’m screaming but I hear nothing. The cars pass, one by one, faster and faster, ripping through the night. I watch, crouched in the doorway of the dark motel room, as the train disappears into the distance, stealing my child, destroying my life.

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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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