Sarah's Armour

Sarah lay in bed starring at the ceiling, listening to her alarm buzzing. A green halo of light illuminated the room, flashing in time to the noise. She turned her head slightly, bringing into view the large blinking numbers of the alarm clock. Her hand flew out, slamming the clock, and the room was dark and quiet again.

Maybe just a little longer, she thought, flipping on her side. Just a little longer, or maybe one more day. Every morning was the same. She couldn’t bring herself to do it. As soon as her toes touched the cold floor, her chest was filled with dread and anxiety. Regret and apprehension settled in a ball in her stomach. Thoughts of things she might have done, words she might have said, ways she might have been better flew through her mind. She would barely make it to the bathroom, or the kitchen, or the living room before a storm of guilt and despair consumed her. Then she would find herself curled in a corner, or huddled in the shower, or collapsed on the floor.

She reached out her arm again, this time to lightly brush her fingers along the picture that sat beside her bed. With her fingertips pressed against where she knew his face was, she remembered the day that picture was taken. Bright and sunny, vast blue skies, everyone smiling, lots of people laughing. She felt it; echoes of the happiness of that day. But echoes fade, and she was left hollow.

The ringing of the phone roused her. The large glowing numbers of the clock showed that an hour had been lost. She did not move to answer the phone, did not even consider it, but let it go to the machine. Tina’s voice filled the air – just checking in, wondering how she was doing, might stop in later.

No one had told her, but she knew they had established a schedule. Her family, her friends. They took it in turns to call her, to check on her, to bring her take out, or tidy up the kitchen. She was aware enough to notice this. They tried to rouse her, to encourage her, to tell her it was time, that he would not have wanted this. She knew this. Of course he wouldn’t have wanted this. What a ridiculous thing to say. He wouldn’t have wanted to be gone. He wouldn’t want her to be alone and miserable. He wouldn’t want her picturing his death, over and over again. He wouldn’t want her watching him flung over that car hood and smashing through the windshield, glass flying everywhere, droplets of blood landing on her shoes. Of course he wouldn’t want that.

She eased her legs over the side of the bed, and her toes touched the cold floor. Maybe today would be different. Maybe today she could do it. Maybe today she could fight it off long enough to get somewhere, or do something. Maybe today.

Sarah slid to the floor.

Maybe not today.

At least she was out of bed, she thought, her face pressed against the wood floor. In front of her was the large dresser they had shared. It had started out as his dresser, but she had slowly filled one drawer after another with her own things until the dresser was more hers than his.

None of his drawers had been opened since. His clothes still lay neatly folded and waiting. She had been afraid to look at them, afraid to smell them. She didn’t know what that might do to her. She didn’t trust herself.

Now she shifted her shoulders so that her head lay beside his bottom drawer, wrapped two fingers around the handle, and slowly pulled. Sarah’s breath caught when she saw what was on top.

Red and white, with a large snorting bull head on the front, and his name in bold lettering on the back – his high school hockey jersey. He never wore it (he had put it on once for her and it was comically tight), but refused to get rid of it. It had sentimental value, he said. He would then tell her about the games and tournaments, the friends he made, the adventures they had. She had worn it sometimes, when they went to hockey games or skating. She would snort at him and pretend to charge, and he would catch her and fling her around in circles on the ice. She remembered.

Sarah buried her face in the soft, well-worn fabric of the jersey and let it happen. She let the memories come; let them tear her apart. She felt the pieces of her heart, her soul, breaking and falling away; felt the empty places fill with rage and sorrow. The fear and the loneliness and the longing clamored through her. And then the guilt, washing everything else away. The thought that, if she had only done one thing differently, one small thing, any small thing, he might still be here, lying on the floor beside her.

The jersey felt cold and wet. Sarah realized she had been silently sobbing into it. Her eyes ached and her lips tasted of salt. Staring at the snorting bull head, Sarah was seized with a sudden inspiration. She pulled the jersey over her head, then stood to look in the mirror.

Her long blonde hair was matted and dirty looking. Her eyes looked red and tired, and her skin was dry and pale. She stared at herself, wondering how long she had looked this bad. The bull stared back, in an accusing, challenging sort of way. Sarah snorted at it.

“You don’t think I can do this, do you?” Sarah whispered. “Maybe I can’t, but I think it’s time to try.” She ran a brush through her hair, carefully detangling the bigger knots with her fingers. Then she left it to fall around her shoulders. Next she grabbed her moisturizer, squeezed a small amount onto her fingers, and then rubbed it in circles around her face. The bottle of foundation sat close by, but she didn’t think she had the energy for that yet. She looked at herself again. She still looked haggard, but felt slightly better.

Her eyes drifted to the bottom half of the mirror, to her striped pajama bottoms. Should she change those? Could she change them? She turned to look at the drawer where she kept her jeans, thought maybe she could dig out the pair that he had always liked – the old ones with the rips and the paint stains. He used to joke with her that her ugliest pants were the ones that fit her best. Maybe that would be too much. Maybe she should take this slow. One thing at a time.

Fighting the urge to melt back onto the floor, Sarah left her bedroom, and paused outside the bathroom door. She ran her tongue along her teeth. Things were feeling a little mossy. In the cup beside her toothbrush was his toothbrush. Usually the sight of it caused her to collapse into the tub. Sarah stared at the bull on her chest, snorting every now and then to remind herself.

In the kitchen, Sarah scrambled for her keys. Dirty dishes and garbage littered the table, counter and floor. She flung them aside in her search. Keys, wallet, cell phone – all accounted for. She stuffed them into her purse, then turned toward the door.

She was going to leave the house.

Sarah wasn’t sure where she was going, or what she was doing, or how far she would even make it, but in his hockey jersey, with that bull reminding her, protecting her like armour, she would try.