Just Let Me Die Here (A Serialized Novel) 25

At some point, I do fall asleep, because when I wake suddenly, from a nightmare that I find myself instantly forgetting, left only with a lingering uneasy feeling, it is getting dark outside. I get out of bed and walk to the window. Snow. It’s falling fast. Large flakes blowing at a sharp angle through the sky, covering everything thickly and quickly. Each one that hits the window feels like a crash, a large explosion that rings in my ears.

Gone.

Gone.

Gone.

I imagine the city as cars, streets, and houses disappear in the fury.

Where is Millie in all this? Is she safe? Is she warm? I was certain that Tucker would never harm her, but my certainties about Tucker have been pretty much dashed over the past few days. And then, the question returns to me once more. Why?

Why did Tucker do this?

Why did he bring us here?

Why did he leave me here?

Why did he pick me all those years ago?

Why me?

And why had I fallen for him?

On our first anniversary, Tucker had pulled out all the stops. He made reservations at the nicest restaurant in town. A formal-attire-required place that was at the top of the tallest building in the city. The entire floor rotated, giving diners a 360-view of the city as they enjoyed their meal. It was all a little much, but that was Tucker. A little much. In every aspect of his life he went all out, and I couldn’t fault him for that. He made everything larger than life and swept me along with him. He made life feel exciting. I guess that answers the question of why I fell for him, but I still wonder why he chose me. Was this his idea all along? Had he chosen me specifically because I fit into some strange plan? I would hope not, but who knows anymore. And if he did, what was it about me that drew him to conclude that I was the one he needed?

I didn’t love you. Why would he?

With each new snowflake that hits the window and melts in to a cascading droplet, I ask again.

Why?

Why?

Why?

My mind has been here before. A tumbling of unsteady thoughts, piling around me until I am swallowed whole. I fumble around in the dark until my hand finds my purse. I pull out my wallet and find the small piece of folded up yellow legal pad paper. I gently open it, its age making the folds fragile, and look at the phone number written in the beautiful script. ‘Just in case of an emergency.’ This is definitely an emergency.

My aunt was the one who discovered my thoughts about how my mom felt about me. As a kid, I started writing in a small journal that a friend had given me for my birthday. After that I moved on to the composition book that we were given in school. I told my teacher I had lost mine and she readily gave me another. I used the extra for my writings. When I finished with that one, I used my earnings from raking leaves in my neighborhood to buy a big sketchbook at the local art shop, and I filled the pages with my words. Usually I made up stories about the people in my life, or strangers that I saw. I imagined the jobs they went to, the pets they loved, or the fights they had at home. But sometimes I would write about myself. Those things were not made up.

We were visiting my aunt’s house the summer I turned nine. She had been baking brownies in the kitchen, the smell filling the house and making my stomach growl for what felt like hours. When she called me down, I was so excited to finally sink my teeth into some chocolatey goodness that I left the current journal, which I had been writing in, open on the bed. After the brownie, I went outside to play and completely forgot about my private thoughts that were on display for anyone to see right upstairs. And that’s just what happened when Aunt Margaret went into the guest room to change the towels in the adjoining bathroom.

“Therapy?” I heard my father saying as I came back into the house later that afternoon. “August doesn’t need therapy. She’s not crazy.”

“No, Tom, she’s not. But she is young and had something terrible happen to her. She needs to have someone to talk to.”

“She can talk to me,” my dad had said. I heard my aunt choke back a small chuckle.

“Please. You’re not exactly welcoming to conversation when it comes to Eileen.” The mention of my mother’s name brought a tense halt to the conversation. “I’m just saying,” my aunt finally spoke.

“Well don’t just say,” my father cut her off.

While this back and forth had been going on, I was slowly inching closer to the kitchen, trying to listen in without being noticed. But I became too pulled in to the adults talking and took a misstep on a squeaky floorboard in the hallway. My aunt and dad stopped talking immediately. When Aunt Margaret poked her head out into the hall, her face was a mix of surprise and worry. How much had I heard?

I didn’t hear any more discussion on the topic during that trip, but I’m certain it had taken place because, sure enough, two weeks later, after returning from the visit to Aunt Margaret’s, I was sitting on a big leather couch in the office of Dr. Trisha Westter. It wasn’t a big office, but it felt like a place for adults. There were no shelves lined with puppets for young patients to use to express their feelings, as I had feared there would be. I felt quite grown-up, even though, at the time, sitting on that couch, my feet didn’t even touch the floor. Dr. Westter was a razor of a woman, everything about her appearance thin and sharp. Everything but her eyes. They were a color unlike anything I had seen before, a mixture of blue and gold, and had the constant appearance of being on the verge of tears. Her eyes were vulnerable and so, made it feel like you could be vulnerable too. That first hour I spent with her, I didn’t talk much, still weary of letting strangers into my world. But the door to our relationship was set ajar. And I returned to that couch, once every other week until the time I went away to college.

As a parting gift from her practice, Dr. Westter had given me the assurance that I was a strong young woman who was going to do great things, along with the name of a therapist she recommended near my university. Doctor Roberta McKinny. “Just in case of an emergency,” she had said.

I have used the number a couple of times since moving. The first time during my second semester of my freshman year when the stress was pulling me in to a tornado of anxiety. The second time had been just after meeting Tucker. Maybe a few other times in between and since. On all occasions, the doctor had been kind and understanding, allowing me to work out my anxieties more on my own. But after a month or so with Tucker, when I had mentioned in passing that I had a therapist, he had huffed at the idea.

“You don’t need a therapist,” he had said. I hadn’t fully opened up to him about my entire history. Things were still new and I was trying to make a good impression.

“Lots of people have them,” I had said. “It’s not a big deal.”

“If you need someone to talk to, you can just talk to me. That’s what a good relationship is all about, right?” He had smiled in that way that filled me with a warmth of fullness. “Trust and communication. What kind of partner would I be if you had to go get help from someone else?” And so, I stopped calling on Dr. McKinny so much. Not completely, but only once or twice since then. I hadn’t spoken to her since before Millie was born and she helped calm me a bit over my fears of the impending birth and subsequent motherhood.

Sitting up in my bed in The Scarlett House, I dial the number and wait as the phone rings once, twice, three times. Halfway through the fourth ring, a man picks up.

“Hello?” His voice is gruff and thick with sleep, as if I’ve woken him. I glance at the clock and quickly do the math. It would only be 7pm back home.

“Hello,” I say. “I’m calling for Doctor McKinny. Is she available?”

“Oh, no. Sorry. This is Doctor Rubens. I’m the on-call doctor for the holiday week. May I help you? Or would you like me to get a message to Doctor McKinny?” I was struggling enough with the idea of saying the words to someone I already knew. Letting this complete stranger, no matter how good of a doctor they might be, into my new emotional hell feels like too much.

“No, that’s okay. If you could please tell her that August called. August Logan. And I would appreciate it if she got back to me as soon as she can.”

“Yes, of course Ms. Logan. I will pass the message along.” With the click of the phone call ending, I feel as if someone has cut the final strings of a life raft. I am floating out in a silent sea, with no idea of how to steer, and nowhere to go if I could.

I curl into myself in the large chair, feeling the tough leather push back against my pain. Looking out the window, I watch as the snow swirls, thrown to the earth by an uncaring hand. I feel myself spin with the flurry outside. My stomach churns and I turn deeper inward, squeezing at the ache. Spinning, drowning. Eventually, I fall asleep.

I wake in the morning to the beeping of my phone. It is clasped in my hand, kept hold by a night of worried sleep. I look at the screen and see a notification of a new text.

‘Happy New Years!’ It’s from Sasha. ‘Hope you’re having a great time!’

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