Chapter Nine
Now
I startle awake to find myself alone on my couch in the grey morning twilight before dawn has settled in for the day. Fresh tears streak my cheeks. I’m drenched in sweat and still listening to the sounds of my fellow passengers screaming as the wind roars in through the hole in the side of the fuselage.
How the screams quickly diminished as people passed outif they didn’t grab and don their oxygen masks quickly enough.
How bitterly cold it felt, making my teeth chatter.
The rain that splashed in.
The way the seatbelt dug into the crease between my groin and thighs as the sky tried to rip me out of my seat and into oblivion.
I sit up and lean forward, my head in my hands between my knees as I breathe through it. The Xanax has completely worn offnow, but I must have gotten at least a solid eight hours of sleep, total.
That isthemost sleep I’ve managed in one night in over three months.
Literally.
Once I feel I can stand without puking from the adrenaline dump the nightmare triggered in my body, I stagger my way to the bathroom in the downstairs hall and sit to use it. I don’t even trust my aim right now.
At some point, the TV shutitself off overnight. The house is silent except for me, my noises, the ragged sound of my breathing as I try to force the dream images and sounds—and memories—out of my brain.
I sit there for a few minutes, even after I finish. I can remember a time where it felt like I couldn’t sit down for thirty seconds to take a shit before I had one or two or three kids trying to get into the bathroom withme. Where, between my job and that, I longed for a few minutes to myself.
Ellen used to always smirk when I’d grouse about it.
How I’dkillto have those days back now.
Especially so I could apologize to Ellen for not better appreciating everything she did for our family.
For all the late nights I worked, leaving her alone with the kids to deal with things.
For all the Saturday and Sundaymornings I slept in while she got up to take care of whatever sibling issue arose that had them yelling at each other in the living room.
Silence painfully echoes all around me.
I’d kill to travel back in time to enjoy and better appreciate those days.
I finish, wash my hands, and return into the living room to find my glasses. On the coffee table, next to my glasses and my personal cell phone—whichwas acquisition target number two of my morning search—is a sticky note in Case’s handwriting.
Text me for morning check-in.
Followed by a little heart.
When I reach the kitchen, I discover she’s already preset the coffee and left a sticky note there, too.
You’re welcome.
With a smiley face.
After punching the coffeemaker’sonbutton a little harder than I intended, I removemy glasses again and set them on the counter as I struggle to hold back my tears.
Far from the first time I’ve awakened to notes from her. She requires proof of life from me at least once a day if we’re not supposed to be together for work or a work-related event. We don’t ride in together every morning simply because she’s usually leaving for work way earlier than I need to. She’s a workaholic,and any guy she eventually settles down with better accept that from date number one.
She was like this in college, too.
Also, she and Ellen were both morning people. I never was. We used to ride in to work together when we were still practicing law, especially if we had an early morning depo or court case. Then I could nap on the way in and not be nearly as grouchy upon my arrival.
