I didn’t think I had any tears left to cry, but more fall now as I make my way home, fingers and toes numb from the cold, hair knotted and tangled from the wind. My mouth is dry and my stomach aching with how empty it is, and yet I have no desire to consume anything.
I want my son. I want to hold him and look at his little face and I want to cry until I feel sick. I’m in no state to go pick him up or even look after him though, so I don’t. I go back to my little empty bungalow that still smells like Kolt. He is everywhere, in the t-shirt left on the couch and the shoes by the door. He’s in the second toothbrush in my bathroom and the pack of beer in the fridge. He’s the little wooden carvings scattered around the house, and the floorboard that no longer squeaks.
The bed smells like him.
It was hard before, but this is torture.
He’s gone. And this time it’s my fault.
I drag my feet as I walk through the house, not bothering with the heat or the lights as I go for the table. Before I asked him to leave, he was working on a small sculpture, I couldn’t tell what it was at first but now as I look at it, at the curves and the edges, it’s a woman cradling a child, the shape not completely formed since he didn’t get to finish. His tools are still out on the table, the aged leather case rolled out across the surface. I run my fingers over it, over the tools so expertly held by his hands.
There are so many little wooden sculptures now, flowers and trees and moons, carved by him and placed in various areas of the house.
I drop my head into my hands as fresh tears heat my eyes, burning as they fall.
Physically, my heart hurts. Everything hurts.
A sudden knock on the door startles me from where I sit at the table, the thump of someone’s fist on the wood loud and rushed.
They knock again, banging so hard I can hear the door rattling.
I get up, slowly edging toward the door when another thump sounds, like they’re hitting the door with the flat of their palm, making sure to whack it as loud as they can.
It’s still early so I have no idea who could be knocking at this time.
I peer through the peephole, finding Everett on the other side, his hair a mess, his eyes bloodshot and skin pale.
“Rett?” I open the door.
He barges inside, going for the coats on the hooks. “Let’s go.” Is all he says.
I swat his hands off me as he tries to bundle me into the coat.
“Shoes, you need shoes. It’s cold.”
“Rett!” I yell. I still have my shoes on, but he hasn’t noticed since he’s rifling through my shoe rack, looking for my boots which he pulls out a moment later.
“Put these on. Now.” He demands.
“I’m wearing shoes!” I yell.
“Coat.” He continues, “It’s cold.”
“Rett, what the hell is wrong with you!?”
He freezes, spine stiffening as if he’s just realized where he is and what he is doing. If I didn’t know him better, I’d accuse him of being on something.
“Vanessa,” He turns to me, his mouth set in a grim line, “I need you to come with me. Right now.”
“Not until you tell me what the hell is going on!”
He blinks a few times as if coming to his senses and then holds up one hand, like he’s surrendering.
“There’s been an accident.”
“An accident?” I repeat.
“It’s Kolt.”
