The house is too quiet. I rarely had the TV on before she came to stay, but I got used to it. A flick of the remote button takes me back to one of the streaming sites, and I hit play on a random show. I’m not interested in watching anything, but the noise is welcome. I sit in the recliner where I always did before she was here. It strikes me that I never sit in it anymore, choosing the couch to be near her instead.
Rogue is out running around somewhere but I’m sure she’ll be back soon. I sit there mindlessly watching the screen, the wall, the lake through the window. It’s black and calm. Snow begins to fall, and the house grows dark as the light fades from the sky. I barely notice until I try to pour another glass by the glow of the TV.
Rogue comes running in, and the way she explores the house looking for Silver breaks my heart a little more. “Just you and me again, girl,” I tell her, scratching behind her ears. She needs to be fed which gets me to my feet. After I fill her bowl and freshen her water, the sight of the gift on the table draws me in.
I slowly untie the ribbon and run my hand over the canvas bag. The fabric is worn in places, softened by age and use, the color faded to a dull green. When I loosen the ties that hold it shut, a familiar smell strikes me like a fist, a woody scent mixed with varnish and oil. The realization of what it is hits me before I see the beautiful antique bamboo fishing rod almost identical to the one my grandfather had.
A card lies on top of it with a few words scrawled in Silver’s handwriting.
Bends but doesn’t break. Like you.
My chest tightens into a knot, and I read the short note again. And again. She didn’t just hunt down a pole like my grandfather’s, she remembered what he told me was great about it, about the lesson he used it to teach.
Maybe I’m not completely broken, but I’m bent too far torecover. I pull out the rod to see the reel is already mounted. The cane is a warm brown, stained darker at the nodes. I run my thumb along the cork handle. It’s compressed where a hand or many hands have held it over the years. The reel turns with a quiet hum when I test it. Someone took care of this, loved it, and it shows.
I picture Silver looking through shops and online stores, searching until she found something close to the photo on my mantel. That hits me harder than anything else. The care in it. The love in it.
After looking over all the parts, I place the rod and reel back into the canvas and tie the cords. My phone beeps with a text message.
Silver
I’m here safe.
I’m shocked how much time has gone by since she left. My fingers hover over the phone screen. I want to tell her I was wrong. I want to tell her to come back. I want to spend the evening with her in my arms and the night with her in my bed.
I died for loving you. Are you happy?
Me
Good. I love the gift. Thank you. You shouldn’t have gone to so much trouble.
Silver
You aren’t trouble to me.
I sit heavily and drop my head into my hands. All I can do is breathe through the unbelievable ache of knowing I’m loved when I didn’t mean to be.
The days blur together over the next week even though I keep the alcohol to a minimum. Instead, I occupy myself with projects and repairs that have been put off while I was busy. I’m trying not to think. Not about Isla, or Silver, or my future that stretches out in front of me with nothing but days alone.
Anger keeps me moving as well. Anger at myself for failing Isla and even anger at Silver, unfair as it is. Because I’d grown used to a life alone, almost contented with it before she came along. Mostly, I’m just pissed at the whole goddamn world for the way things have to be.
Arlow calls to let me know Silver will be staying with them while she searches for a new house. At least she’ll be okay. He tries to get me to spend Christmas with them but doesn’t push too hard. He knows I never really celebrated it, and he was the same before Calli came along. Silver texts to say Merry Christmas and I do the same. Arlow texts to check on me and I tell him I’m fine.
The truth is I’m struggling. The nightmares don’t stop. Every night I’m either carrying Silver through flames or trying to keep her from drowning while Isla laughs and asks, “Are you happy?” My mind has somehow turned Isla into a villain, and I hate that most of all. That wasn’t her. She wouldn’t want to torment me.
Old thoughts start to seep in. How long do I really want to go on like this? What’s the point of it? There’s no one counting on me to stay alive. I know better than to indulgethose thoughts, and I combat them by picturing Lacey’s smiling face. I could never leave her with no family. I could never leave Silver or my friends with the guilt of wondering if they could’ve done something to keep me here.
The resentment I feel toward them about that is ridiculous. If they didn’t care so much, if they wouldn’t be hurt, I’d be free to escape the endless days. How can I mourn a life without love but also see their love as an obstacle?
Three days after Christmas, I send a text to Arlow.
Me
I need to borrow a hundred dollars.
Barely ten minutes later, I get a reply.
Arlow
