Dany
When I lie down the sky is ugly gray and full of rain clouds. I stay inside my bedroom, buried under a stack of heavy blankets. I don’t remember the food I ate or what I did. Three days later, when I come up from the dark funk I descended into, it’s still raining.
I go to the bathroom and catch my reflection in the mirror.
I stop and stare at myself. I don’t recognize me. There’s no Dany there. I touch the dark hollows under my eyes and the sharp, too-skinny jut of my cheekbones.
I’ve lost Jack. I’ve lost my friends. And I realize Matilda was right. I’d never found me.
I stare at the blank-eyed woman in the mirror. She terrifies me. Who would love her?
A ringing chime sounds from the nightstand by my bed.
It’s my phone.
I walk to the table. The caller ID says Sylvie.
I close my eyes and almost don’t answer. But on an impulse I do.
“Hi Sylvie,” I say.
“Dany, dear,” she says.
Then she starts to cry.
“What is it?” I ask.
“Dany, we’ve been calling and texting. Where are you?”
“I’m at home,” I say. Why is she so worked up? I look at my phone display. Sixteen missed calls. Twenty-three text messages.
“Sweetheart,” she says.
My skin runs cold. I don’t like the note in her voice.
“No,” I say. I don’t want to hear whatever it is she has to say. I don’t need to know what the sixteen calls and twenty-three texts are about. I don’t want to know. “No.”
“Sweetheart. It’s Matilda.”
“No,” I cry. I fall to my knees. They crack against the wood floor. A low keening noise rises from my throat. “No.”
“Dear, I’m sorry. Matilda’s dead.”
I’m shaking my head back and forth. It’s not true. It’s not.
“That’s not true,” I say. Matilda was getting better. She was going on a second honeymoon with Steve. She was.
“I’m sorry,” says Sylvie.
“No,” I say again.
“She died in her sleep three nights ago.”
That was after chemo. After all the things I said to her. All the horrible, ugly, awful things I said. That I can never take back. God, what did I say? What did I say to her? I let out another cry. Something inside me cracks. Like an egg smashed against the side of the bowl. A sob crashes out of me, ugly and pained.
“Oh, sweetheart,” says Sylvie.
“No,” I say again. “I don’t want to. I don’t want to.” I don’t know what I’m saying. It doesn’t make sense. I’m on my knees. Like I’m praying. I’d pray on my knees for months straight if I could go back in time. If I could just take it back. I want to take it back. What did I say? What did I say to her?
“Her funeral is tomorrow. At the Grace Funeral Chapel. The service is at one. We’ll all be there.”
My sob is muffled now.
I’m lying on my side on the floor.
“Matilda would want you to come,” says Sylvie.
I swallow. My throat is raw and sore.
I’m numb now. There’s no feeling left inside. It all fell out when I cracked open.
What had I said to her? She died with my horrible words in her ears. I am an awful, horrible, awful person.
“Are you okay, dear? You’ll be there?”
“Yes,” I say. I don’t know to which. Neither? Both?
“Okay, then. See you tomorrow.”
Sylvie disconnects. I keep the phone pressed to my ear, listening to the silence. The dead tone. Tears fall down my face, but I don’t feel them. I don’t feel anything.
There’s a knock at my door. “Dany. Are you okay? I heard crying. Are you alright?”
It’s Jack. He’s worried, I can tell, but I feel nothing.
“Dany?”
I squeeze my eyes tight and tears fall out. I can’t see him. All my masks are off, and I see who I am. It’s ugly. Scared, judgmental, prideful. I can’t…I don’t want him to see me.
“Go away,” I call.
“Do you need anything? Can I do anything?” His voice is worried and kind.
I don’t deserve kind.
“Please. Go away.”
I listen. After minutes of silence he turns and walks away.
I lie on the ground for the rest of the night. Not moving. Not sleeping. Not thinking. Alone. In the dark. Just. There.