I don’t know where else to go while I wait for Sammy to arrive, except the cottage. Mads has left for a run around the island—though this probably means more of a hike, since the trails are pretty primitive, as I discovered myself this morning—so luckily I’ll have some privacy. Even with some breakfast and coffee, my stomach feels hollow. And my nerves are on edge. In the quick glimpse I got of Sammy this morning, I saw just how rough he is. I’m not sure how I’ll feel about him, face-to-face. Or how wise it is to try to incite him. His father’s in prison, right? Anthony doesn’t know about people like this. I don’t, either. Anthony wants this to feel real. But this isn’t a film we’re shooting. We’re recording a reality we have no ability to control. I’m afraid Sammy might give us more than Anthony anticipates.
I know it’s not there, but once I’m inside, I kneel beside the bed, searching reflexively in my bag for my phone, compelled by a sudden urge to hear my mother’s voice. It’s such a sweet, familiar voice. Like she can only say fragrant words like “strawberries” and “heather.” The desire sharpens into an ache. I want to hear that voice more than anything, even though she’ll be furious I abandoned her in the city after she made such an effort to come find me. But as my hand claws the sandy bottom of the bag I begin to wonder what I’m doing. Do I think that I can will my phone to reappear?
I dig through my clothes one more time, searching in vain for an errant Kleenex to wipe the tears away before they streak down my cheeks. It catches me by surprise when I let out a small sob, remembering the look on my mother’s face when I said goodbye to her in New York. She’d walked with me through SoHo as I dropped off the puppies, then had even ridden the subway with me out to Brooklyn. There hadn’t been an argument, only disbelief. She’d told me she would call me the next day to arrange a lunch date. Outside Ben and Sofìa’s apartment, I’d hugged her, and told her again that I loved her, but that I was going. I wouldn’t be here for another lunch. She didn’t respond. And I’m having a hard time recalling what she said as her goodbye. What I remember is how she had insisted on standing on that corner and seeing me safely inside the building before she left. As if to protect me. As if that would be enough. As if the things threatening me were right there on the sidewalk, and she could put her body in front of them. It’s not Anthony, though, that I need protection from. Or his film. It’s me.
I’m the one hurting myself. I’m the one making reckless decisions. Why can’t I just stop? But it’s not that simple. Leaving home was the best thing I could have done for myself, for my sanity. If I had stayed, who knows what would have happened? My relationship with Tucker had fractured the minute my father stopped breathing. Suddenly Tucker was just a stranger who either couldn’t understand or couldn’t handle the depth of my grief. And I hated him, immediately and irrevocably.
I run my thumb along the bumpy scar on my index finger. Following that pale white line, I skip down to my ring finger. My pinkie. The holes where the stitches thread themselves through my skin haven’t quite healed yet. If I focus, I can discern each individual mark. This must be what Tucker’s scar looks like, too.
I remember the look of horror on his face, the alarm etched into his forehead, when he’d seen the blood. He had been so understanding after Dad’s death. You would have thought he was a therapist, not the assistant manager of a sporting goods store. He kept saying, “Take all the time you need.” No matter what I screamed at him, he just said, “Take all the time you need.”
I still don’t know what I did. Not exactly. I remember him telling me that it was okay to be angry with my father—that’s how he thought I felt, angry at my father—because suicide is a selfish act, and then I remember the satisfying explosion of glass against the wall. I remember Tucker saying, “My lamp!” I remember the blood on my hand, tracing crimson lines down my forearm, and the realization, even at the time, that I was grateful somehow for the pain. And then taking aim at his face with a swipe of my hand, and the sensation of my nails snagging on his cheek. After that, Tucker’s benevolent concern seemed to dissolve into the ether, replaced by a much more comprehensible raw fury. As he drove us to the hospital, he kept muttering, Fucking bitch. It took him forty-eight hours before he finally said it again. “Take all the time you need.” At that point, though, I got the feeling he was talking to himself.
No, I had needed to leave. Mom will watch this film and see who I am now. Maybe it will help her to finally understand me. But it’s also going to devastate her when she sees how ineffectual she’s been at keeping all the demons at bay. Still, maybe that’s why I’m here. Maybe that’s what I’m learning to do. All by myself.