Page 100 of Dirty Ink

“Yes.”

I didn’t want to say “yes”. It was the last thing in the world I wanted to say. I wanted to lie. To say no. To hang up the phone and throw it across the room and run to Rachel where everything was alright, where everything would always be alright.

“Mr Donovan,” the woman’s voice came, “I’m calling because we’ve admitted your nan, Nancy. She came complaining of chest pains and…”

The rest of the words blurred and faded. Sentences became indistinguishable from one another. Technical terms were no different in my ears from kind, gentle words of encouragement. The only thing that came clear was at the very end.

“I’m sorry to be the one to tell you, but I think it best if you get here as soon possible.”

I didn’t remember hanging up. I didn’t remember the mad dash around Rachel’s apartment. I didn’t remember stuffing mismatched socks into my backpack. I didn’t remember deciding to leave my suitcase, to leave the jacket in the hallway. I didn’t even remember whether I called Conor or Rian. Or if I’d texted.

I did remember thinking of Rachel. I remember because it was what I regretted the most. I remember that moment, halfway out the door with my passport in hand, where I considered going back to write a note. I remember thinking of her returning from her performance and finding me gone. I remember not wanting her to think the worst.

In the end, I left without a note. Because the worst had happened.

I thought when I returned that Rachel would be able to understand. It never occurred to me that she would also leave. That she would take the opportunity to be gone. That I would never even get a chance to explain, to apologise.

Getting to my nan was what mattered most in that moment and so I didn’t go back to write a note.

I remembered that. I remembered that all too well. The deciding. The closing of the door. The glancing back one last time and reassuring myself it wouldn’t matter. A note. Just like it wouldn’t matter when I finally proposed whether or not I got the dates right. Rachel wouldn’t care.

Because she loved me. Because I loved her. And she would be there. Always.

The plane ride was split between downing whiskey and throwing it up in the tiny jostling bathroom. My nan had raised me. Taken me in when my mother left. And I was an ocean away the second she needed me. I wanted to drown that pain. But I knew, I guess in the depths of my stomach, that I deserved it.

I rode the whole cab ride to the hospital at the edge of my seat. I pounded the headrests for the driver to go faster till he threatened to kick me out if I didn’t stop. I rocked back and forth after that. The driver had to tell me when we were outside the hospital. Then he had to tell me to get out. Then, when I still hadn’t moved, he had to storm out, wrench open the back door, and grab ahold of my arm.

If the glass sliding doors hadn’t been automatic, I might have stood there forever outside. A reason to not go in. A reason to stay where I was safe. Where I didn’t know what I already knew. But the doors slid open and a wave of people behind me forced me inside and the woman at the counter asked who I was there to see.

There was no avoiding it. No way not to see her eyes scrolling down the computer screen. No way to miss the slight hitch in her breath. The quick licking of her lips. The little sigh before she looked up at me.

“If you’ll just come with me.”

I couldn’t say no at that point. I couldn’t run from her as she guided me slowly, too slowly to a dim, quiet side hallway. I couldn’t refuse when she asked that I sit.

She told me that my nan had suffered a second heart attack that morning. That she didn’t suffer. That she was gone.

“How much?”

“What’s that, dear?”

I stared at the blank grey wall across from me as I repeated, “How much did I miss her by?”

The woman made a sound, something like, “Oh”, something like, “Please don’t make me answer that. No good comes of asking—”

I sent my eyes to her. “When. Did. She. Die?”

“Mr Donovan, I—”

“When? Please.”

Her shoulders sagged. She consulted her clipboard like she didn’t already know. She didn’t look at me as she said, “Miss Donovan passed about fifteen minutes ago.”

I saw myself in the doorway of Rachel’s apartment, pausing to consider a note. I felt those ticking seconds go by like freight trains in the night. Each impossibly long. Each unbearably loud. Each rattling the floor beneath my feet.

I saw the cab I missed at the foot of Rachel’s apartment, saw it drive off, its headlights fading. I felt the restlessness of my feet as I waited too long for the next one. I heard the driver’s voice, “Accident just happened up ahead. Might add a bit of time.” I heard the man’s voice behind the counter when I finally got to the airport, “Well, there’s a connecting flight in ten minutes, but there’s no way you’ll make it.” I heard the TSA agent’s voice when I tried to explain, “Everyone’s trying to make a flight, sir.” I saw the closed doors. Heard a voice who thought they were being helpful, “It’s no big deal. There’s another one out on a different airline in no more than fifteen minutes.”

In the end I heard my own voice, loud and clear in that dimly lit hallway as the nurse patted my arm.

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