Page 88 of Reclaim Me

“No, I—” I start to protest, but the call has already ended. Bringing the phone down from my ear, I stare at it, letting all the rage of this loss and the abrupt dismissal build and build until I can’t hold it anymore and send the phone flying across the room. It slams into the rail of the hospital bed and bounces off before clattering onto the floor and sliding underneath it.

For a moment, I consider leaving it there, thinking it might be for the best, but then it starts to ring. The light from the screen illuminates the underside of the bed, drawing me in like a moth to a flame. Realizing it might be Rae calling me back, I army crawl across the floor, lying on my stomach as I reach for the phone. I find it in seconds and coax it out with my fingertips, frowning when the move results in the sudden appearance of a bottle of pills.

It comes rolling out slowly, the round, white pills chiming lightly as they bounce off the plastic walls. The welcoming notes of destruction. I grab the bottle and sit up, bracing myself against the side of the bed while the phone lies forgotten next to me. I don’t even know if it’s still ringing. That’s how focused I am on the bottle. How entranced I am by the white pills that were my introduction to addiction.

How fitting that they would appear now when I’m at my lowest.

Will refused to take any of the pain pills he was prescribed. He actually made me flush them every time his palliative care doctor would send us home with them, insisting that he’d need them, that his sobriety was the least of his concerns. I’m not sure how this bottle escaped our notice, but right now, when the pain is a blazing fire burning in my chest, and all I want is to be numb, I’m glad they did.

33

RAE

Then

There’s this moment after someone you love dies when you realize that you’ll have to spend every day of the rest of your life reminding yourself that they’re gone. That you’ll never hear their voice again, that no matter how many times you dial their number, they won’t ever answer. For me, that moment comes when my plane lands and everyone pulls out their phones, turning off airplane mode and sending texts to let the people who are waiting for them know that they made it safely.

I pull my phone out too, send a text to Zoila, Dee, Hunter and then I type out a text to Will. My finger hovers over the send button, and I’m just about to press it when my brain catches up to reality. When I realize that I could hit send, and the text would go through, but Will won’t receive it.

That reality destroys me.

It sets the tears I’ve been holding back for the week it’s taken me to get the courage to return to New Haven free. It turns me into the weird lady who’s crying on an airplane, in baggage claim, and in the passenger pick-up area that everyone sees but tries not to look at. It makes me a sad, sobbing mess that collapses into her boyfriend’s arms the moment he loads her suitcases in the back of his truck and opens them for her.

“I’m right here, baby. I’m right here,” Hunter murmurs into the rat’s nest of curls I haven’t washed in a week. He squeezes me tight, rocking me back and forth while the world moves on around us.

“Hey! You gotta keep moving,” someone shouts at us, blowing a whistle that sets Hunter in motion. He lets me go, ushering me into the truck and slamming the door once I’m inside. Through the side mirror, I watch him turn toward the guy with the whistle, and even though I can’t see his face, I can read his posture. I can see the tension lining his shoulders and the hostility in his body as he approaches the man. Despite being the authority in this space, the guy backs away, shaking his head as Hunter advances on him, heedless of the fact that he’s got his hands up in a universal sign of surrender.

I roll my window down just in time to hear the man tell Hunter that he doesn’t want a problem. Hunter puts one thick finger into the man’s chest.

“Blow that fucking whistle at me again, and you’ll have more than a problem,” he growls. “You think I give a shit if people are upset about me spending five seconds comforting the love of my life when she’s just flown in for her brother’s funeral?”

“Sir, I understand, but this is a pickup zone. It’s my job to keep things moving.”

“Did you hear what I just said? I don’t give a fuck about your job. I give a fuck about her.” He hooks his thumb over his shoulder, pointing at me. “Your job description and your whistle don’t mean shit to me.” The pickup area is loud, filled with the sounds of idling engines, squealing brakes, and more, but Hunter is loud. Loud enough to draw the attention of several people standing around. One lady, a wiry, petite redhead in a yoga set, starts to look around, probably trying to find security, which is when I decide to hop out of the truck and intervene.

“Hunter, you’ve gotta stop,” I tell him, placing a staying hand on his shoulder. When he turns around to look at me, his eyes are wide and wild, filled with anger that only dissipates a little when he realizes that it’s me. “Please,” I plead, tears born of fear and exhaustion brimming in my eyes, “I just want to go home.” My hand slides down his arm until our fingers are linked together. “Can you please just take me home?”

For a moment, I think he’s going to shrug me off, that’s just how pissed he is, how far outside of himself he is, but then he calms. His eyes focus on my face, and he pushes out a steadying breath as he squeezes my fingers. Then he nods, and everyone around us, but especially the object of his aggression, breathes a sigh of relief.

“Yeah, Sunshine.”

The drive from the airport is quiet and tense and sad, but Hunter holds my hand the whole way, which forces me to remember that I’m not alone. He’s in this with me. He’s sad like I’m sad, hurt like I’m hurt, but because he’s here and we’re together, I’m not alone in any of it.

When I realize that we’re heading to my house and not Hunter’s, I break the silence. “Why aren’t we going to your place?”

Hunter glances at me. “You said you wanted to go home.”

“I know, but not—” I swallow, pushing the words out past the lump of emotion in my throat that’s inspired by the thought of going back to the house where my brother died. “I can’t go there. I don’t want to go there. I want to go to our home.”

It’s the last place I had good memories with Will. Where we celebrated my graduation from college and hugged each other goodbye when I left for New York, it’s where I want to be because it’s where Hunter is, where he’s been since Will left, and I want to sit in our tree and cry.

“Okay,” he says, changing lanes and heading in the direction of his house while I close my eyes, letting my brain wander from one heart breaking thought to the next until they’re forced to pop open again.

“Why didn’t you tell me it had gotten worse?” I whisper, voicing the question I’ve been asking myself since I got the call that changed my life. I’ve been meaning to ask Hunter, but between the crying and funeral arrangements—most of which he has handled—I could never find the time.

Hunter’s knuckles bulge as he grips the steering wheel. “He didn’t want you to know. When they told him it was in his lungs, I asked him to let me call you, to explain that his prognosis had changed, but he said if I did you’d drop everything and come home, and he didn’t want you to do that.”

More tears. This time, because Will’s certainty in my dedication to him is a direct affront to the shaky commitment I’ve demonstrated over the past few months. I’ve called and texted and checked in after every appointment. I even came home right after the cancer was confirmed. But I wasn’t committed to him. I wasn’t here for him, not the way I was for Mommy. Not the way he would have been here if it was me.

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