Page 115 of The Lottery

“Why aren’t people looking?” I’m starting to sound angry, concern clouding my feeling of hope. “He could be out there waiting!”

“No,” Lana says as she grips me by the shoulder. “The snowstorm was too bad. If he didn’t have shelter–and we have looked in all the caves–then he froze or drowned.”

I shake my head, not ready to let go. Not again. I can’t lose him over and over again.

“Tonight, there will be a funeral.”

“No,” I say, my jaw clenched. “No!”

Lana’s voice stays measured, but I can tell by her face she’s struggling to walk me through this. Even the most adept therapist has their limits. “The members of our community need to say goodbye. I want you to be with us.”

“No,” I say again, softer this time as anger gives way to grief. “Not until I know he’s gone.”

“When you accept that he’s gone, you can honor him. Until then, he only lives through your pain.”

Her words hurt, but only because I can feel their truth. She slides her hands down from my shoulders and takes my hands.

“Come to his memorial,” she says. “Celebrate the man that delivered us.”

What she says sounds right. It’s the right thing to do.

“I can’t.”

Physically, I cannot. To go is to accept his death, and my body is unwilling.

If he is dead, so am I.

Lana leans over and kisses my forehead, then stands to go.

“Five o’clock tonight, by the ocean where we said goodbye to Nicolette. I hope you change your mind. Let yourself grieve.”

She lingers, perhaps thinking about a final urge to get me out of this room. In the end, she quietly excuses herself, leaving the plate of food.

I feel my stomach rumble, even though my throat stays constricted. Dehydrated as I am, tears well up as I think of the baby growing inside me, nurtured only by sadness. I move over to the food and force a piece of cheese into my mouth. I fight to get it down, then feel a little better. Neglecting my body these past few days certainly hasn’t helped my mood.

I try to focus on the plate, keeping my thoughts as simple as the food I am picking up and eating, fighting to ignore the world around me.

Or lack thereof.

This isn’t Mars—it’s the planet Marek built.

This isn’t my room—it’s the space Marek welcomed me into.

Even as I try to tell myself this will be my baby, I know it’s the child Marek gave me.

Everything came from him. Without him, nothing is complete.

When the plate is empty, I crawl back into bed, hoping to return to numbness.

* * *

I wake up feeling nauseous, my body processing food for the first time in a while. The onset of morning sickness isn’t helping either.

The walk to the bathroom feels endless, and by the time I’m leaning over the toilet the urge to vomit has passed. I stay there, resting my fevered head against the cool seat, staring at the shower.

He stood in that shower so many times, naked and wet, thinking of me. I sat just beyond the other wall, my insides burning for him.

I need his touch as much now as I did then, even more so.

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