Page 131 of Intermission
Cold washes through me like an arctic wave, contained inside my body. My muscles tremble at its force. Janey scoots closer.
My chest seizes to the point of pain, and I fist my hands in my shirt, near its source, but the sob refuses to be contained. It erupts, splitting my heart. Blood pounds through my veins, awakening my brain to the truth, but it’s a cold rush... and vicious.
He didn’t come.
He didn’t come.
I roll to my side, tucking my elbows in, clasping my hands below my chin. I’m cold. So cold.
Janey curls around me. Whines.
I cannot comfort her.
I cannot comfort me.
I curl further, deeper into my pain, until I can taste its brokenness. Defeat. Despair.
. . . and love.
Still, love.
It is rich and real.
It is wide and terrible and deep.
It is mine.
As he was.
Until eight, nine. Eight-seventeen.
It may not have been sleep that took me away from the knowledge of my surroundings and the passage of time, but when I awaken, it is to a shout of thunder. My body is curled around Janey, who has positioned herself precariously between me and the ledge’s drop.
I’m sore, spent, exhausted, and as depleted as if the very marrow has been sucked from my bones.
A strong, chill wind shakes the treetops.
When did it start raining?
My hair and arms are damp but not soaked. The heat is as gone as if it were nothing more than a figment of my imagination.
A burst of light illumines the sky. An echoingcrackfollows close behind. I flinch at the nearness of the sound.
“Janey.” I stand. “It’s time to go.”
My dog rises with a pitched yawn. I reach for my backpack, pull out the flashlight, and flip it on, roving the bank with the beam. The phone is dead, so I can’t check the time. How long have I been here? What sort of creatures watched me mourn? Watched me exhaust myself, sobbing toward sleep?
The light reveals nothing I didn’t expect, only the sheen of fresh wetness on rock and clay and parched brambles, until...
On an outcropping of rock, tiny white shapes shiver in the wind.
No.
I blink.
No. It’s too late in the season. And much too dry for the delicate spring wildflowers to survive.
But there they are, those defiant little Dutchman’s breeches, sadly hanging over the rocks on long, droopy stems. And hidden behind them is...
