Page 32 of A Me and You Thing
This is it. The end. The conclusion of life as I know it. The thought doesn’t sit well with me.
When I board the plane the next day, I’m still holding the vase in my tight fist. Once I passed through security, no one questioned me about it. I’ve never felt so dazed in all my life. I’m just a machine. Still operating, still functioning, but the lights are off and no one is home.
I guess I got what I came here for. Proof. Evidence that she’s really gone. The vase of ashes makes me feel like I’m leaving with a part of Quinn. Just not the part I want, the part I crave.
Quinn’s two-week trip is over. But the only one returning home is me.
Just me.
Chapter Ten
Sawyer
I DON’T GO up to our cabin on my way home. I’m not going to torture myself to that extent. I wish I was there with Quinn so much, my heart actually aches at the thought. I didn’t know pain like this existed. I broke my leg when I was twelve after falling out of the tree I was climbing. I thought that was the worst pain I’ve ever felt.
This pain is different. Worse. It’s raw anguish—and time, along with a little rest, will heal nothing. I think the worst part is knowing that this pain will be with me for the rest of my life. There’s no cure, no treatment.
It just is.
I drive straight home. I called my mom when I arrived at the airport. Everyone is at the house anxiously awaiting my return. I think they thought I’d be bringing Quinn home with me for a happy reunion. I wish I was.
“Quinn?” my mom had asked with hope in her tone.
“I didn’t find her.”
She was silent for much too long. “See you soon, son.” That’s all she said. What else could she say?
I’ve had little communication with anyone, other than an occasional text when I had wi-fi so I could check on my girls. At the end of each text, I wrote: No news.
That’s all I had to give them.
Now I’m sitting in my car, staring at our beach house. Quinn loved this house. Without her, it’s just an empty shell. When we bought it, she literally skipped through the hallway, twirling and laughing. She never held back when she was happy, and I loved watching her. She was so filled with life. It’s hard to believe that bright light has been extinguished.
I suppose I could go to the media and tell my story, raise a big fuss. Eleven other Americans died in the bus crash, which makes it big news. Maybe it’ll spark further investigation.
But I’ve been there, and my gut tells me it really was an accident.Nothing to see. Nothing to do.Besides, I don’t want to be a part of a sensationalized storm of news reports that will surely make something out of nothing. I don’t want Quinn’s story plastered all over the news, nor do I want my daughters exposed on TV.
I’m done.
I don’t know if I have the energy to face a houseful of people right now, but I don’t have a choice. They’re waiting to hear what I discovered. And I don’t have good news for them. I don’t have it in me to offer anyone comfort. I can’t even find it for myself. That’s why I need my daughters. They are my only comfort.
I walk in the door, feeling as though I’ve failed my family. I stare at the blank faces sitting in my living room. Red rimmed eyes and all. They look just as bad as I know I do.
Everyone’s here. My mom and dad. My sister, Adair. Charlotte and Harlan—Quinn’s mom and dad. Bree. And my baby girls.
Josie and Jordyn are sitting on the floor playing, but when they see me, they both burst into tears. If they could put their crying into words, they’d be begging for their mother, asking me where she is and why I didn’t bring her home with me. I know it. I can see it in their distraught eyes. They miss her, long for her, even more than me. I’ve disappointed them in a way I can never recover from. They’re not even one yet, and I’ve failed them.
“Come sit down, Sawyer,” Mom says, after an angst-filled hug.
I set the vase down on the table, finally able to part with it, and face my family. Their expressions as they look upon me tell me they’re shocked by my appearance. I haven’t shaved in days, no, the whole time I was gone. Did I? I don’t know. Did I shower? I can’t remember. I’m not even sure when I last ate. I don’t know anything anymore. I’m pretty sure I look like a homeless man.
I am. I have a roof over my head, but I’ve lost my home. My anchor.
My dad stands, his oxygen tank propped next to him. Tubes run from the tank and connect to his nostrils. He holds out his arms and I sink into his embrace. He pats my back several times. It takes everything inside of me to hold myself together.
“You’re not alone, son,” he tells me.
But I am. I feel so alone. I soak up his comfort and feel the last vestiges of denial slip away, leaving me raw and exposed. It was the one thing I was holding onto.
