Page 78 of Midnight Valentine
He says, “Look. I don’t know what the hell the root of all this is, this problem he has with you. All I know is that the thing that breaks you is the only thing that can put you back together.”
If that’s true, all the antidepressants in the world can’t help me.
I’m overwhelmed with sadness. “I told him to stay away from me, Coop. And I called him a coward.”
“Did you mean it?”
My throat tightens. The hot sting of tears prickles the corners of my eyes. “No. I was just…afraid, I guess. Afraid and confused.”
Coop settles his hand on my shoulder. “Call him. Leave him a message. Write him an email. Tell him what you just told me. Please, do it as a personal favor. I think it would help.”
Music swells inside the sanctuary. People begin to sing, their voices carrying past the closed doors. It’s a hymn, one I recognize well.
When I start to laugh—softly, brokenly—Coop asks, “What’s funny?”
“This song.”
“‘Amazing Grace’ is funny?”
“My mother sang it at my wedding.”
Coop frowns. “I don’t get it.”
I sigh, shaking my head. “That makes two of us. C’mon, let’s go inside before Suzanne sends out a search party.”
I link my arm through his, and we walk through a pair of double doors into the sanctuary. It’s packed with people. Everyone is standing, singing “Amazing Grace” so robustly, it’s like a group audition for a reality show about church choirs. I find Suzanne in the front row and give her a quick smile as I slip in beside her.
Standing behind a wood podium on a large, carpeted dais, the pastor is a woman in her mid-fifties with beautiful silvery-white hair. When the hymn ends and everyone takes their seats, she surveys the crowd with an air of serenity. Then she speaks in a voice that carries to the last row.
“Love isn’t born of the flesh. It’s born of the spirit, and so can transcend the bonds of flesh, and life, and time. The poet Rumi said, ‘Don’t grieve. Anything you lose comes around in another form.’”
It isn’t until every head in the room turns toward me and two hundred pairs of startled eyes fix on my face that I realize I’ve begun maniacally laughing.
21
When I burst through the outer church doors, the sun has vanished behind clouds, and it’s begun to rain. I walk home barefoot, carrying my heels, wet and miserable, ignoring the constant buzzing of my cell phone in my handbag and the much louder buzzing inside my head.
Theo’s note was referring to my text about closed doors. The bible quote has nothing to do with Cass, and neither does the hymn. Or the sermon. Or the seventeenth of May. They’re all coincidences.
Sure they are. And I’m Elvis Presley.
Shut up.
You shut up!
I take it as evidence of my mental deterioration that my nagging inner voice now has split personalities that are arguing with each other. Magical thinking has dug its tentacles into my brain. No matter how many times I tell myself it’s all bullshit, that Dr. Singer’s explanation is valid and my grief is making connections where there are none, my heart doesn’t care.
My weak, stupid heart. And my poor, broken brain. Between the two of them, it’s a miracle I’ve lasted this long.
By the time I get home, I’ve got a bunch of messages on my voicemail from Suzanne. I’m not surprised. I ran from the church as if I were being chased by lions. I text her an apology, say I’m not feeling well, and make a joke about the shadow of the cross. Then I shut off my phone, strip out of my wet clothes, and crawl into bed.
I’m still there when the cloud-shrouded sun sinks into the ocean, turning the room from gray to black.
Black as his hair. Black as his eyes. Black as the shriveled-up husk of my heart.
The thing about depression is its weight. It’s so damn heavy. Every breath is a fight. Every step takes so much effort. It’s like trying to move through wet sand. It’s so much easier to lie down and let the sand fill your mouth and ears and eyes, to let it seep into your soul and obliterate all the nothingness.
As I lie in darkness, sinking into that sweet relief of letting go, I keep hearing Coop’s words.
