Frayed Page 11

  Sarah was so focused on what she was doing. I thought, at first, I might be imagining it, but I swear her eyes were alight with such a passion. It was as if there were nowhere else on earth she would rather be. She continued ahead with the dissection, labeling body parts and identifying vital organs. Occasionally, she’d look to me and offer up the scalpel. Each time I would raise my hands and utter an, “I’m good.” And each time, the corners of her mouth would lift in satisfaction. She was only asking to be polite; she didn’t really want to give up her control.

  And that, right there, is the sum of Sarah. I didn’t realize it at the time, but my willingness to give her what she wanted without even the slightest hint of protest, was the final nail in my coffin.

  Most relationships begin slowly and evolve over time. Two people make a connection, and the intensity builds as they get to know each other. There was nothing typical about our relationship. The only rules Sarah followed were her own.

  After that day in class, Sarah would seek me out. I’d find her waiting for me by my locker or hovering by the classroom door. She went from being someone I didn’t notice to someone I couldn’t miss. She was anywhere and everywhere I was. At the time, it never struck me as odd, but now, thinking back on it, I can’t remember a time after that day in the lab where I didn’t see or talk to Sarah. Once Sarah decided something, she never backed down. She decided on us, and so us it was.

  I can’t say I minded much at the time. I was a hormonal teenage boy who was steadily rounding all the bases and hitting home runs within a month’s time. I let my anatomy have the final say, and there were no complaints.

  At first.

  25

  I step up onto my faded black futon, knock three times on the ceiling, and then I wait. Three knocks is code for “I have something to tell you.” Lydia invented our secret language. One knock for a greeting, two knocks for “I’m running late” (she uses this one the most), four knocks for “Are you watching Grey’s Anatomy right now? Can you believe this shit?” The person on the receiving end always responds with a single knock to acknowledge the message. Lydia is usually the giver and I’m the receiver. This is the first time I’ve used the code, and I find myself wishing it was for much more pleasant reasons.

  Standing here on the collapsed cushion of my couch, I cock my head and crane my neck in an ill attempt to catch her response. If she heard me, she’s not in a hurry to respond. In real time, about forty-five seconds have passed since my knuckles rapped out a message on the ceiling, but in my head, it feels much longer.

  Lydia told me earlier that she had things to do today so she may not even be in her apartment at the moment. I know that’s a very real possibility, but I can’t shake the feeling that she’s up there and is just ignoring me. Maybe she doesn’t want to talk. Maybe she’s having second thoughts about us. Or maybe she hasn’t heard me at all. She could be in her apartment with headphones on and missed my request altogether. I should try again and maybe knock louder this time.

  Or is that too desperate? What if she heard me, but she wants me to think she hasn’t? If I knock again, I’d just be embarrassing myself and creating an even more awkward situation.

  To knock or not to knock. Decisions, decisions!

  It’s been a five full minutes and still no word from Lydia. She’s probably not even up there. I’ll give it some time and then try again.

  I decide to climb down from the furniture and make some tea to pass the time. Just as my foot connects with the ground, I hear it. Ever so faintly, but very much there.

  A knock.

  It took Lydia approximately seven minutes to make it down to my apartment. I stood in the open doorway waiting for her. At first, I worried that might make me appear too eager, but then I decided I didn’t give a shit. After all, I am eager. I have a lot to share with her, and I’m not really sure how she’ll take it.

  She’s breathless when she stands outside my open doorway. “Hey, Owen,” she exhales. “You rang?” she says in her deepest Lurch voice, all while trying and failing to stifle her laughter. I can’t help but join her, grateful for the distraction.

  “Hey, thanks for coming down. I was just making some tea. Would you like some?” I look anywhere but at her eyes and see her nod her head. With my back to her, I amble to the kitchen to retrieve some mugs. Keeping my hands busy is the only way to stop them from shaking.

  I take for granted that she’s right behind me, but when I turn my head, I find her in my living room. She’s met me at the door a few times, but this is the first time she’s ever been inside my apartment—aside from the time she let herself in to hide my note, that is.

  I watch as she floats through the room examining every crack in the mortar, every water ring on my end table. She runs her index finger along my dad’s cedar chest, probing the old metal hinges as she passes over them. It’s as if she’s building a theory in her head about me, taking inventory of my living space to create my backstory.

  She looks up at me, a hint of a smile playing on her lips, and slowly makes her way over to me. Her hips sway as she places each foot purposely in front of the other.

  “Here, let me help you,” she says as she takes the mugs from my hands. I hadn’t even realized I was holding them out in front of me. What’s happened to me? No matter what situation I’ve found myself in, I’ve always been able to maintain my control. With Lydia, all it takes is one look and I’m at her mercy.

  We take our tea over to my poor excuse for a sofa and sit in silence for a beat before Lydia speaks.

  “So what did you want to tell me?”

  In that moment, I wish I had something, anything else to say. Talking to Lydia about Sarah just feels wrong on so many levels, but if I want her to trust me with her secrets, then I have to share mine first. There’s no easy way to say it so I decide to just rip the Band-Aid off.

  “I’m engaged.”

  26

  With one pull on the pin, I detonate the grenade and watch it explode behind the green and specks of gold in Lydia’s eyes. She takes a quick intake of breath but says nothing.

  “Sarah and I met in high school. We dissected a frog together in freshman biology and were inseparable after that. She was my first date, my first kiss, my first…Anyway, we dated all through high school and went to the same college.” I’m rambling, but I’m way too nervous to care. I just need to get this over with. “Marriage was the next logical step, but you know it’s funny. When I think back on it now, I don’t remember ever asking her to marry me. She was just suddenly wearing a ring. She said yes to a question I never asked, or maybe it was me who said yes and her who never asked.”

  My eyes zero in on a small dent in one of the wood planks on the floor, but in my head I see Sarah looking at me with those challenging eyes of hers. Of course, it would be just like her to make me her fiancé without checking in with me first. I can’t believe how blind I was.

  I’m lost in thought, but Lydia’s voice brings me back to reality.

  “Wait, Owen, you said you’re engaged as though you still are, but you’re talking about Sarah in the past tense. Are you still together?”

  I look up to find her eyes a mixture of concern and confusion. It’s impossible to miss the moisture that’s beginning to well up as she considers what all of this information means and how it affects us.

  “Sarah is dead.” I’ve never been one for tact.

  “Oh God, Owen! I’m so sorry. When did it happen? How?” She takes my hand and rests it on her lap. I’m dropping bomb after bomb on her, and she’s still trying to comfort me. She’s too good for me.

  I untangle our hands and run mine furiously through my hair as I blurt out, “It’s my fault.”

  “I’m sure that’s not true! Why would you say something like that?”

  “It’s true. It’s my fault, Lydia. Sarah’s dead because I killed her.”

  I see it then. The shift in her body. It’s not hard to miss. There’s nothing subtle about the way she moves
away from me, uncrossing her legs and angling them toward the door. Fear has taken the place of the concern that was in her eyes only moments ago. She’s ready to run if she has to.

  “W-What are you saying, Owen?” she asks on a shaky breath.

  I’ve told this story several times—to the first responders, to the police, and finally to my and Sarah’s parents. Even though it feels like I’m reading a script, it never gets any easier. I feel my soul disengage from my body. It’s the only way for me to recount the story. I can’t look her in the eyes, so I keep mine fixed on the floor. In a monotone voice, I hear myself utter the words as I relive them inside my head.

  27

  It happened in October. The fall in New England was completely unreliable. Some years it was warm for most of the season, feeling like a continuation of the summer. And other years it felt more like winter came early. This particular season started off warm, but by mid-October, a chill had begun to stake its claim. It wouldn’t be long before the first snowfall.

  I had just taken my English Lit midterm and wasn’t feeling all that great about it. Sarah and I were sitting on the bed in my dorm room discussing the housing market. Sarah was always in planning mode, and mapping out our future was her favorite pastime. She was sitting with her left leg curled up underneath her and spread out in front of her were several listings for houses that her realtor had sent over. We were in our senior year of undergrad at Yale and had planned to get married that summer. I still had several more years left in my dentistry degree, but Sarah felt there was no need to wait until my schooling was complete. After all, her trust fund had come of age a few years ago and was ripe for the taking. Her eyes were alighted with fire as she talked about the necessity of four bedrooms to make room for all the children she was sure we’d have. I had a hard time concentrating on anything other than my failed midterm, but I did my best to mask my worry. I didn’t want to dampen her spirits, although I’m not sure that was ever possible.

  Sarah noticed I was distracted. “Hey, O, can you give me five?” That was her unique way of asking me to pay attention. I can still hear the singsong melody of Sarah’s voice as she uttered the little verse she loved to say, “Two eyes on me, two ears tuned in, and one closed mouth. Five simple ways to show me you’re listening.”

  I needed a change of scenery. I knew my friend, Duncan, was having a party so I suggested we make an appearance. Sarah wasn’t thrilled about the idea, but she said she could tell I needed to loosen up, so she agreed to go.

  Duncan’s parties were legendary. Everyone and everything were welcome. His parents were out of town, and the winding drive leading up to their mansion was packed with cars. Once we squeezed my old trusty Civic into a space, we linked arms and made our way up to the guesthouse where Duncan lived.

  Over the next few hours, we mingled with friends and had a few drinks—beer for me and soda or water for Sarah. We spent the evening laughing and feeling carefree. It was exactly what we both needed.

  I was a few points ahead in a lively game of beer pong when I noticed Sarah making her way through the crowd over to me, a worried look plastered on her face.

  When she finally reached me, she was breathless. “Owen, I think we should get out of here.” Her eyes were searching mine, peeling apart my drunken haze in search of a small shred of reason.

  Blinking rapidly to try to clear the fog, I let my eyes roam around the open floor plan and quickly realized the party had begun to spiral out of control. There were so many bodies crammed into the space, it made the vast interior of Duncan’s home feel tiny and closed in.

  Without warning, the breezy and relaxed atmosphere transformed into turbulence and chaos. Sarah was right. It was time for us to leave.

  Taking her tiny hand in mine, I navigated us through the crowded living room as quickly as I could. Once we were outside on the porch, we both took deep breaths, inhaling the frigid air into our lungs and exhaling with relief to be on the other side of the door.

  There are parts of that night that are so vivid in my mind and others that are murky at best. I know the basic facts. I gave Sarah my keys because I had too much to drink. While we were at the party, it had begun to sleet making the roads a bit slick. Duncan lived just outside of town with lots of dark and twisty roads separating us from the rest of civilization. I remember bits and pieces of the drive before my whole world fell apart. We were talking about how strongly connected we were to each other and how our lives had been so intertwined since we first met. The radio was turned on at some point, and Sarah tapped her fingers in time with Sia’s “Cheap Thrills.” It was all so carefree, until it wasn’t.

  A flash of white on the road. A deer frozen in the headlights of our car. Sarah trying to maneuver around it. The wheels of my Honda skidding out on the ice. The deafening sound of metal crunching as the driver’s side door made impact with a tree. Sarah’s turquoise eyes, so full of life only a moment ago—now staring lifelessly at me, through me.

  I don’t know how she forgot to put on her seatbelt. Sarah was always so cautious. It doesn’t make any sense aside from the sickening realization that in her distracted state of ensuring that I was secured in my seat, she neglected herself.

  My decisions put us on that winding road during a sleet storm. I suggested we go to the party. I drank too much alcohol forcing her to drive. I was too inebriated to take responsibility for myself, and Sarah put my safety above her own.

  Thinking back on that night, I am only certain of two things. Sarah is dead and it’s my fault.

  28

  Sometime during the course of telling that story, the air in my apartment had gone stale. I try and fail to suck in a cleansing breath, attempting to push away the darkness that always overwhelms me whenever I let my mind drift back to that night.

  I look down and see Lydia’s hand trembling inside mine and wonder at what point did she decide to grasp it and why can’t I feel a thing? My entire body is numb. Sarah is my least favorite topic of conversation, but no matter how hard I try, I can never avoid her for long. She always has a way of infiltrating my thoughts, my life.

  I hear Lydia’s shaky breath beside me, and together we even out our breathing until our inhales and exhales are synchronized. I tentatively glance over at her and find tears running in thick streams down her face. There’s a spot on her jeans where a few rogue tears have dripped off her chin. She looks utterly destroyed. This is where things will end for us. End before they even fucking began. And I can’t even feel sad about it because it’s what I deserve.

  My fiancée is dead because of me. I am not worthy of finding happiness.

  I’m sure she’s trying to get her thoughts in order and working on a way to let me down gently, but I can’t bear to hear those words leave her lips. So I decide on a preemptive strike.

  “Listen, Lydia, I understand. Thinking you could stick around after hearing all of that is way too much to ask. I don’t blame you. I’m a murderer.”

  “Don’t!” She speaks that one word with so much severity, the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. She swipes at her eyes, wiping away the evidence of how my story affected her. When she focuses on me, a look of sheer determination has replaced the sorrow that was there before. “Owen, listen to me. I mean, really listen to what I’m about to say.” She turns to face me and takes both of my hands in hers. Her fiery gaze cements me in place. “You did not kill Sarah. It was a horrible accident, but it was NOT your fault. You are not a murderer and I never want to hear that word out of your mouth again. Do you hear me?”

  These are words that I’ve heard more times than I can count. First, from the arriving officer at the scene of the accident, then from my parents when I was lying in a hospital bed. Sarah’s own mom and dad declared my innocence at the funeral home and again when I paid them a visit to say goodbye. Even my asshole brother made a point to tell me not to beat myself up about it. I’ve been told time and time again that I am not to blame for Sarah’s death, but I never believed a wo
rd. Not from anyone. Until now.

  Her words give me pause. Maybe she’s right. Is it possible? Can I let myself off the hook so easily? Maybe I played a small role in an accident. A horrible, gut-wrenching casualty. But still an accident, nonetheless.

  Lydia takes the sides of my face in her hands and tips my chin, forcing our eyes to lock. “You are not the monster you think you are, Owen. I haven’t known you long, but I can clearly see that you are good, and I’m not going anywhere.” Her words are filled with sincerity and dripping with desire. Her eyes drop to my mouth and she unwittingly licks her lips in response. She’s leaning toward me, feeling the ever-present pull between us. It only takes a second and then her lips find mine. She’s tentative at first, kissing me like she’s afraid I might break. But that’s where she’s wrong. I know what it feels like to be broken. I’ve been living that way for nearly three years. It’s only when Lydia kisses me that I begin to feel whole again.

  My fingers wind into her hair and I pull her into me, deepening our kiss. She lets out a soft moan in response, and I take that as my cue.

  29

  Sunlight filters through the cubed glass windows in my apartment. We’re lying in a tangle on my futon. A thin blanket covers our bodies, concealing the nakedness underneath.