the river?”
“You think he could?” I asked.
Brow furrowed, eyes narrowed, he cocked his head to the side and considered me. “Most men could kill, but it’d take a bastard and a half to do something like that.”
“Could he?”
“Can’t say he couldn’t,” he said. “Don’t seem like the type. But hell, most of ’em don’t, do they?”
I get most depressed when I’m lying alone in the dark, tossing and turning in my uncomfortable bed, unable to sleep. My little life closes in on me and I feel the full weight of the futility I’m only vaguely aware of most other times.
It happened later that night in my dark bedroom, as lightening from an approaching rainstorm intermittently, momentarily blinded me as it shot through the windows and lit up the small room. The brilliant light was followed by a low rolling thunder in the distance.
It was times like these, when the darkness descended, that I relived my failures, mistakes, and regrets in obsessive detail, wondering what I might have done differently, wishing I could take back so many decisions, imagining where the path not taken would’ve led.
I never felt more alone or lonely than I did in moments like this. Thinking about all the ways I had managed to alienate others, isolate myself, all the choices away from instead of toward friends, family, and lovers. Why did I need so much space? It was a slow suicide, a potentially fatal flaw I still didn’t fully understand.
Anna’s pregnant, I thought. Mom’s dying. I’m utterly and completely alone.
This nearly always happened when I laid in bed for too long unable to fall asleep or when I fell asleep only to wake a little while later. I felt myself being pulled down—not into the underworld of dreams and rest but into a deep abyss of darkness and despair.
Everybody saw through me. No wonder I was all alone. I deserved to be. I was every bad thing anyone had ever thought I was, and so much they were unaware of. I was a phony, a fake, a hollow, shallow person. Nothing meant anything. Nothing mattered—and what if it did? Was God something I created to give me a sense of purpose, some sort of order to the chaos, some semblance of meaning to the madness.
Even as I felt the emptiness, I knew it wouldn’t last. I knew I would feel differently in the morning, but so deep was my sense of futility that I couldn’t help but believe that what I was experiencing now was reality, the rest of the time a carefully constructed facade to help me get through the day.
Eventually the first few raindrops pelted the thin glass panes of my windows and pinged off the tin roof, followed by a downpour that brought release, relief, and finally sleep.
I hadn’t been asleep long when the first call came.
“You the one asking about Mike?”
The hoarse, twangy female voice was coarse in a way only alcohol, cigarettes, and hard rural living could make it.
“Who?”
“Mike. Mikey. Michael Jensen.”
“Yeah. Who’s this?”
“Someone who knows.”
“Knows what?”
“What he’s capable of.”
“What’s that?”
“Just ’cause a man goes to prison for one thing don’t mean he don’t do other, worser things.”
“Like what?”
“Ain’t gittin’ into ’pecifics. Just sayin’ don’t believe he ain’t dangerous. I was with him. I know. I know firsthand what he’s like.”
“Did he hit you?”
“No,” she said. “He beat the shit out of me.”
“Did he rape you?”
“Ain’t rape when it’s your wife. Least that’s what he used to say. Shit. I didn’t mean to … Fuck … I’ve said too much.”
She hung up.
The second call came a few minutes later.
Chapter Twenty-six
A fter being sent home from the hospital to die over six months ago, Mom had lived much longer than anyone imagined she would.
Now she was being put back in the hospital.
Jake had called and asked me to meet him there. As much as he wanted to be with Mom, he hated hospitals and was extremely uncomfortable in
“You think he could?” I asked.
Brow furrowed, eyes narrowed, he cocked his head to the side and considered me. “Most men could kill, but it’d take a bastard and a half to do something like that.”
“Could he?”
“Can’t say he couldn’t,” he said. “Don’t seem like the type. But hell, most of ’em don’t, do they?”
I get most depressed when I’m lying alone in the dark, tossing and turning in my uncomfortable bed, unable to sleep. My little life closes in on me and I feel the full weight of the futility I’m only vaguely aware of most other times.
It happened later that night in my dark bedroom, as lightening from an approaching rainstorm intermittently, momentarily blinded me as it shot through the windows and lit up the small room. The brilliant light was followed by a low rolling thunder in the distance.
It was times like these, when the darkness descended, that I relived my failures, mistakes, and regrets in obsessive detail, wondering what I might have done differently, wishing I could take back so many decisions, imagining where the path not taken would’ve led.
I never felt more alone or lonely than I did in moments like this. Thinking about all the ways I had managed to alienate others, isolate myself, all the choices away from instead of toward friends, family, and lovers. Why did I need so much space? It was a slow suicide, a potentially fatal flaw I still didn’t fully understand.
Anna’s pregnant, I thought. Mom’s dying. I’m utterly and completely alone.
This nearly always happened when I laid in bed for too long unable to fall asleep or when I fell asleep only to wake a little while later. I felt myself being pulled down—not into the underworld of dreams and rest but into a deep abyss of darkness and despair.
Everybody saw through me. No wonder I was all alone. I deserved to be. I was every bad thing anyone had ever thought I was, and so much they were unaware of. I was a phony, a fake, a hollow, shallow person. Nothing meant anything. Nothing mattered—and what if it did? Was God something I created to give me a sense of purpose, some sort of order to the chaos, some semblance of meaning to the madness.
Even as I felt the emptiness, I knew it wouldn’t last. I knew I would feel differently in the morning, but so deep was my sense of futility that I couldn’t help but believe that what I was experiencing now was reality, the rest of the time a carefully constructed facade to help me get through the day.
Eventually the first few raindrops pelted the thin glass panes of my windows and pinged off the tin roof, followed by a downpour that brought release, relief, and finally sleep.
I hadn’t been asleep long when the first call came.
“You the one asking about Mike?”
The hoarse, twangy female voice was coarse in a way only alcohol, cigarettes, and hard rural living could make it.
“Who?”
“Mike. Mikey. Michael Jensen.”
“Yeah. Who’s this?”
“Someone who knows.”
“Knows what?”
“What he’s capable of.”
“What’s that?”
“Just ’cause a man goes to prison for one thing don’t mean he don’t do other, worser things.”
“Like what?”
“Ain’t gittin’ into ’pecifics. Just sayin’ don’t believe he ain’t dangerous. I was with him. I know. I know firsthand what he’s like.”
“Did he hit you?”
“No,” she said. “He beat the shit out of me.”
“Did he rape you?”
“Ain’t rape when it’s your wife. Least that’s what he used to say. Shit. I didn’t mean to … Fuck … I’ve said too much.”
She hung up.
The second call came a few minutes later.
Chapter Twenty-six
A fter being sent home from the hospital to die over six months ago, Mom had lived much longer than anyone imagined she would.
Now she was being put back in the hospital.
Jake had called and asked me to meet him there. As much as he wanted to be with Mom, he hated hospitals and was extremely uncomfortable in
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