that moment, either. Behind his eyes, there was no trace of the Gary she had fallen in love with and married.
“Gary?” she said again, as though trying to wake him gently from a bad dream.
He raised the jagged edge of broken glass and took a step toward her. She ran out of the apartment, terrified.
She never forgot his eyes: black and hollow, like empty, shadowy sockets.
They started grief counseling the following week. There were tearful, desperate apologies, and the rages gradually became rarer, briefer, more controlled. Eventually they stopped altogether—the boundless anger replaced by simple sadness. Gary was himself again, a mourning version of himself to be sure, but recognizable. Katherine believed they might be okay.
And then, back in October, once they’d returned from their weekend away, it seemed all the warning signs were back. Gary was letting the monster of his own grief take over again. And she wasn’t sure how much more she could take.
Then he left one morning to go to a photo shoot, and later that night, she was facedown on the couch, screaming into the cushions, clawing at them until they ripped, because two police officers had knocked on her door.
U nsure of how to move forward with the inside of the
His Final Meal
box, she decided to begin work on the outside, and was giving the box a brick façade, making it look like Lou Lou’s Café. But when she went to paint the sign above the door, she couldn’t find any of her smallest paintbrushes. They must still be in a box somewhere, but she had already unpacked the cartons labeled ART SUPPLIES . Katherine sighed in frustration.
She spotted Gary’s battered red metal tackle box, which he’d used to organize his supplies for cleaning and restoring the old photographs he collected. There should be a small brush in there—he often did retouching by hand. Most people did all their restoration on the computer these days, but not Gary.
She popped open the box and went through it: can of compressed air, white cotton gloves, cotton swabs, soft cleaning brushes and cloths, alcohol, dyes and toners, and there, at the bottom, in a plastic case all their own, were the brushes, including just the one she needed.
Lifting the case out, she saw there was a small hardcover book tucked underneath. How odd.
Visitors from the Other Side
The Secret Diary of Sara Harrison Shea
It felt like a funny joke, a book Gary had planted there for her to find right now:
This is what I’ve become, a visitor
.
She reached for the book, flipped it open to page 12:
I have been despondent ever since. Bedridden. The truth was, I saw no point in going on. If I’d had the strength to rise up from my bed, I would have gone downstairs, found my husband’s rifle, and pulled the trigger with my teeth around the barrel. I saw myself doing just that. I visualized it. Dreamed it. Felt myself floating down those steps, reaching for the rifle, tasting the gunpowder
.
I killed myself again and again in my dreams
.
I’d wake up weeping, full of sorrow to find myself alive, trapped in my wretched body, in my wretched life. Alone …
Leaving the case of brushes, Katherine stepped away from the art table with the strange little book clenched in her hand. She crossed the living room, grabbed the cigarettes and lighter from the coffee table, curled up on the couch, turned back to the very beginning of the book, and continued to read.
Ruthie
“It’s definitely loaded,” Buzz said, holding the gun they’d found under her mother’s floor. He kept his index finger off the trigger, resting it along the metal barrel. They were sitting side by side on her mom’s bed. Ruthie was holding a bottle of beer. Buzz had put his down on the bedside table, where it sat abandoned and sweating. Ruthie was worried it would leave a ring in the wood, a telltale sign that they’d been there. She put the bottle on the floor and wiped off the tabletop with her sleeve.
It was ten o’clock, and Fawn
“Gary?” she said again, as though trying to wake him gently from a bad dream.
He raised the jagged edge of broken glass and took a step toward her. She ran out of the apartment, terrified.
She never forgot his eyes: black and hollow, like empty, shadowy sockets.
They started grief counseling the following week. There were tearful, desperate apologies, and the rages gradually became rarer, briefer, more controlled. Eventually they stopped altogether—the boundless anger replaced by simple sadness. Gary was himself again, a mourning version of himself to be sure, but recognizable. Katherine believed they might be okay.
And then, back in October, once they’d returned from their weekend away, it seemed all the warning signs were back. Gary was letting the monster of his own grief take over again. And she wasn’t sure how much more she could take.
Then he left one morning to go to a photo shoot, and later that night, she was facedown on the couch, screaming into the cushions, clawing at them until they ripped, because two police officers had knocked on her door.
U nsure of how to move forward with the inside of the
His Final Meal
box, she decided to begin work on the outside, and was giving the box a brick façade, making it look like Lou Lou’s Café. But when she went to paint the sign above the door, she couldn’t find any of her smallest paintbrushes. They must still be in a box somewhere, but she had already unpacked the cartons labeled ART SUPPLIES . Katherine sighed in frustration.
She spotted Gary’s battered red metal tackle box, which he’d used to organize his supplies for cleaning and restoring the old photographs he collected. There should be a small brush in there—he often did retouching by hand. Most people did all their restoration on the computer these days, but not Gary.
She popped open the box and went through it: can of compressed air, white cotton gloves, cotton swabs, soft cleaning brushes and cloths, alcohol, dyes and toners, and there, at the bottom, in a plastic case all their own, were the brushes, including just the one she needed.
Lifting the case out, she saw there was a small hardcover book tucked underneath. How odd.
Visitors from the Other Side
The Secret Diary of Sara Harrison Shea
It felt like a funny joke, a book Gary had planted there for her to find right now:
This is what I’ve become, a visitor
.
She reached for the book, flipped it open to page 12:
I have been despondent ever since. Bedridden. The truth was, I saw no point in going on. If I’d had the strength to rise up from my bed, I would have gone downstairs, found my husband’s rifle, and pulled the trigger with my teeth around the barrel. I saw myself doing just that. I visualized it. Dreamed it. Felt myself floating down those steps, reaching for the rifle, tasting the gunpowder
.
I killed myself again and again in my dreams
.
I’d wake up weeping, full of sorrow to find myself alive, trapped in my wretched body, in my wretched life. Alone …
Leaving the case of brushes, Katherine stepped away from the art table with the strange little book clenched in her hand. She crossed the living room, grabbed the cigarettes and lighter from the coffee table, curled up on the couch, turned back to the very beginning of the book, and continued to read.
Ruthie
“It’s definitely loaded,” Buzz said, holding the gun they’d found under her mother’s floor. He kept his index finger off the trigger, resting it along the metal barrel. They were sitting side by side on her mom’s bed. Ruthie was holding a bottle of beer. Buzz had put his down on the bedside table, where it sat abandoned and sweating. Ruthie was worried it would leave a ring in the wood, a telltale sign that they’d been there. She put the bottle on the floor and wiped off the tabletop with her sleeve.
It was ten o’clock, and Fawn
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