Where There Is Life

Book 2: A New Start

by Charlene Carr

Genres: General Fiction; Women's Fiction

Synopsis

What would you do if you woke up in a hospital bed, only to realize all your dreams were shattered?

Autumn forces her eyes open. Blinding light sends stabs of pain through her head. She blinks, trying to remember, trying to figure out where she is and why she can't move.

But she can't remember.

All she knows is pain, and the fact that her new husband is not by her side.

Evocative and complex.

Honest and emotional.

The second book in the A New Start stand-alone Series, Where There Is Life is a riveting story about love, loss, and finding your way.

Click the buy button to lose yourself in this heart-wrenching and inspirational book today!

 

Here's what readers are saying:

"Where there is life is nothing short of a must-read ... This book will have you shedding tears, laughing out loud and bursting at the seams to know more." - Stephanie Nason, Authors Opinions

“A compelling story with a believable heroine ... readers will be rooting for Autumn as she tries to put the pieces of her life back together.” – Award winning novelist, Trudy Morgan Cole

“It made me smile, cry, laugh... I couldn't put it down but didn't want it to end!” – Amazon Reviewer

“Beautifully written.” – Gina D Ramos

“Grief is a difficult emotion to capture, but Charlene Carr writes with beautiful insight and breathtaking accuracy. Readers will fall in love.” – Katie Postlethwaite

“Oh My Goodness!!! What a fantastic read ... I was on the edge of my seat - a must read for all hopeless romantics. - J Wakely

“I'm an avid reader and I can honestly say this is the first book I've ever read that had me hooked at the first paragraph... Great book!” - Dereta Harshbarger

“What a testimony of a book! It was as real as it gets.” – Lee Broom

Book Club discussion questions are available on the author's website.

Release date: November 9, 2014

Publisher: Coastal Lines

Print pages: 279

Content advisory: contains death and injury

Sample

Chapter One

 

 

My head fills with the sound of metal crunching into metal, the sensation of my body flinging forward then back, a scream I’m not sure emerges from my throat.

“Autumn, can you hear me?” My mother’s voice filters through the noise. “Leo, I think she’s waking up!” Bright light shoots into my eyes. Stabs of pain, like a million nails, drive into my head.  “Autumn? Are you awake?”

I try to speak but my throat is dry. I swallow, working up enough saliva to let my tongue move naturally. “Mom?”

“Leo, Leo! She’s awake.” My mother’s voice makes the nails drive deeper. She leaps from her chair and races to a door. In a moment she’s back at my side.  “Can you hear me?”

“I hear you.” The words are less than a whisper as my eyes adjust to the light. The room I’m in is tiny, bare. Pale yellow curtains sway gently in the breeze. They remind me of the curtains I had as a girl. I turn my head at the sound of my father entering the room, then groan at the shoots of pain that accompany the motion.
My parents hunch over me with expectant, nervous faces. My father doesn’t look like himself. His hair is dishevelled, his face unshaven. “Dad?”

“It’s me, baby.”

“Where am I?” My parents look at each other—their expressions scare me. I try to prop myself up but can’t move my right arm. Something holds it rigid. A plastic sleeve of some sort keeps it in place. “Mom?” My voice shakes.

“Honey.” Mom looks away from my father and back at me. “What’s the last thing you remember?” I close my eyes and try to think. It’s difficult. Pain clouds my mind. The throbbing pushes itself against my skull. I remember the sound—the metal—but it’s all so fuzzy. My mind travels to the last clear moment.

“The wedding.” A feeling of warmth caresses me. “I remember the wedding.”

“Oh, dear.” Mom’s voice wavers. My head feels heavy and I drift back into sleep.

“Why?” I force the word out, fighting the sleep that calls, but don’t hear an answer.

When I wake again, the room is dark, the only light trickling in from the hallway. The window has been closed, the blinds drawn, and the curtains lay perfectly still. I scan the room and see my mother sitting in the corner, her head resting on a sweater, leaning against a wall. I think of calling out to her, but she looks so peaceful.
My head still throbs, my mouth is still dry, and my face feels tight. A glass sets on the table beside me and I reach for it, surprised again by the weight of the contraption on my right arm. A stainless-steel sink and a counter make up one wall of the small room.  My bed has metal railings and is propped up slightly. It’s a hospital room. No beeping machines or I.V. stands surround my bed the way they did in Billy’s room, but this is definitely a hospital.
My throat feels blocked and my mind fights to piece together this information. “Mom,” I say in a panicked whisper, but she doesn’t move. “Mom,” I repeat, louder this time, but she doesn’t hear. Her question, the last thing I remember, comes back to me—the wedding. As I ease into that memory, my panic lessens.

We couldn’t have asked for a better day. Bright sunlight filtered over everything. It was warm but not too warm—a wonderful 25 degrees Celsius. I’d feared rain. A beach wedding could be tricky, but every cloud in sight was white and fluffy and perfect. My dress flowed in the light breeze. My happiness was so intense it seemed surreal. I can almost feel it now. As the music started, I turned to my bridesmaids—Allison, Julianne, Eloise, Tracey, and then there was Jennifer, holding my hand.
When it was my turn to walk from behind the sackcloth barricade, I looped my arm in my father’s, stepped out with a deep breath, and there he was. Matt, my love, waiting at the end of the satin aisle…Matt.

“Matt.” I break from my reverie. “Matt!” If I was in a hospital room, a hospital room where I’d seen Mom and Dad, where was Matt? Mom rouses from the corner and rushes over to me. She slips into a chair and grasps my hand. “Shh, calm down, baby, calm down.” Her other hand traces over my head, soothing. “It’s okay, baby.”

“Where’s Matt?” My voice strains with the words, terrified I know the answer.

Mom lets out a breath and I can see her eyes crinkle, her lips purse the way they do when she’s prepping to say words she doesn’t want to speak. “What do you remember?”

“The wedding,” I breathe the words, “and then earlier today, here, you and Dad, you asking me…Where is Matt?”

“There was an accident,” she says, then pauses too long. He’s gone, I think. He’s gone. But I don’t want to accept it. I can’t accept it. I won’t. The last thing I remember is the wedding—walking toward him, the way he looked at me, the tears in his eyes. I remember the vows, the kiss, our first dance…everything after that is a blur. “You’ve been,” she hesitates, “well, we’ve explained it all already.”

“What do you mean?” My breath comes quicker now. Mom wrings her hands, like she’s washing them, like I’ve seen her do so many times before. I try to focus on this action, to let it hold me steady. I start to shake. “What do you mean?” I ask again, as the panic returns.

“You’ve been in and out. Sometimes you seem to remember and sometimes—”

“Mom—” Anger flares in me like a raging fire. “Where is Matt?”

“There was an accident,” she says again, and I want to scream, but I don’t. Instead, I cry.

“Mom?” I remember now, how she explained this all before.
Memories trickle back as she speaks. “After the flight from Halifax, you landed in London and were headed to the hotel…” We were headed to the hotel. Matt had been nervous on the plane. I’d teased him and tickled his side, told him he needed to get used to it—there’d be a lot of flying in our lives. He kissed me then, on my temple, the scent of his shampoo wafting over us as he brushed the hair off his forehead. My flesh tingled.

‘Pinch me,’ I said, looking into his amazing blue eyes.

‘Pinch you?’

‘I’m so happy.’ I grinned. ‘I need to know it’s real.’

“It was rush hour,” says Mom.

He pinched me then, and I swatted him for it. ‘Not that hard.’ I leaned into his side and watched him hail a cab. He picked up our luggage with such ease and I admired his muscles as he carefully placed the bags in the trunk. Matt wasn’t the first man I’d dated who looked like a Greek god, but he was entirely unique in other ways. It was his heart I’d fallen in love with, his mind.

“The truck ahead of you, its load slid off.”

We slid into the backseat. He squeezed my thigh. ‘London,’ he said.

‘Europe.’ I replied. We drove along the highway and then suddenly we weren’t driving anymore.

“The car—”

“Stop,” I say. “Stop.” The pain flies back at me. Such pain. Pain that made today’s agony seem like nothing. Again I see Matt’s body fling forward and back, and as it does our eyes meet. A shard of something, a metal tube maybe, flies from the front of the cab, pinning his neck into the headrest. Blackness crowds in then, which transforms into a fuzzy veil. I have flashes of clarity—words, images—but the next thing I fully remember is Mom leaning over me, running to the door, calling for Dad. “He’s gone?” My voice sounds so tiny, so soft, I’m not even sure I’ve actually spoken. “Matt?” I say louder, as my skin grows cold.

“Yes, baby,” says Mom, crying so hard now, hugging me, crushing me. My whole body aches and I want her off of me. I want to get out of here, to get anywhere, to go back. I have to go back. I have to make this not real. Matt is my life, my future. We could get in a different taxi, a different plane.

“No.”

“What?” She looks up, pulling her head from my chest, easing her grip on me.

“No.” I say more firmly. “No. He’s not gone.”

“Autumn,” she wipes her hands under her eyes, smearing the tears. “I’m sorry, baby. It’s—”

“This didn’t happen.” I swallow and raise my voice. “Matt’s okay. Matt’s—”

“No,” she says with a tone that makes my confidence waver. “It did happen. We all wish—”

“I want to see him.” It’s a bad joke. That’s all it is. Or a mix-up, a confusion. This happened to someone else. Some other couple. Not us. “Now. I want to see him now.”

“Baby.” She shakes her head. “You can’t see him. He’s not here.”

“What do you mean?” I chest constricts. “Where is he? I want to see him. Now.”

“They shipped his body—”

“Now!” I scream and start to push myself off of the bed. Her hands grasp my shoulders, pinning me down while she cries for the nurse. I try to push her away but the effort sends shards of pain through my body. A woman runs in then dashes away again as my mother and I struggle. She returns with two other women, all in scrubs, and they join my mother in this battle to restrain me. One woman stabs my arm and almost instantly the fight leaks out of me. I raise my arm one final time, trying to swat my mother away but she grasps my wrist and sets my arm down. She rubs my hair, the side of my face, saying, “Shh, shh,” as the tears coat my cheeks. They’re warm and I want to wipe them away, but I don’t have the strength to move. I want to get out of the bed, but my body isn’t listening. Soon I can’t even keep my eyes open. One of the women says I’ll be out for a couple of hours and my mother gently thanks her. I try to say Matt’s name but can’t form the word.

When I wake next, my mother and father are sitting next to my bed, their hands clasped, my mother’s head on my father’s shoulder, his head on hers.
The tears return before they even realize I’ve joined them. “Autumn?” My mother questions. I keep silent as she glances at my father then looks back at me. “You remember?” I nod. “Oh, baby,” she reaches her free hand to clasp mine. “I’m so sorry.”

“What happened to him?”

“He didn’t make it,” my father says. “He—”

“I know.” I snap. “But how, how did he? Was it the—”

“You don’t want to focus on that,” says Mom. “You just need to focus on getting better.”

“But—”

“Listen to your mother,” says Dad. I’m too weak to fight back so I nod, close my eyes, and cry until there are no tears left. When I’ve laid silent long enough that I’m sure my parents assume I’ve drifted back into sleep, with my eyes still closed I ask, “What happened to my arm? Where am I? How long have I been here, and when can I leave?”

 “Eight days,” says my mother. “You’ve been here eight days. You’re in London still, in the hospital.” These answers don’t surprise me, they seem like remnants of something I already knew. My father notices the doctor in the hallway and waves him over.

“She’s awake, is she?” The doctor smiles gently. “Do you remember me, Autumn?”

“No.” I’ve been in here eight days, which means Matt’s been…his body, it would be…

“I’m Dr. Fassbend. Do you remember the accident?”

I shrug and look away. I don’t want to talk about the accident, don’t want to think about it. I don’t want to know about the driver…if Matt didn’t make it and he did, and I did…it’s better not to know.

“What does she remember?” The doctor addresses my parents and they relay the information.

He’s young and has a lovely accent. Jennifer would find him sexy.

“That arm is mighty uncomfortable, I imagine,” says Dr. Fassbend, “it’s been crushed in several places. The vehicle rolled.”

If I’d just happened across this man at a café or in a park, I would have told Jenn about him when we got back home…

“The reconstruction went well. You’ve got steel rods in you now—the bionic woman.”

…joked she should take a flight to England, try to find him. He may just be the man she was waiting for.

“What we were really concerned about was your head injury and the internal bleeding that caused swelling and pressure those first few days. We just didn’t know. But you’re a fighter. You’ve pulled through.”

Jenn probably wouldn’t be interested in this doctor though; another accented man seems to be drawing her attention.

“The fact that you’re starting to remember, that’s brilliant. A very good sign.”

At the wedding reception Rajeev and she were alone on the deck. They took a walk on the beach.

“You’ve got cuts and contusions—stitches in several places.” He glances to my parents and they shake their heads for some reason. “But nothing life threatening. That’s what you need to be thankful for.”

Matt came up behind me as I watched them.

“You’ve been stable for several days now. All we were waiting for was your memory. Since it seems you’ve got it back—”

He squeezed his arms around my middle, whispered in my ear, the sweet citrus scent of Grand Marnier on his breath. ‘Hmm, well look at that.’ He kissed my temple so gently I wasn’t even positive he really had.

“—we won’t have to keep you much longer. We’ll do a few more tests, make sure all the pressure against your brain has dissipated.”

Matt, whose voice I’ll never hear again, who lies trapped in some coffin, who—

“You’ll get to go home.”

Home? I stare at the doctor. Matt and I can’t move into our new apartment for three months. We…

“You’ll need some rehab, but with your background as a trainer that shouldn’t be—”

The tears start quickly, cutting off his words, and turn into choking sobs. The doctor stares at me, his mouth slightly agape. “We can discuss this later,” he says. “Tomorrow.”

My mother nods at him. “Thank you, Doctor.” She puts her hand against his upper arm in that way she has and all I can think about is Matt. I squeeze my eyes and try to will myself back to the reality that was supposed to be, instead of the reality that is—the one I can’t believe.
If I’ve been here eight days, in the reality that was supposed to be, Matt and I would have finished our tour of England by now. We would have arrived in Scotland yesterday. We’d be cuddling near a castle, holding hands as we explored a Moor, or enjoying a few pints at a pub. I keep my eyes closed tight and hold on to these hopes, these dreams. At last the tension releases, but I keep my lids down. Dreams, that’s all they are and all they’ll ever be. Only dreams.

I stay this way for some time, aware of my parents’ presence. Even with my eyes closed, I feel them looking at me. I search for something to say, something so they don’t look at me the way they must be, feel the way they must feel, but I have nothing. I open my eyes and there they are. They seem almost comical standing there like that, so eager with worry, staring at me like I’m this fragile thing, ready to crack at any moment. But I am this fragile thing. The realization makes me queasy, and cracking doesn’t seem like such an impossibility as I thrust myself to the side of the bed, purging whatever food I can’t even remember eating.

My mother is immediately at my side, holding my hair back, making her soothing noises, but I don’t want any of it. I don’t want to be soothed. I don’t want to need to be soothed. None of this can be real. This is not my life. My life is wonderful. My life is beautiful. My life is just about to turn into a brand new adventure. I’m supposed to tour Europe with the man of my dreams then go back home to open a fitness studio with that same man, the man I love. We’re going to be successful, have babies, do all the things we talked about. I rest my head on the pillow, shutting out my parents and their stares as I shut my eyes.
That’s not my life anymore. All of the plans that were mere dreams before Matt are nothing now. I’d been talking about opening my own studio for years, about travelling Europe for even longer, but I never took a step to do either until Matt was there to do them with me. I was too frightened something would go wrong, that I’d fail. Knowing Matt would be beside me gave me the courage to make concrete plans. Without him, these dreams are nothing.

I try to roll onto my side, away from my parents, but this blasted whatever it is around my arm prevents me, sending a streak of pain at every motion. I stay on my back and stare at the ceiling, wanting to sink through the bed, through the floor, through the earth, and join Matt wherever he is. I breathe, but the air seems hollow, seems somehow not enough. I don’t speak when my parents talk to me, I just stare at the ceiling. The off-white, water-stained ceiling. I eat when they ask me to eat, letting my mother spoon feed me. I take the pills the smiling nurse hands over and hate her like I’ve never hated anyone before. Really, I have never hated anyone before, and I know I don’t hate her either, not really. But concentrating on that emotion feels better than the alternative.

Once the woman leaves the room, I turn to my mother. “I need to use the washroom.”

“Do you want a bed pan or…”

“I can walk, can’t I?”

“Yes,” says Dad. “Yes, you can walk. They just didn’t want you to for the first few days—the head swelling and all.”

“Oh.”

“But the doctor says everything seems fine now.” My mother’s smile wobbles like jello. “Here, let me help you.”

“I can do it,” I say as she reaches for me. Grasping the bed remote, I raise my torso as high as it’ll go then move my legs over to the edge and let them dangle. They feel heavy. Lazy. I stand, using my good arm to help prop myself up, and the room spins. My father is beside me, his arms under mine as I lose my footing.

“Oh, just a moment,” Mom says. Rushing to the bathroom, she opens the door then closes it behind her. The sound of rustling emerges just before she does, all jello-y smiles. I look at my father with a question. He shrugs.

He supports me as I make my way to the bathroom. “I’ve got it from here,” I say. “Thanks.” Dad smiles at me. He looks so tender. It’s unnerving and puts me in danger of another round of tears. I turn from him and step into the bathroom. “Mom?”

“Yes, Honey?” She’s at the door in an instant.

“What’s this?” A towel hangs over what I imagine is the bathroom mirror.

She stands between me and the towel, looking sheepish. “I just thought we could save that for later.”

“Save what for later?”

“Well, the bruises, the cuts, your face, the,” she hesitates, “the hair.”

“Hair?” I lift my good hand and feel my head. The left side, the side she’d always touched as she soothed me, is fine, but as I move my hand over I feel the right is shorn in spiky clumps with a bandage of some sort covering a spot almost as big as my palm. I reach for the towel and she blocks me.

“Honey, don’t. You’ve got enough to deal with right now.”

Pushing her arm away, I pull the towel down. As it falls, I whip my head away from the reflection. Mom’s arms are waiting for me and I bury my head on her shoulder, trying to breathe. This is some mistake, some…this isn’t me. This isn’t my life. Mom pats my back then steps away from me. She grabs the towel and starts to put it back up. “No.” I step back to the mirror. The woman there isn’t me, or she is, but only half of her. My left side is pretty normal. A little haggard looking, with a stitch above my eyebrow, but nothing alarming. My right side is a monster. The skin is a disgusting mix of purples, greens, and yellows. The flesh swells with these colours that make their way down to my lip, which puffs out with a grotesque, scabbed over cut. Within the mess of colour is a large gash that starts just above my jaw, around my eye, and under the bandage on my head. Small stitches hold it together, making me look like some kid dressed up as Frankenstein’s monster.  My hair is shorn—basically Bic’d—around the bandage. A little further out is about a week’s growth and then shorter clumps stick up here and there on the whole right side. I start to peel the bandage away, but Mom grabs my wrist. I shoot her a look and she lets go. The skin is bumpy and swollen. Large black stitches keep the flesh together. It’s clear it’s starting to heal, but it’s so rigid looking. So raised. This will be more than a scar.

“The hair will grow over it,” she says. “It’ll be hardly noticeable.” She’s quiet for a moment and so am I. She smiles. “Before you know it, you’ll be just as beautiful as you always were.” I place the bandage back down, smoothing the edges and making sure it sticks. “It would have looked better by now,” she says, “but they had to open it again once or twice…the bleeding.”

I nod. “And my face?”

“It’s just a scar. Everyone has scars.”

“I’m going to use the washroom now.”

“Oh,” she looks sheepish, embarrassed, “yes,” and backs out of the small room. I close the door and stare at myself a little longer. I’m glad Matt isn’t here to see me like this, I think, and then realize…I’d take this. I’d take worse, far worse, to have him here. To see me. To let me see him. I sit on the closed toilet lid and stare at the tiles.

“Autumn?” Mom knocks at the door. “Are you okay, baby? Do you need help?”

“I’m okay.” I stand and try to ease my pyjama pants down. It’s only at this moment that I realize I’m even in pyjamas. They’re not mine. I didn’t bring any pyjama pants with me—just sexy lingerie. I lean forward on the sink, using my good arm to brace myself. My right arm is essentially useless. It just hangs there, straight and rigid in its plastic prison. Matt hadn’t even seen my new lingerie, so carefully purchased for what I thought he’d like best. We hadn’t even gotten a chance to—I slam my hand on the counter. I was so tired after the reception. We didn’t get back to the hotel room until after three in the morning. ‘You wanna?’ He’d said, a gleam to his eye.

‘I’m exhausted,’ I’d replied. ‘Let’s wait till we get there. Till it can be really special.’

‘All right.’ He wrapped his arms around me. ‘A kiss?’

I stand again, avoiding my reflection, and work my bottoms up with one hand. When I exit the bathroom, my parents are standing in the middle of the room, eyes upon me. My father takes several steps closer. “You need help?”

“I’m fine,” I say, with a snap to my voice that I instantly regret. They’re just trying to help me. “Thanks though,” I add, my voice softer this time. He nods, always a man of few words. I think back to several years ago when it was him in the hospital room, him looking scared and weak. It was the hardest thing I’d ever gone through, seeing Dad like that. It was terrifying. He’d lost thirty pounds and only looked like the shell of my father.
It was the first time in my life things hadn’t really gone according to plan, but then they did, and here he is—cancer free for over eight years—healthy and robust. I smile at him, but it feels like a betrayal to Matt; the smile leaves my face almost as quickly as it arrived. With effort, I ease myself back onto the bed.

“Do you need anything?” Mom asks.

“What?”

“Anything—food, a book, a movie, anything?”

“No.” I look at the ceiling. Mom and Dad take their seats beside me. “Am I a widow?” I ask.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see them look at each other. Neither one says a word. They don’t need to.

 

 

Chapter Two

 

 

I’m a widow at twenty-eight. I’m a widow at twenty-eight who had less than twenty-four hours with her husband. Does that even count? It has to count. If it doesn’t, it’s like what Matt and I had doesn’t count. When the doctor comes back the next day, I try to pay attention to his instructions for rehab, but my focus keeps drifting.

“Do you think you have all that?” asks Dr. Fassbend, a broad smile on his face. I shake my head and look to Mom, who has been making notes.

She pats my arm. “I’m getting it, don’t you worry.”

The doctor looks between us. “Well, the physiotherapist will have access to her files.”

“Perfect,” says Mom, and ushers him out. I couldn’t be more thankful. Once he’s gone, my father pushes over a wheelchair.

“I can walk.”

“We know, Honey.” Mom pats the back of the chair. “Hospital policy.”

I sigh and let Dad roll me out of the building. When the cab pulls up Dad opens the door for me, but I stay seated.

“You can have the window,” says Mom. I shake my head, not wanting to get in that cab, not wanting to look out those windows and see anything I should have seen with him. I tell myself it’ll hurt less if I don’t say or think his name, but I know I’m fooling myself. It hurts no matter what.

Mom looks at me curiously but doesn’t question. She crawls in and slides across the seat, then sits there, waiting for me with wide eyes. I sigh, stand, and maneuver myself onto the seat beside her. Dad sits down beside me and pats my leg. We all buckle up.

“Everyone is so excited to see you.” Mom wears a pasted-on smile as we wait in the airport lobby. “They’ve all been so worried.” She pauses between her sentences, perhaps waiting to see if I’ll respond. “And it will feel good to go home to your old bed. That hospital room was so bland.” She nods, crossing one hand across the other on her lap. “You’ll be better before you know it, and it’s so great that the doctor said your arm may—” Dad puts his hand on Mom’s leg and squeezes it gently. She stops talking as I turn my head from them, watching the people rushing around, sitting, reading, talking on the phone, texting. “They had the wake, of course. But they’re saving the actual funeral service, the internment for when you—”

I stand and gesture to the washroom as I walk away. Inside, I lean against the row of sinks, my head turned to avoid my reflection. I don’t want to hear anything about back home. I especially don’t want to hear anything about Matt. How do they expect me to handle a funeral? What do they expect me to say? I don’t want to go back. What is there to go back to? We both quit our jobs a few weeks before the wedding. We both gave up our apartments. The plan was to travel Europe for three months then return to Halifax, move into the apartment we had lined up, and start working full time on setting up our own studio. So, I have no job, no apartment, and no Matt. I also have no plan.

One step at a time is what I always tell my clients when they’re struggling with their weight-loss or fitness goals, struggling with whatever it is in life that holds them back. I didn’t know what the hell I was talking about. One step at a time, I’d say, as if it were so simple. So doable. You need a plan, I’d say, a goal, something you’re working toward. I don’t have any of that. I don’t want any of that. I don’t want to go home…not that I want to stay here. All I want is to crawl in a hole and stop being. I don’t want to die, just not exist. If I don’t exist, then it won’t matter that Matt doesn’t either.

I turn my body toward the mirror and look critically at the image that stares back at me—what I see is not the monster that looked back at me just days ago. The bruises are fading, the cut on my lip is nearly healed, the gash across my cheek isn’t quite as bad as I first thought—it’s settling down, though still incredibly obvious. I pretend to smile and it scrunches up, crinkling and pulling the surrounding skin. The doctor said I was lucky about that too, said it’s probably going to heal into a darkened line, that it shouldn’t be raised very much, not like it is now. Eventually, he said, it may be smooth enough that people assume it’s a birthmark—long and slightly textured. Lucky indeed.

Wearing a large knit cap that fully covers my ragamuffin locks and shadows my face, a passerby probably wouldn’t even give me a second look—minus the arm brace. So I broke my arm? So what? People break arms all the time. I’m hardly a spectacle.

This more realistic view of myself is almost disappointing. I should be more of a spectacle. I should be a walking sign. People should see me and think, oh that poor girl. She must have been in a horrible accident. Did she lose someone she loved? Is she damaged on the inside as much as the outside? More? Instead, I’m unnoticeable. No one would guess. No one would wonder. Instead, I’m practically fine. It’s not right. It’s not fair. This is all I get, and Matt…

Minutes pass as I hide out in the bathroom, but not so many that Mom would feel the need to come check on me. When I sit back down across from my parents neither speaks, and I’m grateful for the silence. I go back to watching people, not wanting to see my parents’ faces. We board the plane and I pull on an eye mask, blocking out everything around me, ignoring the flight attendant’s offers of drinks and snacks, as well as Mom and Dad’s hushed tones.

Daniel meets us at the baggage carrel. He doesn’t say anything. He just hugs me, kisses my forehead, and holds me while I try unsuccessfully to stifle back fresh tears. When he releases me, he hugs Mom and Dad.

“How’s the traffic?” asks my father.

“It’s fine,” says Daniel. If things weren’t as they are, he would have given me a look, rolled his eyes at Dad’s obsession about the traffic, and I would have rolled mine right back. He doesn’t do this though. He doesn’t make eye contact with me while we wait for the luggage, while we make our way to the car, or when he takes my bag up to my old bedroom. Finally, as he turns to leave, he says, “If you need anything, anything at all. If you want to get away from here or something, I’m just a phone call away.”

“A phone call?” I say, alarmed and immediately shamed that this teasing tone can still come out of me, that for that brief second I forgot.

“A text.” He grins, not catching my alarm.

“Thanks.” The moment he leaves, I plop down on the bed. Mom enters my room a few minutes later, asking if I need anything. I shake my head and roll so my back is facing her. I feel her hesitating by the door, deciding whether to enter. Relief washes over me when her padded footsteps make their way down the hall. I want to be alone.
A couple of hours later I hear footsteps again. By the weight of them, I know it’s Dad. “Supper’s ready if you want to come down.”

“No thanks.”

He’s silent for a moment. “You must be hungry. You didn’t eat anything on the plane.”

“I’m fine.”

He shuffles his feet on the old shag carpet. “I’ll bring you up a plate. You can have a few bites later on…if you want.” He waits another few moments then closes the door.

Several hours later Mom is back again. “You have to eat something,” she says. “You didn’t eat anything.”

I roll over. She’s still wearing that same smile, the one that does nothing to hide all the worry breaking through. “I’ll eat tomorrow.”

She dry washes her hands for about the millionth time since I woke up in the hospital. “Okay, Honey. Okay. Autumn,” she says my name as if I might be uncertain she’s talking to me, “the funeral is tomorrow. At three. Do you have any idea what box your dresses are in? You have a few black ones, don’t you? Your father could bring the right box up for you.” She pauses. “So you could look. Or I could. I wouldn’t mind if you just—”

I take a deep breath and look toward the closet. Not much is left in there—just clothes I’d probably never wear again, a few items I was saving for my future daughter. “Do I have to wear black?” Matt liked me in colours. Bright, sexy colours.

“I think you should.”

“I don’t know.” My throat tightens and my chest constricts. It feels as if she’s asked me a complex question I have no hope of knowing the answer to. “It could be anywhere.”

“Oh, well—” She continues the dry washing and I want to scream at her and hug her and curl up in her lap and have her tell me this is all just a dream and everything is going to be okay in the morning. “I’m sure the boxes are labelled. He’ll just bring up the ones marked bedroom.”

“No.” I sit up so fast my head spins. “What if it’s from his bedroom? All the boxes were just put in the truck together.”

She nods. “I’ll look through them. I’ll find a dress for you.”

“I don’t…” She can’t look through his stuff. No one should touch it but me. No one should take in those last whiffs of his scent, that mix of Ocean Surf deodorant, Aussie shampoo, and something else I could never quite pinpoint, which must have just been him. But I’m not about to look through it either, so what can I say? My travel backpack consists of clothes more suited for hiking and exploring old dusty streets than a funeral. I only even packed two dresses—one for a romantic evening out, the other for a nightclub. “Okay. Thanks, Mom.”

“It’s my pleasure.”
“Just…if you open one of Matt’s boxes, close it back up again. Right away. With tape.”
“Of course.” She wrings her hands once more. “We’re going to bed soon. Is there anything you need before—”

“I’m fine.”

She closes the door and I stare at the ceiling again. I’ve never felt this kind of lethargy, this pointlessness. This isn’t me. I always have plans, goals, something to keep me moving and active. I reach into my purse and turn on my phone for the first time since Matt and I boarded the plane to London. While the screen loads, I stare ahead of me and focus on the collage above my old desk. I’m smiling in every picture. Why wouldn’t I be? There’s me winning the 100-metre dash in grade twelve at the school track meet. Me accepting flowers after I had the lead in the production of My Fair Lady. Me at prom with my super hot boyfriend, and then the whole gang in front of the limo. I look at this girl and see all her dreams. She didn’t know it was Matt who would make those dreams worthwhile—at that point she didn’t even know she wanted a studio, that she’d be a personal trainer. She just wanted to be happy, and she had been. Everything came easy to her and what didn’t, she dismissed. Why focus on art projects when you could be the theatre program queen? Why take advanced English and History courses when you could breeze through any of the advanced sciences with barely even trying? That girl wasn’t afraid of failure; she pursued the things she knew she’d succeed at, so failure wasn’t an option. That girl in the pictures didn’t know what she wanted to do with her life, but she wasn’t worried about it. Ranked among the top of her class, voted best smile three years running in the yearbook, the girl in the photos believed she’d get whatever she wanted. Her life had a way of working out. Even the few minor heartbreaks she’d suffered were barely memorable when, in a few days, another handsome face was ready and waiting to make her feel desired.

I turn my head from the collage. That had been high school. University had brought challenges. Showed me, to a degree, what fear was, and failure. Steven, my first college boyfriend, swept me off my feet the first day of Orientation. He was a third year—sexy, exciting, intoxicating. My obsession with him had taken precedence over everything else in my life, leading me to almost fail out of two of my classes and actually fail a third. I gave him my whole heart, my virginity, and in return he taught me how easy it was to slip into an emotionally abusive relationship, how a trusting person could so easily be deceived. It took seeing him in bed with another girl to finally believe the hunches I’d had that I wasn’t his only love.

After him I held myself back, only having simple, surface relationships. My obsession with Steven taught me how to fear. Years later, when the dream of the studio came, of travelling Europe, that’s when fear really crept back into my life. Those dreams represented new and unchartered territory, things I could fail at. I couldn’t protect myself from them the way I protected myself from every other guy, not opening my heart to a single one—not until Matt.
Matt turned my fears into exciting possibilities. His strength, his smile, broke through the walls I’d built. He gave me back the faith that my life would work out. With Matt I saw my future as bright and gleaming, just like I had before Steven taught me life could bring other outcomes. With Matt I’d believed in real love again. I vowed to be his forever. I look back at the collage, at the smiling face looking back at me. And now I’ll be no one’s.

I turn to the phone and the menu is popping. Forty-five Facebook notifications, seventeen text messages, twenty-nine emails. Setting the phone back down, I crawl under the covers and lie there for hours, watching the numbers on my alarm clock click by. Tomorrow I have to face all those people, all those people who last saw me smiling and happy and about to embark on a grand adventure. Morning is hours away, but still it comes too quickly.

 

 

Chapter Three

 

 

A gentle knocking, followed by my mother’s voice, rouses me from a fitful sleep. “Autumn, sweetheart, I have breakfast ready for you.”

“I’m not—” The door opens and Mom picks up my untouched plate from last night.

“It’s time to get up.”

“The funeral’s not for hours,” I groan, my body still aching.

“You haven’t eaten since we left the hospital. It’s been a whole day.”

“I’ll eat later.”

“Autumn.”

“Mom.”

She stares at me, then shakes her head and steps back into the hall. “You’re having lunch.” She gently closes the door. I sit up, simply because I can’t bear to lie down anymore. I’ve never been this sedentary and, although it’s what my mind wants, I feel my body rebelling. When I stand, the spinning in my head worsens and I sway. Maybe Mom’s right. Maybe I need food. Through the open window, I see my father in the backyard weeding the lawn. Why isn’t he at work? Is it the weekend? I reach for my phone to check, but let my hand fall away from all those waiting messages. The knowledge isn’t worth it. I pull on a pair of shorts, glance into the hall to make sure Mom isn’t lurking, head down the stairs, then stand at the back door, transfixed by the concentration on my father’s face, the focus. He can’t be focusing on the weeds that intently.

When I slide open the door and step onto the deck, he looks up at me, relief washing over his features. “You’re up.”

“I’m up.”

“You need anything? Anything at all?” It’s unnerving, this urgency, this need to satisfy. I love my father and I know he loves me, but he’s a man of few words. He doesn’t usually add much to a conversation and isn’t overly involved in our affairs—except when he’s drinking, of course, then it’s hard to shut him up. He must be scared for me, to be so attentive.

“No.” I take the few steps to the railing. “A lot of weeds this summer?”

“I’m killin’ ‘em off good.” A shell-shocked look of terror covers his face. “I’m diggin’ ‘em up. I’m—”

“That’s good.” I turn toward the door. “I should take a shower.”

“Autumn.” He drops his weeder and rushes toward me. “It’s…” His voice is gruff, hard. “It’s going to be okay. I mean, I know it doesn’t seem like it. I know it’s hard, but you’re going to be okay.”

His words make me angry. They also make me want to be a little girl, believing every word my daddy says. I nod too many times then hurry inside. It will not be okay. It can’t be. Matt’s dead. That will never be okay.

I peek into the fridge and see some donuts there—my father’s, obviously. I haven’t eaten a donut in years. But who cares? I bite in and let the sticky sweetness soothe me…only it doesn’t soothe. It’s just sweet, nothing more. I follow it with a glass of milk and decide I should shower before my mother takes that into her own hands too. It’s difficult. This is my first shower since the accident. The doctor gave me a bag to put over the arm brace and after a few minutes I have it secured. That seems to be the least of my problems. I stand for a moment, letting the water pour over me as I try to figure out how to wash my hair. At last, I hold the shampoo bottle over my head and squeeze. Washing my body is even worse. I don’t think it will work very well to just plop body wash on me, so I take my loofah, prop it between my chest and the shower wall, and squeeze the gel onto it. I then try to foam the soap through with one hand. Eventually, I have success and step out of the shower after about twice the time it normally would have taken me. I even managed to shave my legs with no cuts. I felt ridiculous doing it, though. Shaving my legs—is that what’s important right now? Stubble free legs? But it’s been over a week. The last thing I want is people to have another reason to pity me.

When I return to my old bedroom four dress options lay across the bed. I choose a three-quarter length, simple black dress and put it on. My reflection seems almost comical, so different from what I remember myself looking like in this outfit. The doctor said to leave the bandage on for several more days. I can’t hide my face, but perhaps I can at least make the bandage less obvious. A search through my closet and drawers only yields a tie-dyed scarf. Not happening. So I grab one of the other dresses and try to fashion it around my head. My mother’s reflection appears in the mirror. When I turn toward her, she holds up a hat that looks like something my grandma would have worn. It’s black though. I take it from her, place it on my head, and turn back to the mirror. After this day, I never want to wear black again.

“Autumn.” Jennifer walks over, hugs me, holds my hand. I’m not sure why, but I don’t want to cry. I really don’t want to cry today, and so I just kind of turn myself off. I nod or shake my head when those motions will suffice. I use as few words as possible and avoid eye contact whenever I can. People seem to accept this, but what do they really think? What would my old self would have thought? She probably would have tried to cheer me up. She would have held my hand, like Jenn is doing. She would have said, ‘You’ll get through this.’

“Oh, Darling.” Carol, Matt’s mom, wraps her arms around me, drawing me away from Jennifer’s grasp, and is crying before I’ve even fully realized who it is. Maybe she was crying already. I close my eyes and sink deeper into this shell I’ve created. “Are you okay? Your arm.”

I shrug and nod, in danger of losing the battle against my tears.

“We’re so glad you’re okay.” She looks at me as if she’s trying to see Matt inside of me, or trying to see why it’s me and not him that stands in front of her. I want to tell her so many things—to say I’m sorry and I’d take his place if I could, and it’s my fault because I’m the one who wanted to start the trip in London, and—

“You’ll always be our daughter.” Her lips quiver. “Always.” She hugs me again, “You’re all we have left of him,” and sobs on my shoulder. I watch all this, gently patting her back, as if I’m not there, not part of it. I can’t be all they have left of him. I can’t be enough for them. I’m not even enough for myself.

Mike, Matt’s father, walks over, puts his hand on Carol’s shoulder, eases his way into the embrace, and kisses the side of my forehead, just inches away from the scar. Here we are, the three people who loved Matt most in the world. The three people he loved most, and I don’t want to be here, touching them, feeling their pain. It isn’t right for this much grief to be in such close proximity.

I pull away and they release me, then head to the front of the room to take their seats, shaking hands and accepting hugs along the way. I watch them, and then realize Jenn is holding my hand again, that my mom and dad and Daniel have formed this little huddle around me as they usher me forward to sit down the row from Matt’s family. I glance over and see Matt’s older brother, Charlie, with his arm around his mother. He’s not looking my way and I turn back before he can—he looks so much like Matt.

I keep my head down, not wanting to see the friends and family that must be here, then just as I’m about to take my seat I notice the casket. Pulling away from my family, I walk toward it and place my hand on the cool wood. A man walks over to stand a few feet away from me. He’s probably the funeral director, making sure I don’t do anything I shouldn’t, but his closeness feels invasive. After a few moments I glance his way. “Can I see him?” He shakes his head and purses his lips.

“It’s a closed casket,” my father says.

“I know but…” I look to my dad, to the man, then back to the casket. “I just want to see him. I didn’t get to see him.”

“The family decided on a closed casket,” the funeral director says as he takes several steps forward.

“I’m his family,” I say, a plea to my voice.

“Well, his family—”

“I’m his wife,” I say, sharper this time.

My father’s hands are on my shoulders, pulling me away. “I want to see him.” I fling myself on top of the casket, hugging it—my plastic arm awkwardly trying to grasp. That other self sees me do this and tells me to stop, screams at me, but I don’t. I hold on, push my face into the wood, and wait for someone to pull me off. Someone does. I don’t resist but keep my eyes on the casket. I say his name for the first time since I woke up in the hospital bed, then wish I hadn’t, because more than anything else, saying his name is what makes this all real.

As soon as the word crosses my lips, “Matt,” he’s really dead, and this really is his coffin. I sink to my knees and a hush settles over the room as the sound of my bawling takes over. That other self, the one that’s separate and aware, realizes I’m making a spectacle, but I can’t help it. I can’t stop it. I’m guessing no one knows what to do because I’m allowed to keep on. At last, I realize my cousin Billy is kneeling beside me, his hand on my shoulder. “Cry all you want,” he says in that firm voice he’s only recently starting to reclaim. This permission stops me from bawling.

I look into his face that is still somewhat gaunt from his own ordeal last year, and wrap my arms around him, crying more softly now. After a minute or two my tears slow, and he helps me to my feet and then to my seat. A few moments later, the funeral director makes an unnecessary announcement asking everyone to take their seats. My crying stops. Matt’s cousin walks to the podium. A few other people have words to say. I’m guessing they tell some stories because trickles of laughter reverberate off the walls. I’m guessing they talk about Matt and me because I pick up on my name once or twice. Through it all I’m trying to stay safe within that shell—tuning out as many of the words as I can.

I’m so weak. Everyone loved Matt. No one else is this pathetic. I should be up there talking about him, sharing the little tidbits that were special to us, honouring him and what we had, but I’m not. I can’t.

When Matt’s parents walk up to the podium, I finally open my ears. “Matt was our baby,” says his father, and I can’t help thinking back to a little over a week ago when the two were standing together in front of another podium, toasting our marriage. “He was bright. He was loving. He was adventurous.” Mike starts to choke up and I can hear sniffles through the crowd behind me. “He was a good man and we are proud of him.” He looks right at me, and I resist the urge to look away. “Just days ago, he made us more proud than we’ve ever been by choosing to devote his love and his life to this beautiful woman right here.” He takes a breath and sends me a slight smile. “For those of you who were at the wedding, you already heard what Matt said to me the night before he married Autumn. The night of the wedding though, just before the two of them headed to the hotel, I shook my son’s hand and told him he’d done good. He smiled, in that way he had, and said, ‘Dad, all I’ve done is not mess it up, and I’m going to spend the rest of my days making sure I never do.’

“He told me it’d been the best day of his life and he couldn’t wait to spend the rest of his days with you.” Mike’s talking directly to me now, and despite my effort to hold back, new streams pass down my cheeks. This time, just about everyone around me is crying too, so it seems okay. “Autumn, you may have only had a day as his wife, but I know you filled my son with enough love to last a lifetime, and so I want to say thank you. Matt’s life may have ended too soon, but because of you I know it ended happy.” He stops here, hesitates, as if he has more to say, but then nods at me. I nod back and he and Carol return to their seats, her crying worse than mine now, as she lets out these little choking sobs.

The director gives some information about the burial site and I stop listening. All I have to do now is follow along with my family, shake the hands of the people I should shake hands with as we leave the building, and hug the people I should hug. Again, I get by with as few words as possible, ‘Thank you,’ being my go-to phrase.

When I step outside the building, I notice the sun is shining. The old me would be happy for this, feel it’s wonderful, enjoy the fact that Matt adored the sun and so this is the perfect send off. The new me wants to shade myself from it and, for the first time, is glad for the ridiculous hat I’m wearing.

After Carol and Mike, it’s my turn to toss a rose on Matt’s casket. It slips from my hand and lands gently. It’s the second time I’ve given him a rose. The first was on our one-year anniversary. He’d smiled, delighted, and said he thought that was his job. I told him there were no jobs, and if I wanted to give him a rose, I would every year ‘till the day we died.

I concentrate on breathing evenly as a progression of people follow suit. Carol and Mike invite me and my family to a small gathering they’re having at their place to commemorate Matt—relatives and close friends only, but I decline, saying my head is hurting and I need to lie down. After saying this, I realize my head really is hurting. I hug them both and nod when they try to make me promise I’ll keep in touch. As I sit in the backseat on the drive to my parents’ house, watching the trees and houses zoom by, I wish that I was going home. The problem is, home for me has just been buried.