Recovery was painful. It was slow. But acceptable. It was expected. I spent my days in bed, watching TV and wanting to get up and move. I'd have been home sooner if there was someone there to take care of me. But there wasn't.
When I finally talked to Sheriff Holt, I got the full story. It was delayed and I should have enouraged Janie to tell it to me much earlier. Either way, I knew it now. Every last sordid detail. Every one that he knew anyway. He had said there was likely more, and I knew there had to be. There is no way this could have been everything. She had to have more hidden in that closet. It scared me. But I needed to know what else there was. I needed to talk to her.
I hadn't seen Janie since the accident. I was kept at County Medical Center and she was sent off to rehab. Holt said she voluntarily signed the papers. I was surprised, but it was a step in the right direction. It was a six week program in Sioux Falls. I was afraid she would run. I didn't want to lose her. Not now. Now that she was home. I loved her, crazy as she was. Still, I hoped she would get better, sober.
I laid in the hospital for three days. I got the chance to get to know Karen. She was sweet. I didn't really remember much of her from school. But I remembered her smile. It hadn't changed. I liked that. I liked that I knew who was taking care of me. I liked that I knew she cared. Talking with her helped me pass the time. She had been screwed over too. We shared that story. I shared mine with her. We speculated on what made people do the things they do. Why do some people get screwed and other people turn up nothing but roses. Even after they plant gravel rather than seeds. It's the way life is. There was no getting around it. Fact. Not fiction. I missed my work. I needed something to read. Something to write. Something to edit. Anything.
Holt took me home on the fourth day. I had been up and walking around the halls a bit, but it was still difficult. It was slow going. My right side was extensively bruised. My head generally spun when I stood up. the room went sideways, like a boat tipping over. I had to close my eyes and take deep breaths to right the ship, to stop the spinning, to walk. It was annoying. I just wanted to move. I just wanted to do something, anything.
I tried to protest. I didn't know how I was going to take care of myself like this. I couldn't drive. What if there was an emergency?
Holt assured me that he and his deputies were only a phone call away. but after my experiences with police, fire and ambulance response times I wasn't sure this was comforting or frightening. He promised to stop by everyday for a while, until I was able to get up and down the stairs.
The house was quiet. Empty. I was relegated to the sofa in the living room, which unfortunately was not a sleeper. The stairs just weren't happening, for now anyway. At least, not without help.
I leaned on my memories to get by. I tried to remember all the times that the three of us, Jason, Janie, and I, had had fun growing up. Climbing trees. Running. Jay and I did a lot of running. I remembered the times we went downtown and just sat outside of Murphy's. The old Murphy's. The good one. Not the giant one that struggled to stay solvent now. I remembered camping out in the woods. Fishing. Fishing with dad. I remembered that terrible band that Jason started. He was an awful drummer, terrible. But he had fun. There was no getting around how bad they sounded though. Not even a little.
When I stopped remembering, that's when I started hurting. The pain came in waves. First just a small one. It always had a way of pulling me in, until I couldn't think about anything else. It always ended the same way. I felt like I was drowning, crushed by an all-consuming, thrashing wave of intense pain. The little yellow pills made everything better. The pain went away. It was what miracles were made of.
It wasn't all bliss though. The pills made the trees taller, the house smaller. The room colder. My heart beat faster. I felt more alone.
I had been home for five days. I was tired of reading. It had been my job for over ten years and yet I was tired of it after five days. I wanted to write. I needed a pen.
I leaned heavily on my left side and pushed myself to my feet. My right arm was still stiff. The exercises they had given me were working. They were slowing working, but it was still painful. It ached. Stretching my hand sent pains up my arm. Turning my wrist was out of the question. It hurt too much. I should have been going to therapy, but I couldn't drive. And there was no one to drive me. This was the middle of no where. There were no physical therapists willing to drive here. Zero. I was on my own for now.
I shuffled my feet for a few steps. Now I was thirsty. And hungry. I gained some strength. I took full steps into the kitchen. There was nothing in the fridge. There was nothing here. I filled a glass with water. I took a long drink. I leaned back against the counter. My eyes stared ahead into the emptiness. My mind was blank. I thought about what to think about. I thought about how I wasn't thinking about anything. Blink. I dropped my head and rubbed my eyes. What was I thinking? What was I doing? I couldn't go on like this. Jason had been dead for almost four months. And I hadn't done a damn thing since then. I still didn't have job. The killer was still out there. And I was at home. Reading. Like a retired school teacher. This wasn't the life I wanted. I wanted to do something big. To go places. To live. This wasn't living. This was getting by. How was my life different from Jason's? Why was I still here?
I set the glass down and hobbled to the cabinet next to the back door. I reached atop the window and retrieved the key. Still there. It had been there since we were kids. Jay was a man of habit. I respected that. I stooped down to the cabinet and turned the key.
"Why hello my friends."
I reached in and pulled out one of the glass bottles. I fingered the neck. I rubbed the label. My lips felt dry. I spun off the metal cap and poured a glass. Scotch. On the rocks. I tossed my head back and swallowed.
"Oh, hell."
It burned. It had been too long. I wasn't used to the bite. I hated that taste. I poured another glass. This one went down a bit easier. But still, it had been too long. Nineteen months, six days and four hours, give or take.
The third drink was sweet. It slid down the back of my throat like the glass of water had. No bite. Liquid bliss.
I needed a pen. I grabbed my glass and the bottle and headed for the office. I climbed in that tiny room beneath the stairs, shut the door, shut out the world, and fell into the desk chair.
I picked up the pen, put the tip to the line on the paper before me. And I wrote.
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