The Dead Husband Carter Wilson (autobiographies to read .TXT) 📖

Is that normal?

And here’s the thing. I don’t think of it as an escape from pain.

I think of it as a fantasy.

In those times when the thought lingers, I find myself imagining death as a long walk in a vast cornfield to find the edge of a late-afternoon rainbow. It’s right after a summer rain, and there I am, barefoot and curious. Excited even. It’s all so clear in my mind. In this image, my feet squish on the wet soil, and my nostrils take in the musty, earthy aroma of damp cornstalks. I push through perfect rows of army green, my arms wet with the raindrops coming off the husks, and the only sounds I hear are my own gentle movements as I ghost through the field.

In this image, the sky in front of me is purple-black, the color of a punishing bruise, and holds within it the storm that just passed over. Behind me, the sky is cloudless, and the brilliant sun illuminates the rainbow toward which I’m walking. The rainbow arches at the intersection of these two opposite skies, between the light and the dark, between the storm and the calm. There is such a defined crispness to this rainbow that it is impossible for it to be anything but tangible.

I’ll be able to touch it. Seize it. I imagine it having a slightly spongy texture, as if made out of taffy that’s been stretched for miles.

In this fantasy, death occurs the moment I touch the rainbow. I dissolve into it, am absorbed by it, and I become all those colors, the entire spectrum, forever.

I don’t know why death occurs to me as such a beautiful thing, but this imagery appears in my mind each time I consider it, and it’s always the same. Maybe there’s so much guilt welled inside me that death represents a relief valve, something to take all that pressure away forever.

However, in my fantasy, I never allow myself to touch that candy rainbow. Even in my mind, I resist.

And now, sitting on this bathroom floor, staring at the two different-colored pills in the palm of my hand, my fantasy is to pour a few more from the vials and wash the lot of them down with that four-hundred-dollar whiskey, the top-shelf stuff. I want what Riley experienced, that beautiful drifting, a raft in the middle of a vast sea, the lightest of breezes carrying me slowly, softly, away. In this moment, I’m jealous of Riley. I envy him his death.

I think about it.

I can taste it almost.

And then I do what I always do. I force my thoughts to Max.

It needs to be about him. Him before me. Always.

So I take a deep breath, count to three, then exhale. I put the two pills back, place the vials back under the sink, then make my way to my bedroom.

Under the covers.

Close my eyes.

Wait for a sleep that may not come.

Twenty-Nine

My eyes strain to see within the dark of the room. I may have been screaming.

Sweat covers me in a hot, thick glaze, as if my bed’s just given birth to me. I’m not confused as to where I am—I’m here, in this house. And I’m not thankful to be awake after a nightmare—wakefulness is no shield from memory.

I reach back and wipe a layer of moisture from the back of my neck. Touch my pillow; it’s soaked. Every time I have this dream, I must lose two pounds of water.

Whatever self-prescribed therapy I thought would work isn’t. Writing about what happened only created more problems. Coming back to this house has only made the memories more vivid. Even sitting there, at the base of the stairs, apologizing to any ghosts willing to listen, hasn’t made me whole. Still the dream comes.

There’s too much guilt.

I reach over to the bedside table and grab my phone, squinting at the time. Just before three.

Grasp for my water bottle, take four huge gulps, replace some of what I lost.

I shimmy to the other side of the bed, where the sheets and pillow are as cool and dry as moonlight. I’m too awake to fall asleep, and I’m too physically drained to do anything but let my mind have its way with me. I won’t be falling asleep again tonight. I rarely do when this happens, and never when the dream is as vivid as it just was.

So I lie here and silently scream as the claws of two decades ago reach around and tear me open.

Part II

Thirty

September 18

Twenty-Two Years Earlier

Friday night. The digital clock on the kitchen microwave reads 8:19.

I’m fifteen years old and too exhausted to think about going out.

I’ve just been dropped off home from a later-than-usual JV soccer practice. I unload my school backpack and soccer gear in the kitchen and set about heating up the homemade mac and cheese left for us by Lucinda, our part-time housekeeper. The house is silent. I know Dad’s not here… His car wasn’t in the garage, and he usually doesn’t even leave his office in Boston until after eight. Cora’s car was in the driveway, but I don’t hear her. Could be out with friends. The front door was locked when I arrived, though the security alarm hadn’t been set. That’s a little unusual.

All the sweat from the soccer drills has dried, leaving my skin with a salty top layer. My hair remains in a tight ponytail, the matted tip swishing against the back of my neck as I grab a Coke from the fridge. I need to shower, but food takes priority. Dinner, shower, TV, bed. Not an exciting Friday night, but it’s what I want and need.

I scarf the meal in minutes, going for a second helping. Lucinda always adds bacon to the mac and cheese.

I’ve eaten too much too fast and sit for a good ten minutes in the kitchen doing nothing but silently digesting. A wave of fatigue washes over me, and I force myself upstairs