A Lover's Lament(10)

“No, Katie.” Her soft hand brushes the wetness from my face, and this time she gathers me in her arms and pulls me to her chest. “This is not your fault, sweetie. There is nothing you could have done.” I open mouth to argue with her, but she doesn’t give me the chance. “You guys were hit by a drunk driver.”

“What?” I gasp, pulling out of her arms. I vaguely recall being hit by another car, but I had no idea who it was or even how it happened. “Did the other person survive?”

Mom nods her head. “He survived. We don’t know much more than that.”

Emotion clogs my throat. “He should’ve died,” I choke out over a sob. “Not Daddy. It should’ve been him.” Or me, I think to myself, it should’ve been me.

There is no way to explain it, but the thought of this man—this drunk man—still living and breathing makes me physically ill. It isn’t right, and it sure as hell isn’t fair. He should be the one taken away from his family—not Dad.

Anger seeps into my body. I try to fight it—try to push it away—but it feels so much better to be mad at him than to feel this gut-wrenching pain. So I let the anger infiltrate my soul, and I let it dull my pain.





“Even My Dad Does Sometimes” – Ed Sheeran

“BREAKFAST IS READY.”

I jump at the sound of Bailey’s soft voice. The shovel slips from my grip, but I manage to catch it before it falls to the ground. “Holy crap,” I breathe, my hand clenched above my heart when I turn to face her. “You scared the shit out of me.”

“Sorry,” she says, yawning. Tucking her hands in her coat pockets, her feet shuffle against the ground and she yawns again before sitting on one of the straw bales in the corner. My brows furrow and I cock my head to the side. I can’t remember the last time I’ve seen my baby sister up before ten o’clock in the morning, and I sure as hell can’t remember the last time I saw her step foot in this dirty barn.

Bailey and I are eight years apart, and when we were growing up, I always used to joke with her that she was an ‘oops’ baby. Of course she wasn’t, but I was older so it was my duty to pick on her. Despite our difference in age and my occasional need to make her cry, Bailey and I have always had a great relationship. I’ve always been the tomboy, never afraid of dirt and hard work, and Bailey has always been the girly-girl, in love with designer clothes, manicured nails and makeup. While I spent hours out in the barn or the field helping Daddy, she sat inside having tea parties and playing with her Barbies. We’ve always been complete opposites, but best friends nonetheless.

Until recently.

“Bailey?” I ask cautiously, glancing outside to confirm what I already know. Yup. Still dark. “You do realize that the sun won’t come up for at least another twenty minutes, don’t you?”

She shrugs her shoulders and looks down. “I couldn’t sleep.”

“Okay,” I answer slowly as I turn around to keep shoveling. My hands are tired and achy, but I keep going because if I don’t do this—if I don’t take care of Mac, Molly, and Toby—then no one will. Bailey and Mom don’t understand why I insist on keeping the horses, and I don’t understand how they could possibly think of getting rid of them. I know that the horses are expensive and they take a lot of work, but that’s why I’ve taken over the burden. I want to do it. No, I need to do it. They’re a part of us—a part of him—and right now they’re the one thing that’s keeping me tethered to the past … a past that I’m not ready to let go of.

Forty days.

That’s how long it’s been since we buried my father. January 3, 2006 will go down in history as the single worst day of my life, and I’ve spent every second since then living in hell—three million four hundred and fifty-six thousand seconds, to be exact. And they’ve all been filled with a bone-shattering anguish that I wouldn’t wish upon my worst enemy.

It took fourteen days for my family to realize that I wasn’t grieving properly, but little did they know I wasn’t grieving at all. I’ve merely been existing. And then it took another two weeks for them to convince me to talk to someone.

“I’m worried about you.”

And there it is! Of course she’s worried about me. That’s all I’ve heard since I walked out of that damn hospital. Frustration bubbles up inside of me, my muscles coil tight and, without thinking, I start firing words back at my sister. “Really, Bailey, you’re worried about me?” I scoff. She steps in my line of sight and I catch her glare before continuing. “Don’t you have better things to worry about, like the classes that you’re failing?” She opens her mouth, but I don’t give her the chance to talk. I’m pissed. “Or how about your boyfriend? Didn’t you tell me you thought he was screwing around on you behind your back?” Bailey’s eyes widen as if she can’t believe I went there.

And yes, I’m well aware that I’m way out of line, but I can’t find it in me to care. Unfortunately, that’s what happens when you shut down, and it didn’t take long after Daddy’s funeral to realize that it’s much easier to be angry than it is to be in pain. The downfall is that I’ve become numb, and not just to my own feelings but everyone else’s as well.