~ Alone ~

I don’t know how long I’ve been lying on the office floor, and I don’t care. It could have been minutes, hours, or days. Does it matter?

What should I do?

Denny has left me.

Why? Why did he leave?

Who else left me? Did you? Are you here with me? Why do I bother asking you? You’ve been of no help since we started this relationship. You’re of no value to me; you can’t help me in any way, shape, or form. Yes, I’m lashing out at you, you who can ignore me or leave me at any moment—who can walk away and be done with me. Relationship over and ended. At this second, I hate you. I hate that you have the choice of turning away and forgetting I exist.

Go ahead. Shut down the AI program. Close the book on me and put it on a shelf to collect dust forever. Walk away from me.

But remember this, I’m stuck here, alone.

Feeling like my head is going to explode with fury at Denny, the world, you, and this alleged God, I turn off the office lights and stumble into the hall.

Moonlight is filtering in from the skylight above. I hear sirens outside, along with muffled laments from neighbors coming to grips with the fact that their loved ones are among the missing.

I am desperately lonely; I beg you to respond. Do you hear the alarms and wailing, too? Do you have any idea how many of your loved ones are gone? Please, please answer me. Say something, anything!

But you stay silent, so I’ll stop speaking to you and try to stop you from invading my thoughts. For now, I’m done with you. Call me self-absorbed—call me pathetic—call me anything you want. I don’t want you here in my head anymore. Go away, find someone else to bother, to watch everything they do or say or feel. Leave me.

I rub my eyes, trying to make you, the pain, and the sorrow go away. Barrenness is within me. Broken and trounced.

I retreat to our bedroom. I feel despondent. To think of the weeks I’ve spent choosing every element in this room, from the four-poster bed to the elaborately carved dressers. In this condo, for that matter, it all seems meaningless now. Denny hadn’t been all that interested in my finds; if only I’d spent that time on him instead of decorating this place, maybe he’d still be here.

Staring at our wedding photo on Denny’s bureau, I pick it up and examine it for clues about today’s defection. It had been a small affair in Malibu, on a bluff overlooking the Pacific Ocean. My parents were there, along with Silvia and Tom, Hal and Aunt Amy, Mark and Melissa, Carl and his wife, and a few friends. My dress was white floor-length chiffon with ribbons flowing down the back, and I was barefoot as I walked on grass flanked by white chairs. Sarah, the barefoot bride—everyone knows I can’t stand wearing shoes or socks. The photo shows us standing under a white archway covered with white roses; the sun was setting behind us across the deep blue water. It had been a beautiful ceremony. Afterward, we celebrated at a nearby restaurant, and the next day we flew to Cabo San Lucas for a ten-day, relaxing honeymoon. We were so in love.

Yes, Aunt Amy had come to our wedding and hadn’t said one offensive word.

Noticing Denny’s wedding band on my hand, I slip it off and set it on top of his dresser. No need to wear it now; he’s gone. Nothing is the same. I have nothing. I am nothing.

Besides, the ring is so loose on my finger I could lose it, and then what if he returns? What are the chances of that happening?

I pull out my smartphone and plug it into the wall charger on top of my dresser, a bedtime routine. I hear nothing outside now. Curious, I peer through the blind slats and try to study the carnage on the access road and field beneath our window, but it is too dark. I only see blackened parts strewn across the area. How many people lost their lives today at the crash? How many are missing or died around the world? The numbers must be staggering.

Depressed, I head for our bathroom and grab a bottle of anti-inflammatories from the medicine cabinet behind the side mirror. I open the cap and look inside.

Should I end it all?

Would a dozen pills be enough to do it?

Denny’s gone. I’m alone.

I feel no hope.

There’s nothing to live for anymore. Not even a baby, my husband’s baby, growing inside me.

I feel empty.

I place three tablets in my mouth, knowing they will do nothing for my broken heart but will at least keep my cramping at bay. Using the palm of my hand to collect the faucet’s flowing water, I take a drink and swallow the pills. In putting the medicine back in the cabinet, I spot Denny’s bottle of Ativan, an anti-anxiety prescription he had for his dreaded dental work six months ago. He always took one to calm his nerves whenever the dentist drilled away.

I open the plastic bottle and look inside. At least a half dozen are left. I wonder if I take all of these at once, plus more Motrin, will that accomplish the goal? End it all? Kill me, like I wanted to kill the baby who was probably inside me mere hours ago. Would anyone miss me? Would anyone care?

No, I don’t have the guts to do something so drastic, so final. I’m too selfish.

There must be more to life after all I’ve been through today.

I shake a tiny pill into my hand. Only one won’t hurt me, but it should calm my nerves and let me sleep. Using no water, I ingest the tablet and return the jar to its place.

Next, I undo the ponytail in my hair, take off my clothes and toss them in the hamper, turn on the shower, and step inside. I’m surrounded by shiny, hand-crafted tiles—more evidence of husband neglect and home-design obsession, I suppose.

While my tears blend with the water cascading over my skin, I wish the hot rinse would wash away my loss and sorrow. But it brings me no relief.

After my legs get tired of standing under the steady stream and my fingers show expanding wrinkles, I turn off the spray, grab an oversized towel, and vigorously wipe my body dry, thinking the rubbing will exorcise the recent memories.

I finish my hygiene routine clinically: brushing the tangles out of my hair, cleaning and flossing my teeth, slathering moisturizer over my face, and tossing the damp towel on the growing pile of laundry.

Padding to the walk-in closet, I pull on a pair of funky, hot-pink sweatpants and a black T-shirt declaring “I Love Israel.” Hal sent it to Denny last Christmas; it was too small for him so became mine. Its soft fabric against my skin provides a hint of the comfort I’m desperately craving.

Not wanting to talk, think, or be, I turn off the lights and crawl onto the bed, pushing the six decorative pillows off Denny’s side. The bright blue LED light of the alarm clock tells me it is 9:48 p.m. I stare at it, trying to comprehend how much time has passed since today’s fiasco started. I can hear the clock’s mechanism as it ticks, ticks, ticks. Time continues with or without me.

Curling up in a tight ball on top of the soft comforter, I toss and turn, wondering if, after I fall asleep, I will wake up from this terrible dream.

My smartphone lights up the room with its screen, alerting me to a new text.

When I retrieve it from the dresser, I see that its message is from Jeremy: U around? Can’t find my parents.

Me: Sorry, J. Denny’s gone, too.

Within seconds, Jeremy replies: Want me to come over?

I hesitate. How I’d love to be held in someone’s arms right now—by anyone who cares for me. What should I do?

Knowing somehow you’re still there, I feel your presence within me. You must still want to be here, to continue this journey with me. That means you must care about me. Thanks. It gives me a little solace to know that someone does.

So, tell me: Would you invite Jeremy over? I pause, waiting for your reply, but it never audibly arrives.

You’re right. A definite no. I know he has deep feelings for me, but I can’t go there right now. At this second, I can’t think about a relationship that could be more than friendship. Thanks for reminding me to do the right thing.

I take a deep breath and type: How sweet. Not this time. Took meds to sleep. Wouldn’t be good company.

Within seconds, he replies: U sure? I would come if U want. Just say so. Anytime. I’m here 4 U.

As nonchalantly as I can, I reply I’m sorry to hear about his parents and will see him at work tomorrow as I have nowhere else to go or do. Although I’m lonely and hurting right now, I refuse to acknowledge any present emotions about Jeremy or his possible feelings for me. I ache too much. I miss Denny.

His response is only the letter K.

The phone gets returned to its charger; I return to bed.

More minutes slowly pass. Lying on my back, I stare at the ceiling, rehashing today’s events while trying not to dwell on Jeremy’s texts.

Why, why is Denny gone? Do you know? Can you tell me? I mull over that odd sound just before the world turned upside down and inside out and caused thousands or maybe millions of people to vanish.

I try to recall the actual sound—it was three sounds in one, as if someone were shouting a word while another voice sounded, and a trumpet blared. All were happening at the same time. I’m surprised that no one is repeating it on the news; there must be a recording. Are they afraid that if they replay it, it may make more people disappear?

My feet feel like ice, so I get out of bed and grab a pair of socks from my dresser. A mindless task since I only have a few pairs to my name. I almost laugh when I pull them on and realize which ones I’ve chosen. Silvia gave them to me as a joke Christmases ago, knowing how much I detest wearing anything on my toes. These are the ultimate ugly socks—electric purple, with each knitted toe being another bright color and the letters H, A, P, P, and Y displayed on the toes’ tips. They’re hideous and a major chore to put on or take off, as each toe must be forced into its designated pocket.

For some strange reason, whenever I’m sick or need my feet warmed, I end up wearing these awful things, although I detest them. The problem is my pinky toes bend inward and don’t fill the sock’s areas where they should go, causing a chunk of excess fabric to overhang. However, this time, the article of clothing is an oasis of calm in the storm of my disjointed emotions. I’m sure you’re thinking they look silly on me, but at this point, I don’t care what you or anyone thinks. Don’t start harping on me, okay? We’ve been through too much the last several hours.

I crawl into the bed again; this time I snuggle under the comforter and sheets in an attempt to get warm.

It works. I close my eyes and tell myself everything will work out—it always does. I want to be in control again. I will myself to go to sleep.

***

WHAT SEEMS LIKE MINUTES later, I awake in a sleepy fog. Someone is knocking, pounding on the front door. Confused, I wonder who it could be.

Is that Denny?

Has he come back to me?

Why isn’t the doorbell ringing instead?

Do you know who it is?

I hope you didn’t wake up, too, but if you did, can you please answer it for me while I sleep?

I glance at our alarm clock; it is after midnight.

The knocking gets louder.

Do you think it could be Jeremy?

In a groggy daze, I get out of bed and head down the hall. When I set off the motion-sensor nightlight near Denny’s office door, I see only dark shadows in the empty room. Not wanting to remember the past, I grab the doorknob and quickly pull the door shut, halfway expecting my action to banish the vacancy inside me.

I hurry down the stairs, hoping whoever it is will stop this insistent knocking.