Cody McFadyen - The Face of Death

Strobe-flash.

Sarah.

Sarah laughing.

Sarah crying.

Sarah living.

Oh.

God.

Sarah.

Linda realized in a final strobe-flash that she would miss this most of all: loving her daughter. She was pierced by a longing that was the sum of all the longings she'd ever felt or sculpted or painted. If pain could be rain, this was an ocean of it.

It came out of her in a howl. It wasn't something she could control. It sprang from her. A scream of agony to stop birds in flight. Even The Stranger grimaced at the sound of this howl, just a little. It was a physical force.

SarahSamSarahSamSarahSam

Strobe-flash.

The gunshot came and went in the room, a silenced thunderclap. Sarah stopped rocking for a moment.

The left side of Linda's head exploded.

Linda had been wrong.

Her last thought hadn't been about death.

It had been about love.

Hey, it's me. Modern-day Sarah. I'm going to write about the past and then take a break and come back to the present in places. It's the only way I'll ever get through this.

About my mom--maybe her last thought was about fear, maybe it was about nothing, I don't know. I can't really know. She was there and Daddy was there and I was there and he was there, these things are true. He made her kill them both while I watched, this is true. Is it true that my mom was that noble at the end, alone and suffering inside her head?

I don't know.

But then again, neither do you.

I do know that my mom had a lot of love in her. She used to say that her family was a part of her art. She said that without me and Daddy, she'd still paint, but all the colors would be dark ones. I like to think that she had some certainty, in that last moment, that what she was doing really would save my life, because it did, no matter what else happened later.

I don't know for sure whether her last thought was about love. But her last action was.

23

I CLOSE SARAH'S DIARY WITH A TREMBLING HAND AND GLANCEover at my clock. It's three A.M.

I need a break. I'm only just into Sarah's ordeal, and I already feel shaky and restless about it. She wasn't wrong; she has a gift. Her writing is too vivid. The happiness of the way her life used to be contrasts with the bitter humor of her prologue. It makes me feel sad and dirty. Wrung out.

What did she call it? A trip to the watering hole. I can see it in my mind. An obscene full moon in the sky, dark things drinking bad water . . .

I shiver because I also feel the fear rising inside me. Bad things happening to Sarah, a short step away from bad things happening to Bonnie . . .

I glance over at Bonnie. She is deep in sleep, her face untroubled, one arm thrown across my stomach. I disengage myself from her, lifting her arm away with the same gentle care I'd give to a ladybug I was setting free in the backyard. Her mouth opens, once, and then she curls into herself and continues to sleep.

In the beginning, she'd wake up at the slightest change or motion. The fact that she can now keep sleeping eases some of my concerns about her. She's getting better. She doesn't talk yet, it's true. But she's getting better. Now if I can just keep her alive . . . I slide out of the bed and tiptoe out of my bedroom, down the stairs, and into the kitchen. I reach into the cabinet above the refrigerator and find my secret vice and small shame. A bottle of tequila. Jose Cuervo, a friend of mine, just like the song.

I look at it and think: I am not an alcoholic.

I have spent time reviewing that statement, along the lines of "all crazy people say they're not crazy." I looked without giving myself the benefit of a doubt and arrived at that certainty: I am not an alcoholic. I drink two or three times a month. I never drink two days in a row. I get pleasantly buzzed but I never get truly shit-faced. There's a truth, though, a big, bellowing elephant in the room: I never drank for comfort until after Matt and Alexa died. Never, not once, no way.

It troubles me.

I had a great-uncle on my father's side who was a drunk. He wasn't the funny, friendly, charming drunk-uncle. He wasn't the artistically inclined, self-tortured, pitiable drunk-uncle either. He was embarrassing and violent and mean. He reeked of booze and sometimes worse. He grabbed me by the arm at a family gathering one time with enough force to leave a bruise, put his boozy mouth about an inch from my terrified face (I was only eight) and proceeded to say something garbled and sly and disgusting that I've never fully deciphered. The things we see as children make lasting impressions. That's the picture of a drunk that always stuck with me. Anytime I was drinking and found myself heading toward a little too much, Great-Uncle Joe's rheumy-eyed, unshaven face would pop into my head. I'd remember the smell of whisky and tooth decay and the cunning look in his eyes. I'd set down whatever I happened to be drinking at the time, and that would be it.

Not long after my family died, I found myself in the liquor section of the supermarket. I realized that I had never bought anything other than a bottle of wine, certainly not at a supermarket, definitely not in the middle of the afternoon. The tequila caught my eye, the song came to mind.

Screw it, I'd thought to myself.

I'd grabbed the bottle, paid for it without meeting the checker's eyes, and hustled home.

I spent about ten minutes at home with my chin in my hand, gazing at the bottle, wondering if I was about to become a true cliche. If I was about to become Great-Uncle Joe, a chip off the old block.

Nah, I'd thought. No one pitied Great-Uncle Joe. They'll pity you. It went down good, it felt good, I liked it.

I didn't get drunk. I got . . . floaty. That's as far as I've ever taken it. The problem, I think now, as I pour an inch (never more) into a glass, is that I continued this habit even after the agony of losing my family subsided. Now, it helps me with my fear, or in times of great pressure. The danger is in that arena: not drinking because I want to, but because I need to. I know that means it's not a healthy habit I have here.

"To rationalization," I murmur, toasting the air. I down the glass in a single gulp and it feels like I just swallowed paint stripper or fire, but it's a good feeling, putting pressure behind my eyes and delivering an almost instantaneous feeling of contentment. Which is the point. Contentment is so much harder to come by than joy, I've always thought. A single shot of tequila does it, for me.

"Jose Cuervo, da do do do dah dah," I sing in a whisper-voice. I consider a second shot, but decide against it. I cap the bottle and replace it in the cabinet. I rinse the glass, taking care to get rid of any lingering smell. More tiny red flags, I know: drinking alone, hiding it. In the end, I have to accept that, rationalized or not, my drinking isn't out of control, and hope that I'll recognize it if it ever becomes so. I consider the moment. Why is Sarah's tale getting so under my skin? Why the need to run to Mr. Cuervo right now? It's a terrible story, but I've heard terrible stories before. Hell, I've lived terrible stories. Why is this one hitting me so hard?

Bonnie's already nailed it: because Sarah is Bonnie, and Bonnie is Sarah. Bonnie is a painter, Sarah is a writer, both have lost parents, both are dark and damaged. If Sarah is doomed, does that mean that Bonnie is too? These similarities stoke my fears. Fear is what I struggle with most, these days.

I had played down the actual level of my terrors about Bonnie when I had talked to Elaina. The fear, when it comes, surpasses mere discomfort. I have hyperventilated. I've locked the bathroom door and crouched on the floor, arms around my knees, shaking with panic.