My Zombie Honeymoon: Love in the Age of Zombies Book One (23 page)

Amazing

Which is more amazing:

dead bodies,

walking, eating, killing

or

this dead heart

living, loving, healing

December 19
th

It’s been a tough couple of days. The day after my last entry, I got up early, leaving Michelle sleeping. I made some coffee and went into the living room. We had left the CDs and cases out, kind of spread around, and I decided to tidy up. I put my CDs away first and then put hers away. After I put them away, I went through a few of her discs to see what kind of musical tastes she had. In the process, I came across CDs with notes attached to them. Some had inscriptions written on the cases or on the inserts. They were love notes. From Wayne.

Wayne, telling Michelle how much he loved her, how she’s his heart and soul, how passionate their love is. One case contained a folded over note; the outside said, “Michelle, any day is a good day to say three little words to you.” On the inside it said, “Let’s get naked.”

I felt a stirring of darkness inside. A feeling I wasn’t familiar with and didn’t like. It was Shakespeare’s green-eyed monster. I was jealous of Wayne. I couldn’t help myself—I went through all her CDs. I found seven of them with love notes, all from Wayne. By the time I finished going through them I was actually angry. I don’t know why. I remember thinking,
So
this
is why she brought them over
!

The rational part of my mind recognized how absurd this was. How unfair and inappropriate my feelings were. It didn’t matter; my emotions remained.

I put the CDs away and made myself get busy. I tried all day to reason myself out of my feelings. I couldn’t do it. No matter what reasoning I used, I couldn’t dismiss my anger. I made every effort in my interactions with Michelle to appear as if there was nothing wrong. We made small talk and joked with each other, but inwardly I felt stretched taut. Even as I write this I feel tight. I’m trying to act like things are okay, but they’re not. I’m pretending.

Not long ago, we went to bed and made love. I remember a friend of mine, Brian, talking about a
grudge fuck,
where you’re angry and you fuck like you’re angry. I had no idea what he was talking about until tonight. I wouldn’t say I fucked her with anger, but I would say I fucked her instead of making love to her. I was rougher than usual, but she didn’t seem to mind. She fell asleep in my pretending-I’m-okay arms, and I lay awake, mentally chewing on this unaccustomed cud. Eventually I fell asleep despite my smoldering anger and questions.

This morning I woke up and stared at the ceiling, trying to figure out what was going on. Why did I feel so depressed and anxious? Michelle woke up and drowsily nestled her head on my chest with my arm draped over her back. I lay there listening to her breathing and she slowly stroked my chest. Once again I slipped into bizarre paranoia. I felt sure she was about to say,
Kevin, there’s something I need to tell you.
She’d cry and confess and would say how sorry she was, but she couldn’t help how she felt. I’d find out my suspicions were justified. I’d learn my life for the past few months had been a misguided illusion; a sham. At one point her hand travelled lower, between my legs, and even though I was already hard, I kissed the top of her head and said “Not this morning. Maybe later.”

She moaned in disappointment and said “Okay, but later I’m going to ravage you!” Being ravaged didn’t appeal to me. I’m a regular guy and I know I could have sex with her despite my emotions, but I didn’t want to have sex with. Except for last night I’ve never just had sex with her, it’s never been mechanical. I’ve always celebrated her body and our feelings for each other. The other part of me once again was dismayed.
She wants to ravage you and you’re not interested? What the
hell
is going on?!
I got up and again went through the motions of acting normal. She stayed in bed a few more minutes while I made coffee. I sat in the living room, glancing over at her CDs, remembering what the notes said.
She must have kept those notes and CDs because she’s still in love with him and misses him
I concluded.

I sat and stewed for a half hour or so, occasionally sipping my now-cold and bitter coffee while she took a shower. My efforts to talk myself down from this emotional ledge were not working—in fact, my anger was building. I felt like I’d been blindsided. It felt as if I’d found a stash of pornographic photos of them.

As I was sat there stewing, Michelle came out of the bedroom and poured a cup of coffee. Carrying it into the living room she innocently asked “What are you doing?”

I tried not to say anything about the notes. “Just sitting here thinking.” Then before I could stop myself, I quietly said, “Why didn’t you tell me you were still in love with Wayne? Don’t you think that’s something I should know?”

“Kevin, you need to learn to hold off on trying to be funny until after my first cup of coffee. Or after we make love.”

“I’m not joking. I want to know. I think I deserve to know what’s going on.”

She put the cup of coffee down. She’d barely sipped it. She looked me full in the eyes. “Kevin, I’m not in love with Wayne. That was a long time ago. Where is this coming from?”

“I’m not stupid. I came across his love notes with your CDs. About how much he loves you. About getting naked. You wouldn’t have kept them if you didn’t still love him.” By now I was on my feet. I had begun to pace. I wasn’t talking so quietly anymore. Even while it was happening, a part of me was thinking
Whoa! Slow down! You’re overreacting!

Michelle picked up her cup of coffee, took a sip, and then calmly put it back down. She looked at me again. “Kevin, listen to me. You’re talking about Wayne in the present tense, like he’s still around. But he’s not. For all I know he’s dead. I don’t even know where he lives. So I still have the CDs he gave me. I like the music. So they still have love notes on them. You know I don’t listen to CDs much, I listen to my MP3s. I didn’t even remember the notes. I don’t love him anymore! That’s absurd!”

“How can you expect me to believe you?” I asked, my anger increasing. I was losing control, my emotions igniting like gasoline. “First you downplay how much you loved him, then you hide these CDs and love notes, and now you say you don’t love him but the evidence says you do! How can I trust you when I know you’re not being honest?” I moved toward her and got in her personal space. I could see the fear and anger on her face. At the moment, I thought she was mad because she’d been busted—because she’d been caught red handed. She backed up away from me.

“Kevin, what’s wrong with you? I’ve never seen you like this! You’re acting crazy! I didn’t hide anything from you and I don’t still love Wayne!”

“Oh, so now on top of everything else you’re saying I’m crazy?!” I grabbed her coffee cup from the table and hurled it against the wall. Coffee went everywhere and the cup shattered. I guess that pushed her over the edge. She began shouting.

“All right, you’re going to
stop this right now
and listen to me! I’m
not
in love with Wayne. I’m in love with
you
. Wayne is dead. Everyone I knew and loved is dead. How the
fuck
can you be jealous over a dead guy who
walked out on me when . . .”
She took a deep breath. “Yes, I loved him. Yes, he broke my heart. That was ages ago when we lived in a different world. My feelings for him . . .” She broke into tears.

See, there she goes, missing him and crying for him,
my disturbed side commented. She covered her eyes for a moment, then looked up at me while wiping her teary eyes.

“This is no different than you having photos of Tammy around. And you still wear your wedding ring. Who knows what else I’d find if I snooped around? Do you see me getting all weirded out about that? Do you hear me accusing you of not being honest? No. But here you are, accusing me . . . She stopped, closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and said “I can’t talk to you right now. Please give me some space.” She ran into the bedroom. I could hear her crying.

I felt such an odd mixture of thoughts and feelings. I felt like I was splitting into two parts of myself. My heart was saying,
I know what I saw. I know what I read. I don’t care what she says. I know what I know.
My mind was telling me,
What the hell is wrong with you? You’re acting like you caught her cheating on you. She says she doesn’t love him. Has she ever lied to you? No. And even if she is still in love with him, so what? He’s dead, either dead and buried or he’s a zombie looking for someone to eat.

Another part of me, a very small voice nearly unnoticed, said
And
she said she’s in love with you!

But my heart wouldn’t listen. Even writing it now, it feels absurd. I felt betrayed. I felt like I’d been kicked in the gut. Michelle, in love with another man. How could she do this to me? Here I trusted her, and once again, what did I learn?
Never, ever trust a woman. They’ll lie to you, they’ll abandon you, they’ll stomp your heart in the ground with a hobnailed boot and then feed it to the zombies. Everyone goes away in the end.

I stormed into the storeroom and got a bottle of booze. I poured a nice slug, slammed it, then poured another. It was barely 9:00. My hands were clammy and shaking and I felt crazy. I don’t mean figuratively. I felt like I was losing my mind. Usually when I find myself overreacting to something I can talk myself down. But not this time. I wandered around, coming back time and again to the love notes from Wayne.

After about a half hour I grabbed the bottle of bourbon and headed upstairs. I deliberately made the trap door slam after I stepped into the kitchen. It was a cold, dark empty house. The house where I mourned the death of my son and the death of my wife. The house in which I made love to my wife. I walked around the rooms, muttering to myself, “I know what I know. I know what I saw.” My mind was arguing with me the whole time, telling me to get a grip, I was being stupid and was about to mess up a good thing. I completely ignored it.

After wandering through different rooms, not really seeing anything, I ended up in our old bedroom. I had continued to drink the straight bourbon, and the alcohol started hitting me hard since I hadn’t eaten anything. I don’t remember much after that. I do remember staring at the photo of Tammy and me on our wedding day. Huge smiles. She was beautiful. She was dead and I was drunk. I’m going to let Michelle write what happened next, because frankly I don’t recall.

So here I am, writing again. I hate writing. But Kevin asked me to. So here goes. After he flipped out on me, I ran into the bedroom. I heard Kevin open a bottle of booze. Then I heard the trap door slam so I knew he must have gone upstairs. I waited a few minutes to calm down. I didn’t know why he was so mad. He was acting crazy. But I also loved him and was worried about him. I’d never had the slightest hint that he was unstable.

After giving him a half-hour or so to come to his senses, I went upstairs and heard him crying. I found him in his old bedroom. He was pretty drunk. He was talking incoherently to a photo of Tammy. I heard her name a few times and mine too. I don’t think he even knew I was there. He was still holding the bottle of booze and was barely keeping his balance and the booze sloshed out of the bottle onto the floor. I heard a phrase or two I understood. He kept saying why did she do it, why did she do it. I didn’t know if he was talking about Tammy or me. And a couple times I heard him say please don’t go away.

Then he got sick. He turned toward me and his eyes were unfocused. I got out of his way. I don’t know if he saw me or not—he didn’t act like he saw me. He stumbled down the hall to the bathroom. He fell into the wall once. As he went into the bathroom he threw up. All over the floor. Then he was throwing up into the dry toilet. I went in and stood watching him. He didn’t know I was there.

At first I felt like it served him right, being sick. Then I started feeling sorry for him. I found some washcloths in the closet and knelt down on the floor next to him. He had vomit all over his shirt. I tried to clean him up but it wasn’t easy with him still throwing up. Eventually I got most of it off him. I cleaned up his face. He quit throwing up and I pulled him to me despite all the stink. I rested his head in my lap.

He was crying and mumbling but I couldn’t tell what he was saying. He looked up at me with red eyes. His breath smelled like bourbon vomit. He was still crying. He looked right at me and said what did I do wrong? Then he started crying again. His whole body was shaking with his sobs. He started calling for Jason. He called his name over and over. My heart melted. He might pretend he’s okay, and maybe sometimes he is okay, but there’s also a broken part of him. These feelings have been bottled up inside him for years. They aren’t because of me. They belong to Tammy and Jason. Maybe he never let himself grieve. I guess our intimacy brought those feelings to the surface. Opening his heart to me was reopening an old wound.

I sat on the floor. His head was in my lap. He was still crying but was probably about to pass out. The room stank. At one point he threw up on me. He didn’t have much left in his system so it was okay.

I knew he probably needed to drink some water, and I really wanted to get downstairs. I told him let’s go get in bed, but I had to say it loudly a couple of times before he responded. Then he seemed surprised to see me and started crying again, drunkenly wrapping his arms around me. He told me he loved me over and over. He’d never said that before. I told him again to come on downstairs and get in bed, and eventually helped him to his feet. He bumped his head on the sink in the process. He bumped it hard but was obviously feeling no pain. Literally. I had his arm around my shoulder and helped him downstairs. I was afraid we were going to fall down the stairs because he was so unsteady. He could barely walk. But eventually we made it and I half-carried him into the bedroom.