Vital Sign (2 page)

My cursor blinks rhythmically on the screen
, causing me to blurt out a noise that comes out sounding like a sob and a sarcastic chuckle procreated and that’s what they spawned. Half snort, half whimper, but purely insane. I’ve been thinking that a lot lately.

Insane Sadie.
Insadie.

It does have a ring to it. No doubt about that. My eyes leave the screen and peer out my living room window. I stare out as cars cruise
idly down my street. My grass is freshly cut. My driveway is neatly edged. You’d think that someone who actually gives a damn lives here at 803 Chestnut Lane.

Not so much.
Not even close.

Dad is to thank for the pristine yard.
Mom is responsible for the freezer full of ready-made meals that require next to no effort to prepare. There’s a pink sticky note taped to the lid of each plastic dish saying the same thing.

3 minutes on high in the microwave.

Stir.

2 more minutes.

XO-Mom

She’s taken the time to write the same damn thing on each note and instead of thinking about how lucky I am to have a mom who cares so damn much, I think that she’s wasted her time. Who writes the same thing on a sticky note at least 20, 30, hell, 40 times
or so? I’m not a moron. She’s stocked me with enough food to take on a zombie apocalypse and I never eat any of it. It’s the Southern belle mentality. Food is love and Southern mamas love. A lot. It’s also the “whole starve a cold, feed a fever” approach, except in this situation, it’s more aptly, “engorge a widow.”

Another half snort
/half whimper escapes my throat and a part of me, somewhere inside, is disgusted that I am the way I am. I imagine the long lost version of myself, the one deep inside, behind bars, is shaking her head in condescension at the new me. You’d think that I’d be ashamed of my mental status these days, but I’m not. I’m fucking sick of life and I haven’t made a single effort at hiding it. I’m callous with just about everyone, including myself, but somehow…somehow I’m not inclined to be that way with
him.
I don’t know why and I kind of hate that I feel like playing favorites with this man, but who can blame me? On some level…I love him. I love him and hate him simultaneously. See?

Insane.

I read the first email I received from him one more time even though my impassive eyes have scanned the words so many times that I could probably recite what he’s typed.

To:
[email protected]

From:
[email protected]

Subject:
Hi

April, 16, 2013

4:08 pm

One week from now?
Tuesday, April 23
rd
? 9am is a good time. There’s a breakfast place called The Red Rooster on Main. I’ll meet you there. I’ve included my cell phone number in case your plans change.

Regards,

Alexander McBride

No apologies. No condolences. No sympathy or questions about how I’m dealing.

I don’t know why, but something about the short and to the point theme of his email feels relatable. I’m the same way. I’ve been short and snappy with everyone since Jake. And despite knowing that I shouldn’t
want
to know why he seems so short, I
do
want to know. I know why I’m short and abrasive.
Why is he?

***

My fingers hover over the keys, unsure of what I want to say—what I should say.

I’ve been thinking about it all day. All night too. I can’t seem to sleep at all. I can almost feel Jake around me tonight. It’s torture. His presence feels almost close enough that I imagine if I closed my eyes and reached out for him,
my hands would find him on instinct alone.

I
wish I could touch him.

To:
[email protected]

From:
[email protected]

Subject:
Meeting

April,
17, 2013

2:29 am

Mr. McBride,

Why do I get the impression that you are a massive dickhead?

Another obnoxious hybrid laugh bubbles out of me and I bring my fingers to the mouse on my laptop, shaking my head. I highlight then peck the delete button extra hard.

Mr. McBride,

That’s fine.

-Sadie Parker

I type my response, including my cell phone number, and then send the email that feels like it should say so much more. What it should say, I have no idea, but I
feel
like it should say more than it does. That could be in part because the emails I exchanged with Mrs. Hampton, the woman who received Jake’s kidneys, consisted of copious amounts of sympathy and encouraging words.

It was
more of the same with Terry Jones. His liver was shot for some reason or another. I never asked. I don’t need or want to know. He and Jake made a fine match and so that’s what happened. Jake died. He lived.

While his wife
, Ellen, was the one doing most of the emailing, they both sent their regards over and over. I know it’s the nice thing to do, but it doesn’t make it any less annoying for me.

I’m sick of sympathy.
I kind of wish someone would act like a dickhead even if only for the sake of breaking up the monotony. The last two years have become a sugar-coated sympathy fest with a compassion filling that has done nothing but leave me sick to my stomach.

I’m a bitch. I know. I kind of wish someone would join me in the bitch-fest
, though. Ditch the sympathy and take the low road like I did. Maybe then I wouldn’t be so goddamn lonely. Maybe then I could catch my breath. Maybe then I wouldn’t feel so isolated.

To:
[email protected]

From:
[email protected]

Subject:
It’s late

April 17, 2013

2:42 am

Why are you awake?

Regards,

Alexander McBride

I sit back in my bed and think about what I should say. I don’t know him. Why does he care that it’s late? I shake my head, exhaling a loud sigh.

To:
[email protected]

From:
[email protected]

Subject:
twilight troubles

April 17, 2013

2:52 am

I could ask you the same thing.

-Sadie

To:
[email protected]

From:
[email protected]

Subject:
It’s still late

April 17, 2013

2:59 am

A storm has come in. I got up to watch the lightning on the water. I like storms. What’s your excuse for sleep deprivation?

Regards,

Alexander McBride

To:
[email protected]

From:
[email protected]

Subject:
twenty questions

April 17, 2013

3:02 am

Hard to sleep when you can’t breathe. I miss my husband. I miss Jake.

-Sadie

***

To:
[email protected]

From:
[email protected]

Subject:
twenty questions

April 18, 2013

8:13 am

Tell me something no one else knows about you
.

Regards,

-Alexander McBride

To:
[email protected]

From:
[email protected]

Subject:
twenty questions

April 18, 2013

8:24 am

I hate my mom’s enchilada casserole but I have at least three servings of it in my freezer.
What about you?

-Sadie

To:
[email protected]

From:
[email protected]

Subject:
twenty questions

April 18, 2013

8:38 am

I don’t vote. Ever.

Regards,

-Alexander McBride

To:
[email protected]

From:
[email protected]

Subject:
RE twenty questions

April 18, 2013

10:17 am

So much for civic duty. Where is your sense of
social responsibility, Mr. McBride?

I joke.

I don’t vote either. Off to do penance for negligence of democracy.

-Sadie

To:
[email protected]

From:
[email protected]

Subject:
Atonement

April 18, 2013

10:22 am

You’re funny. Just in case you were wondering. Thank you for the laugh. It’s been a while. Consider yourself atoned for your negligence of democracy. Surely making a heart patient laugh carries some weight in the good deeds department.

Regards,

Alexander McBride

***

My phone starts humming and buzzing from inside my purse.
I look down at my purse on the couch beside me as if it’s a foreign object. I don’t have to look at the screen to know who’s calling me. I know who it is; the ringtone says it all.

“
Girls Just Want To Have Fun”
by Cyndi Lauper
.

I a
ssigned my big sister that ring tone years ago. It used to be cute. Now it’s all sorts of annoying. I make a mental note to change it as slide my laptop off my lap, setting it beside me. I pull the phone from the side pocket of my purse.

I take a moment to stare at the screen like I always do. I used to love getting a daily call from Jenna. It’s not the same anymore. I avoid her and I know that she knows it. I just hope she can understand it. She and my brother
-in-law have moved on with life. They have a beautiful little boy and while I adore my nephew, it hurts.

I’m the little sister who
’s stuck living in the dark bubble of March 2011 and she’s the happy older sister living in the present and looking forward to a promising future with her husband and son. Who knows if they’ll have more? I haven’t asked. That’s exactly how shitty I’ve been in my role as the adoring younger sister. I haven’t even asked about their plans for more children. I didn’t plan her baby shower. I didn’t help her pick out nursery furniture. I hadn’t even answered my cell phone when she was making the calls to announce her pregnancy to everyone. She left a message telling me that I’d be an aunt. I was the absentee, depressing little sister, supportive to a limit, who everyone, with exception of our mom, left alone to wallow. It was uncomfortable to say the least. Everyone was thrilled with where life was going and I was trying to adjust to sleeping alone.

The rift between me and everyone else only grows by the day. They don’t exactly know how to behave around me and I don’t blame them. It must be awkward celebrating a birthday or a holiday with the 26
-year-old widow in the room. People don’t know exactly what to say or how to say it, so they usually don’t say much at all. They just pass by, pretending not to see me. Makes it better for both of us, though. I’m tired of giving insincere thanks to people who are forced into giving their forced sympathy. It’s social responsibility, I suppose, but it doesn’t change how I feel. It just doesn’t change the fact that I kind of wish someone would walk up to me, hand me a fucking drink, and say something honest like, “People suck. Life is a massive asshole and I can’t sleep at night on account of how crappy my life is.”
That
is something I can relate to.
That
is someone I could possibly talk to. All the fluff from everyone else? Not my thing. I nod and hand out tight smiles like Halloween candy, methodically, like the emotional robot that tragedy has a way of turning people into. In the meantime, I drift further and further from society. I feel like a loner. I feel so lost. What’s worse is I don’t really think I care to fight my way back from it all. I could just lie down and die and I think I would be okay with it. It may be a bleak outlook to have, but at least I have the intestinal fortitude to be honest about the whole situation.

I don’t like that I haven’t been able to be there for Jenna
or anyone else in the way they deserve. I hate it, in fact. I feel like a giant asshole for it. I don’t feel like much of a sister, or a daughter, or a friend anymore, and I’m definitely not anybody’s wife. So who the fuck am I? If Jenna’s nursing a grudge over my bullshit, it would be news to me. She hasn’t once made it a point to express how disappointed she is. She doesn’t really have to, though. I know I’ve let her down.