Prologue

Darkness and anger have consumed me, overshadowing any recognizable piece of who I used to be. It happened slowly, as if I could watch each pigment as it drizzled over me. I have looked over my reflection several times, searching for a fragment of the person I used to be, the person I need to be right now. I have asked, yelled, cried the same questions over and over—“How the hell did I even get here?”—“Who am I?” But the questions always go unanswered by the stranger staring back at me. The answer seemingly out of reach, shrouded by the darkness.

It’s funny how a marriage begins with two distinct individuals, each with their own personality, goals, likes and dislikes, but ends with one unit. A unit crafted by soldering together pieces from each person with precision and meaning. It’s rare that the pieces salvaged from each person can adjoin with those of another. Only the lucky find that the person they give pieces of themselves to is the same person who can or will provide pieces in return that fit with their own. More commonly, people find that the person who they shared themselves with provides pieces that simply aren’t compatible. Perhaps an even sadder reality is that sometimes the person who trustingly receives those pieces slowly molds them into whatever they think those pieces should look like. And in doing so, erases their partner’s identity.

I was one of the lucky ones.

For a bit, anyway.

Most people meet at stable and happy times in their lives, whatever that means. Morris and I met right after his father died unexpectedly in a car crash. Donald had been on his way home from Christmas shopping when he suffered a major heart attack. His car ran off the road and struck a tree. The coroner never could decide whether the heart attack or the car crash was the actual cause of death, but that didn’t prevent Morris from obsessing over his health from there on out.

Until Lyra’s death, at least.

Morris is an only child, so with Donald gone and his mother dying during childbirth, he was alone. I was covering the emergency department that night, fresh out of medical school, and the pull to comfort and guide him through the darkest and what had to be the most painful time in his life was undeniable. It wasn’t long after that fateful day that we began slowly sharing pieces of ourselves. Comfort quickly grew into friendship and coffees on Sunday mornings, to our first date, and eventually into an eleven-year marriage and two children. His pieces seamlessly merged with mine as if they were tailor made for that purpose. Every curve, each nook and cranny, complemented my own, leaving no gap and forging a bond that I once thought was unbreakable.

I soon learned that nothing is unbreakable.

Everything and everyone have a weakness, an Achilles’ heel, and our marriage was no different.

After Lyra, our bonds slowly disintegrated. It quickly became apparent that once broken, it is not always possible to mend. Every bond that breaks, every piece that chips away from the whole, the aura of inevitability is harder and harder to ignore.

I expected the hurt. I expected the sting of the pain, but I didn’t expect the gut wrenching agony or the uncomfortable seconds that passed after the damage was done. All I wanted was to cut my heart from my chest, throw it on the ground, and stomp on it repeatedly. Maybe I would have been less affected by watching the person with whom I promised my life become a stranger… a monster.

Some say the good overshadows the bad. Most don’t understand how a person stays in such horrible situations. As if on loop, “I would never…,” “If that were me, I would leave.” “It’s her/his fault. Why did he/she stay?”

Fucking warriors talking about strategy on a battlefield where they’ve never fought. There are stages in the madness. The Surprise, where the person you once knew, shows a side of themselves you never knew existed. The Uncertainty, where you contemplate leaving but then see a part of the person who you love. Are you giving up too soon? So, you stay and hold on for that person, for that version, for what once was and could be again. This stage is the longest, and it sucks the life out of you. To be quite honest, some never make it out of this stage.

Me? Well, I guess it could be said that I’ve reached the Detached Stage. The “I don’t give a fuck stage” where I don’t care what Morris does to me because any feelings of love or hope I had that he would change died slowly over those years, along with so many other things—our daughter, our marriage, our bond, my sense of self, the recognition of my reflection. So, as I stand here, in a home I purchased out of hope, in a room that’s meant to reflect love and respect and connection, my mind wanders free of the prison that is my life. Free of the pain that he tries and succeeds to inflict, daily. Free of the reality where my safety is always in question, and my feet are set in a concrete foundation of a sinking marriage.

A reality where I wake up and wonder—is today the day that Morris breaks?

     Is today the day he takes things too far?

     Or will today be one of the good days, the days that are way too far and few between? The days that sustain me until the next good day comes along. In the darkest of times, the days I use to justify staying. The days that encourage me to keep adding glue to the pieces of our unit that remain and give false hope that the Morris that now exists will fade back into the Morris I fell in love with.

     A temporary and futile fix and unmet expectations.

I sigh and allow myself to sink into the felt couch that has been the only constant and reliable support in my life for over half a decade. The only crutch that I’ve allowed myself. I grab my throw pillow and push myself deep into the cushions, embracing their comfort and familiarity. This couch has always been here for me and expected nothing in return.

When I return home from a long shift, this couch accepts me and wraps me in comfort. It feels the heaviness of my burdens and feels the tiredness in my muscles and bones. It has been selfless and allowed me to be selfish. This couch has never accused me of being the root cause of every unpleasant situation. This couch doesn’t expect me to do everything for everyone with nothing in return, not even a bit of recognition, affection, or concern for my wellbeing.

This couch doesn’t act like I killed my daughter.

How sad is it that I’m more comforted and feel more loved and understood by a damn piece of furniture than I do by my husband? The same man who’s shared a life with me for thirteen years. The same man I promised the rest of my life to and with whom I shared a family. I snuggle myself deeper into the cushions and allow them to absorb the weight once again.

     I squeeze my eyes tight and search desperately for the power switch to my buzzing brain. As the darkness envelops me, I welcome it, hoping it will wash away the discomforting thoughts of my failed marriage.

______________________________

     The warm sun on my face and the waves crashing against the sand gives an indescribable feeling of relaxation that feels like a wrecking ball to the walls I’ve built around my heart. With every wave crashing against the shore, the walls constructed of disappointment, heartbreak, loss, frustration, doubts, and failure appear to crack and eventually crumble, allowing for a fleeting sense of relief and, perhaps, a hint of happiness.

     A deep sigh escapes my body, carrying with it a weight that has been too heavy for one person to bear for as long as I have. The toll on my mind and body from the weight has been irreversible. It’s a weight that I’m not sure I can carry anymore. With every wave, the weight dissipates.

     A familiar carefree, contagious laughter overtakes the sound of the waves. It’s a sound I haven’t heard in six years, even in dreams. It’s a laugh that I’ve cried, begged, and pleaded with God to hear. Tears fill my eyes, and Lyra’s giggles echo throughout my mind. I lift from the beach towel beneath me, shadowing my eyes with my left arm, and see a five-year-old Lyra and a young, handsome Morris smiling back at me. Lyra is running through the tide away from Morris as he chases her down the beach. His hair is long and dark, the way I remember it when I first met him. His eyes carry the light that I watched leave when Lyra’s soul left her body.

     I take in the sight of Morris staring back at me with a joyful, loving smile that I haven’t seen in years. I stare back into his eyes that still actually look connected to emotion, instead of blocked by impenetrable walls. The warmth in my chest amplifies the sun’s heat, and the smile that I feel in my chest brings tears to my eyes. I laugh and let tears fall freely, because no matter how much I try, I can’t hold them back in this moment.

     These tears are different, though. These tears aren’t the same tears I shed in the shower or in my bed every night. These tears aren’t the same tears I cry at the memories of Lyra or what Corsyn is missing now that Morris is half the man he once was.

     These are tears of happiness and relief for the return of the things I’ve deeply mourned the loss of—my child, the Morris that I knew, and my marriage. I stand and run toward the tide with every bit of hope I’ve been missing all these years, trying to reach Lyra and Morris and the happiness that seems to dull any other happiness I’ve ever felt. I run as hard as I can and reach out my hand, but it goes unmet.

     They didn’t seem that far away when I left my spot on the beach, but no matter how hard or fast I run, I can’t reach them. Lyra and Morris are running toward me. I’m running toward them, but despite my effort, we’re all just staying the same distance apart. They are standing under the warmth of the same sun as I am. I’m feeling the grit of the same sand and hearing the crash of the same waves. As I watch them run along the shore, I can see the water splash from their footsteps. The glisten of the water droplets on their skin pierces my eyes, yet they seem so far away. I run, and I run until I realize that I’m not moving. I look down to see my beach towel I left unattended at my feet, and it hits me. This is unreachable, like the happiness I just felt.

     When I awake, the sun is no longer in the middle of the sky, and the couch has absorbed yet another heartache. I lie still, catatonic, as I attempt to make sense of what I’m trying to tell myself, what I have no choice but to accept.

     How the young and carefree Morris carried himself, wore his hair, smiled, behaved, loved, parented before the death of Lyra is all in stark contrast to the Morris that I know now. Lyra’s death caused more change than just Morris’s haircuts. Looking back on all our memories, Lyra is the one constant that I can remember causing Morris’s happiness. Morris had battled demons since I met him, but Lyra’s mere presence obliterated them all effortlessly and provided sunlight for barren landscapes that had been pure shadows, giving way to a brand new Morris I had never seen before. A Morris that I’ll never forget. A Morris that I’ll forever be grateful to the universe for bringing into my life. There was never another Morris quite like the Morris he was when he was with Lyra.

     As I lie here, reliving all the memories this dream has dredged up, I’m forced to remember that Lyra died shortly after that beach visit and accept the fact that the Morris that I knew and promised to spend my life with died that day, too. The Morris that I knew is still stuck on that beach, unable to accept the unfortunate reality that is our lives.