2019
Jolene
“I wish you were dead.” Those were the last words I said to Jackson. And now he is. His funeral is tomorrow, and although every fibre of my being doesn’t want to be here, I still walked toward the cemetery as soon as I landed in Providence. And now, almost an hour later, I’m still here. I could have gone downtown, stroll the streets for a little while, but it was too soon. I was definitely too vulnerable to face this town alone. So with nowhere to hide, and because heading to my hotel room right away was too depressing and made this all too real, here I am, looking down at the hollow grave in the ground that will hold my best friend’s body for eternity in less than twenty-four hours. I can’t help but picture Jackson’s body being lowered in this hole. No casket, no ceremonial goodbyes, just his corpse being thrown in the dirt, his eyes wide open staring back at me while he’s going down, judging, waiting. For what? I’m not sure exactly, but the guilt is eating me away nonetheless, the words sorrysorrysorry whispered obsessively under my breath. As if to make the moment even more morbid, it’s in the middle of this perfectly tailored nightmarish vision that someone chooses to grab my hand. I’m too numb to scream, but a strange sound still escapes my throat, something in between a sharp inhale and high pitched noise. I turn around, too quickly, the sudden movement birthing the sharpest pain in the left side of my neck. I want to curse it out, but standing next to me is Marjorie. The relief is instantaneous. She is still holding my hand and she is smiling at me. I am calmer, the sudden shock and pain both gone for good, but something is still off. Even though her smile has always been her best feature, the white of her teeth almost too perfect and a light in even the darkest situations, right now, it seems forced. Marjorie, like me, looks like she’s nervous, constantly looking over her shoulder, the lack of sleep obvious on her face, the dark circles under her eyes taking every ounce of light out of them. I haven’t seen her in years, but it feels like we just left each other yesterday. Just two friends who made plans to meet the next day at their friend’s grave…the casualness of the situation leaves me feeling uneasy but somehow content. I understand at once that I am already falling back into a dangerous pattern, a toxic habit I had a hard time breaking and still remains too comfortable for my own good.
“Are you ok?” She asks me before I have a chance to ask her. The truth is, we are both doing terrible and we both can tell. But the pretenses and the lies, especially the lies, even now, are hard to give up.
“Yeah, I guess I didn’t see it coming, you know? I thought he was doing better. I mean, honestly, I didn’t even know he was doing that bad.” My words come out weak, unprepared and inefficient for the immensity of the pain we both feel. It’s more than loss and yet not quite. It’s the idea that you’ve been robbed of something: a life, an answer, a memory. It is cruel and unfathomable. Still, a part of me knows we are being selfish for even feeling this way. How can we grieve when we brought this upon ourselves?
“Oh my God, Jo!” Marjorie is frantically pulling on my arm, trying to bring my attention back to the hole beneath us. I realize now I’ve been staring at the trees in the distance instead of our friend’s humble last home. When I look down, it takes me several seconds to notice I’m not breathing anymore. At the bottom of the hollow grave, I can see the ground moving; slowly at first and then faster, until a dozen of small circles start spinning around the dirt like vigorous snakes bringing the earth higher to meet us.
“It’s happening again.” We both say at the same time.
…