The middle place. Not death. Not life. A limbo state of existence filled with the hours of turning the wheels. Eating to not feel hungry. Sleeping to not feel tired. Waking to not feel asleep. The middle place that exists between breaths, in that pause, that slight breathlessness before an exhale and an inhale. Between the crest and the valley. Where the path always meanders cliffside.
How much longer will I be able to endure? How much longer will I have a choice? Or is it all a mirage? Our mind tricking us, showing us what we need to see in order to live just a moment longer? Is that truly our free will, our conscious choice? And what of love? Does love allow us to choose? In my leaving, the one who will suffer the most is not me, but him. Aren’t all our decisions swaddled and nestled next to those we love?
I remind myself of where I am. Lying here in my bed. Right here. Clutching my pillow and breathing in the scent of the laundry detergent, my own salty sweat, and the faint musty odor of this old house. My house. I force my thoughts to charting the rhythmic mechanical clanking of my house. Slowly my breathing steadies, and the haunting nightmare of the train relinquishes its hold. I feel myself on the edge of consciousness and unconsciousness, and the longing for sleep to steal me away, even if only for a few hours, chokes my throat.
This is not living. This is existing. I feel myself standing at the precipice, looking back at the shadow I cast, looking forward into an emptiness that holds no light. I know I cannot stay here much longer. In this place. This place where the train still shrieks.
Winter
Had I been wrong to hope, then?
The first time I saw you swaying, your fist clenched against your lips, your neck straining, moving to the metronome of your mind like waves crashing over and over against rocks, I reached out to steady you before calling your name. I watched your eyes enlarge, your head swiveling violently all around as though searching for a lost thing.
I knew. I knew. I knew then in my heart when you could not answer me, what I refused to see for so long. But I couldn’t let myself believe it. There had to be other explanations. I started insisting you go to sleep earlier. I kept the television on all the time so you would know the noises were real. I reminded you to shower. To eat. I pretended not to see the fatigue in your eyes as you pushed back against yourself.
What was I to do? What would you have had me do? After everything we had endured. Suffered. Loved. What was I to do? Tell myself the truth? That I was slowly losing you? That each day would close another room in your mind until all that was left was the skin of you? How could I live this way? Unable to reach you. Unable to let you go. Unable to do anything but wait. Wait. For you to return to me. A glimpse was all that I prayed for. Those moments would be enough. I would make them enough. We would beat down the wings of the Fates again. And again. And again.
Spring
The keyboard protests loudly as I pound out a quick reply to the e-mail from Dr. Diaz. Another late meeting along with a million attachments that I am supposed to read before signing a nondisclosure agreement later tonight after the announcements. I glance at the time and stand up quickly. I’ll be late picking up Hannah if I don’t hurry.
At the top of the stairs, a light-headed fluttering almost buckles my knees, making me grab the banister to steady myself. Not enough sleep makes me dizzy with fatigue. I pause to take a breath and then step carefully down the stairs. When I enter the kitchen, I find Dad already standing at the counter.
I notice the bagginess of his suit. He has gotten very thin recently. Which reminds me to ask about dinner. He never seems to eat enough, always leaving behind plates of untouched food as he stares into his laptop.
“Hey, Dad,” I say.
“Hmm,” he says, his eyes scanning the screen.
“DAD.”
He looks up at me, a frown interrupting the smooth plane of his forehead. “Why are you yelling at me so early in the morning?”
I look away. I hate when he acts as though I’m the one being unreasonable. I turn back to him once my irritation is in check. “Dad, I have a late meeting at the lab tonight. Can you pick up dinner?”
He is focused again on the computer screen, his index and middle finger scrolling down the touchpad.
I walk over to him and pass my hand over his eyes. He glances up at me.
“Dad, I need you to be present for one minute,” I say.
An awkward, embarrassed smile lifts the right corner of his upper lip. He brushes his hand over his face as though to rearrange his features and steps back from the computer screen to lean up against the counter.
“What’s up, bugaboo?” His eyes are full beams.
I smile despite my annoyance. For all his distractions and busy schedule, when Dad wants to know something, really concentrates on something or someone, even the sun seems weak.
“I have a late meeting tonight. Pick up something for dinner, okay?”
He tilts his head. “Late meeting? At the lab? Isn’t that kind of unusual?”
Now it’s my turn to act distracted. I walk over to the coffee machine and start making the coffee.
Dad walks over and crouches down, trying to study my face. I know he is looking to read me like he does with
