“I’ll probably be home pretty late tonight. Tomorrow morning might be better.” As they nod their heads, I try to imagine sleeping in the house without her and I can’t. “Actually, would one be too late?”
They were up past then last night, but maybe I’m asking too much.
“You’ll be here by one?” Alex asks slowly and turns to Carol. “That should work, right?”
“Yeah,” she says, still smiling but a little friendliness has left her tone.
“If it’s any trouble—”
“No.” She waves me off. “You have a good night and we’ll have a great one with Stevie. Just bring her over before you go. We’ll be out back.”
“Thank you again.” I take a step back and Carol pats Alex’s arm before disappearing into the house.
Alex stands up straight, giving me a sympathetic smile as we part. “No trouble at all. Hey, you be careful.”
I nod and walk back down his driveway, crossing over onto mine as dark clouds roll overhead. When I get back inside, Stevie sits in the foyer, waiting for me.
I bend over in front of her. “You’re going to play with Ace tonight. How about that?”
She wags her tail and smiles, just like she does at anything I say in that tone, but I think she’s excited about Ace.
I knew I didn’t imagine the car, but just knowing Carol’s seen it too is validating. Now they’ll be on the lookout for it. It was out front last night… could that have been the noise—from outside?
I climb the stairs to my bedroom and Stevie chases after me.
Before being asked to play with Haddonboro for their Halloween shows, the only people seeing my costume would have been the kids in the neighbourhood, trick or treating tomorrow night.
I pull on the big, princess wedding dress I wore to my own wedding and slip into the white wedge shoes I spent so much on, just for the occasion. I grab my floral hairpiece with white roses, faux pearls, and take it to the washroom with me where the rest of my costume awaits.
Seeing myself in the mirror in this dress doesn’t conjure the same emotions I thought it would. I thought I’d feel the ache of loneliness or miss my ex and the good times we shared, but we were never a good fit. Maybe for the person I thought I should be—but not who I really am. I tried to be more practical for my parents, look at life in a more practical way, choose a practical husband, practical career, practical life.
Practical means more possible, and in comparison to my dream of being a singer-songwriter, a career in health admin won out.
It means realistic, the way I kept my dreams and expectations.
It means predictable but life has not been that at all. It isn’t for anyone.
Practical means feasible, which our marriage wasn’t.
I don’t even hesitate before the next step, because I know I’ll never want to wear this again. No one else will either, with those yellow grass stains near the bottom. They’re worse than I remembered, but the rest is white enough for a nice high contrast.
I take the little tumbler jar of my red corn syrup mixture, and in a combination of what I’ll call Trash the Dress and Halloween Madness, I tip it against my chest, a little left of center, and pour it down the front of me. It spills out, thinner than I’d have wanted, but I let it drip down the dress where it naturally would have, had someone stabbed me in the heart.
It’s symbolic of my broken heart. The dress represents the man I thought I’d spend my life with who took our vows less seriously than I did, and the blood represents the broken heart I was left with after my father’s murder.
I watch in the mirror as it flows to my waistband, slowing until I tip some more of the mixture out. It follows the same path, spilling over my waistband. From there, it separates, sliding down a few separate folds of satin onto the skirt, slowing and beading up around where my knees would be beneath it.
I dip my fingers into the tumbler jar and press them against my chest over my heart, completing the look.
A bloody bride for the night.
Morbid? Definitely. Overly dramatic? Maybe. But it’s all in the name of creative and emotional expression, and I don’t care what anyone thinks of it.
Stepping back, I inspect the white tile floor beneath my dress. Spotless. I wipe off the edge of the tumbler with some toilet paper, toss the red wad in the garbage, and set the tumbler back on the counter. The spill on my dress darkens from a bright raspberry red the longer I stand, letting it dry atop the ivory white satin and lace as I wash my hands. The mixture thins to an orange liquid like my father’s blood had when I finally washed it off my hands in a bathroom at the hospital that night. It swirls away, down the drain and I examine my hands for any remnants like I had that night.
I look up at myself in the mirror, my hands shaking in front of me as I swallow back tears.
It’s not his blood. His blood is long gone like his body.
I lean against the counter, easing the tension off my shaking legs. Just a little longer until it’s dry.
Wounds only stay fresh when they aren’t allowed to heal. I’ve been given time, the support of my mom and Ron, and now, Dad’s killer is dead. But nothing brings me real peace. The blood may dry, but the cut runs too deep to heal…
I lift the skirt of my dress and rush into my room, grabbing my greatest hits notebook and a pen, and bring them to my bed. I sit on the edge of it, flipping past the Taylor song, and begin writing, using my leg for stability.
The blood may dry,
but the cut’s too deep
