My heart speeds up, sending a pulse of pain through the scarce-healed knife wound on my upper right chest. Sweat breaks out, and I rub my hands on my pants legs. Enough. That’s over. Time to move on. That’s why I chose not to sell this house, but to live in it. A safe space to heal, physically and mentally. Change my life. Focus on the future.
Maybe that’s the problem. Time, as in: too much of it. I’m not used to unemployment. I need more structure to my days, not to mention an income stream so I can afford to repair my house. Cash from the inheritance won’t last forever. I need a job, some meaningful work. As soon as I can face the unpredictability of other people. As soon as I can trust that I’ll be fully aware the next time I draw my gun.
I walk everywhere. Miles every day. On the beach. On the forest- and fern-lined trails of Fort Stevens State Park. On the winding streets of Astoria with their blind corners and secret stairways and sagging historic architecture. I’m trying to lose the weight, and get tired enough to ward off the insomnia that plagues me every night. Over two weeks have passed since I ditched the drugs and withdrawal symptoms are hitting hard. I cry for no reason. Or for too many reasons to count. I’m anxious and often bathed in sweat. It’s difficult to separate the synthetic chemical symptoms from the PTSD. So I don’t even try.
Walking helps — a change in my surroundings, something else to focus on besides tumultuous memories and a constant headache that feels like being lobotomized without anesthesia. But it also makes my chest hurt beneath the knobby pink scar.
If I hadn’t flushed the pills, I’d be so tempted to swallow just one. Just to take the edge off. Except I’ve seen too much of the ugliness of addiction. A homicide detective sees the end of that downward spiral all too often. So I tell myself I can get through this. Just take one step after another, and one day I’ll be back to normal.
The Riverwalk is less crowded in the evenings. Dog-walkers and bicyclists have gone home to make dinner, or swell the sparse off-season clientele of bars and restaurants. I like the industrial feel of the west end of the trail, the weed-choked railroad siding, the metal-sided warehouses rusting in the rain. Today I keep going, past the fish processing plant and the brewery and under the complicated framework of the Megler Bridge soaring two hundred feet above the Columbia. The damp wind sprinkles tiny drops of condensing mist against my cheeks. The deep bawl of a foghorn comes from downriver, beyond the giant concrete bridge abutments. Heavy fog lies over the water. To my left is a tiny beach scuffed with footprints and driftwood. Wavelets slosh against the shore, created by the rising tide or maybe a passing freighter, unseen beyond the gray curtain of mist.
I’m still getting used to how much moisture permeates the air and how green growing things spring from every cranny. Sprawling rosemary hedges line the shore and fill the air with an aroma that makes me think of my mother’s roast chicken. The steel girders of the bridge arch over my head, barely visible. I can hear the muffled rumble of traffic on the concrete deck, far away, just like the life I left in Colorado.
I walk down to the beach. Moisture oozes around the rubber soles of my boots as I add my prints to the palimpsest of sand. A seagull cries. I close my eyes. The isolation, the dank damp cold, the scent of rosemary and car exhaust and water — it cleanses my soul as I concentrate on simply breathing and being and belonging. Not thinking, and above all, not remembering.
Footsteps, running. Indistinct voices. I have to squinch my eyes tight to stop myself from investigating and cataloguing the sounds, letting the noise wash over me instead of becoming a point of distraction.
You’re not a detective now, Audrey. No need to get involved.
The footsteps come closer. Voices, arguing. Right on top of me. A blow strikes my temple. I stagger, head ringing with pain. I catch my balance and run, looking over my shoulder at a looming figure. Why is it so dark? I trip on a piece of driftwood. Hands seize the shoulders of my coat, arresting my fall.
“It was just a game! You see that, don’t you?” The voice is jagged, harsh, thick with rage. So dark — I can’t see my attacker. Terror claws at me. I try to pull away. A distant part of me screams to resist, to fight. But I don’t know how.
Hands tighten around my neck. Shaking, twisting. Pushing. There’s a chemical smell, sharp and familiar but I can’t place it. I fall on something hard and cold. Lights explode in my vision and pain beats against my temple.
The voice, hissing anger. “You won’t wreck my life with your lies.”
Stunned, I can’t fight back as someone picks me up and thrusts me into the river. The water is an icy shock. Can’t move my arms and legs. Can’t turn over. Water gushes into my mouth, flooding my chest, turning my body into a dead weight as I sink down, deeper and deeper. I seem to hover outside my body, watching myself descend. Long dark hair twists in the current. I don’t recognize my face. It recedes into blackness like a dream.
Then I’m on my knees, coughing, gasping for air. The river laps at the fabric of my jeans and covers my hands with insistent cold. The darkness of my vision gives way to the filtered, foggy light of late afternoon.
