As I got older, the ceremonial praying stopped. I didn’t think I still believed in God, but whenever I was afraid, I found myself praying silently in my head, over and over.

I no longer knelt at the side of my bed for God; that position was now reserved for the men who told me what to do. With eyes closed and intertwined fingers, I would beg for mercy.

Chapter 91

When someone tries to end their life, they become like a butterfly who has been handled excessively. The powder on their wings has been absorbed by the oil on their captor’s fingers, rendering them incapable of flight. Suddenly, their beauty cannot be trusted and must be contained. They are poked and prodded, examined and dissected. Finally, a needle is stuck through their thorax and, with their wings spread wide, they are put on display.

I hadn’t died, but I had killed something inside myself that day. The darkness wasn’t so dark anymore. The pull of weight I had felt, the ghosts that were holding my hand, dragging me down, subsided ever so slightly.

I was in the hospital for a few weeks. People came to visit me—friends I hadn’t seen in years, family members I didn’t even know existed. Everyone loves a suicide attempt. It’s just morbid enough to draw a crowd. People want their ticket to the freakshow; they want to see the scars and look into the eyes of someone who almost made it to the other side.

William was at the hospital the entire time. He would reluctantly go home to shower every few days, but mostly he would sit in the squeaky vinyl chair, making jokes and playing games with me, his head dipping periodically as he drifted in and out of consciousness.

One day as I flipped through a magazine, bored out of my mind, Annabelle walked through the door. Her dark hair was cut into a short bob, her pale skin glowing like a cup of cream. I dropped the magazine, believing, for a moment, she was an apparition.

William sat upright in his chair, his eyes wide, a controlled smile spread across his face. “Well, well, well,” he announced. “The prodigal child returns.”

Annabelle burst into tears and laughter at the same time. Falling into me, she wrapped herself in my arms. William piled on top of us, holding us together with outstretched hands.

When we finally pulled away and they climbed off the bed, I held Annabelle’s face, feeling the tiniest shard of hope that, with the three parts of me reunited, together we’d be able to make sense of it all.

Chapter 92

Every fall, the wood truck would arrive. The big, ugly, dirty wood truck. I’d listen as it pulled into the driveway, disturbing the gravel with its unusually large tires. I’d run to the kitchen window, pull back the lace curtains, and watch it drive across the lawn. It would beep, reversing alongside the barn, and the back of the truck would lift with a piercing gush, as though all the air in its tires was escaping at once. There was a rumble when the logs began to fall and as they bounced off one another, the sound produced was like an instrument that had been hollowed out.