Chapters (28)
I comprehend all this because I comprise it. Not everyone is constituted this way. I think that I exist for myself in part by existing in the eyes of others, especially those nearest to me. Some people have a robust sense of self independent of parenthood. I don’t. If Stefan died that way—in all honesty, if Stefan died in any way—I would lose my reason. I would want to. I would be diminished, minute by hour by day by week by month by year. I wouldn’t do what Jill did. But I would want to cast a killing frost on the world. Sometimes, I would try to seem brave or enduring—even inspirational. That would all be a show and eventually, I would stop trying.
I sometimes think of Belinda. I think of Belinda and say to myself, I will remember her forever; I will never let her depart; I will keep her locked forever in the round-tower of my heart. But every day, she is further out of reach. I can no longer hear her voice, I can only hear my own voice repeating words I know she said, and my loss is not a hundredth part of Jill’s. Stefan has put it all behind him. He doesn’t want to remember. Youth is programmed to go forward. For him to recover does not make him cruel. It makes him healthy.
One weekend a month, when I’m not with Julie or my family, I drive north, not to Black Creek, but to a place high up on a barren fan of land in Iron County. With my small overnight bag, I check in at the little roadside inn where they now know my name and my errand. I lay myself down on the stiff mattress and try to sleep. Every time I make this journey, I think this could be the last time. Nothing is promised. Nothing is expected. Just after the sun comes up, I drive a couple of miles to a park where a small waterfall froths over a chin of granite and crashes into a little creek with surprising force. One sizzling day, I walked right in and stood under it, still in my linen pants and tee shirt. Afterward I was dry within ten minutes. One brutal winter morning, the waterfall was frozen in flight. Sitting there, I drink my coffee from a Styrofoam cup. Then, I drive one more mile. I park my car outside the gates. Inside, I hand over my big leather purse and submit to the wand and wait while they flip through the books and magazines, the pretty stationery and stamped envelopes that are so important for sending letters out, in the hope that letters will come. There is a list and mine is the only name on it. I fill out a form. On the line that specifies RELATIONSHIP TO INMATE, I write, Friend.