Chapter Seven

30.4K 1.6K 587
                                    

The morning comes on in the form of headache. My eyes inch open, the gray overcast hue of the window sweeping over the antique furniture. I'm wrapped in the heavy quilt that I somehow cocooned myself in overnight in my drunken state.

An unsettling feeling overcomes me at the sight of the room, and the sound of raging downpour outside. It's suddenly very easy to recall bits and pieces of the night before, and become frightened by just how much is hazy. Embarrassment blushes through me vigorously, sending me out of bed and onto my feet in mere moments.

"Oh God."

It's nearly ten and I'm still locked in my room. First day of knowing me, Aidan Hughes witnesses me nearly kill myself via cliff, and spends the night amused by the quick-tongued journalist who can't seem to hold her drink. Despite the throbbing in my brain, my feet move fast. Shedding the pajamas on the soft bath rug, I enter the oval-shaped tub and test out the water, not surprised to find that it's either scalding or frigid. I choose to endure the latter, figuring it will help with the hangover, and climb out. It dawns on me as I comb through my hair with my fingers that I have no makeup, no hair products, nothing to fix my face with. Thankfully, I don't go anywhere without a toothbrush or we'd be in real trouble. Letting my hair air-dry, I brush my teeth and then dive for my phone to see if it's already dead.

When I find it on 4%, I use the last of its juice to dial my mother's nurse, knowing I can't prolong this forever. She picks up on the last ring, her voice its usual calm whisper.

"Hi, Jo."

"Mary, hi," I sit on the mattress wrapped in a damp towel, "Um, how is everything? How is she?"

"It's not her best day, unfortunately. We did some exercises but she didn't respond much to them. She's watching tv now."

"I'm stuck in Leavenworth, Mary. I'm snowed in my client's home...I'm not going to be able to make it back for Christmas dinner."

"Oh no, that's a shame."

Guilt seeps through my bloodstream, thick and painful. This isn't the first year I've come up with an excuse, not rushing to spend an evening where I could do more damage to our relationship than I've already managed to do. This year, I wasn't planning to conjure up an excuse. Knowing it may be the last Christmas I have with her where she remembers who I am, and the memories we share, I wanted to put everything aside and be there, for both of our sakes.

Fate had other plans. And now, I'm painstakingly aware of how much my situation resembles all those other excuses I used to make. "I really wanted to be there."

"Don't beat yourself up about it, honey. There will be other holidays."

Will there?

Not wishing to waste her entire morning with my inner turmoil's, I say, "Sam knows that I'm stuck here and has offered to have her over for the night. If you could drop her off at noon, she can have dinner and spend the night there. She loves Sam."

"Sure thing. I'll pick her up from there in the morning."

My voice trembles as I read out Samantha's phone number and address, but I push past the emotions to wish her a Merry Christmas and inform her of my dying phone situation. It's only when I hang up that I discover my hands have begun shaking.

My eyes swerve to the door, thinking of the man somewhere behind it, and then to the dress hanging over the bedpost. His wife's garment. With no choice, I put it on, unsure as to if the pale pink color compliments my skin or drowns it out. Old fashioned and homey, it buttons in a straight line from neck-line to the hem around my calf. There are small floral designs scattered across the cotton and while the fabric fits, it's snugger than I'm used to. So my breasts aren't so constrained, I undo a button, then another, trying to trick the eye into believing I actually fit in this dress without revealing the lace of my bra too.

Vacant HeartWhere stories live. Discover now