Zach

You remember that day, and though the sharp edges of memory have softened in my aging mind, the scars left behind have not. They still ache when I think of it. That’s why, when you told me it was time and you pointed to the trunk at the foot of my bed, I hesitated.

The date you’re looking for is in there.

Inside my mother’s hope chest, once used by my sisters but passed down to me, laid the archaeological evidence of a life transformed. Stripped of its 1970s electric blue, I gave it a clean wash of white and crowned it with hope of my own: a box containing a Bible with the name JULIE BETH JACOBSEN embossed on its cover in gold—my engagement ring. It made a thoughtful substitute since we were too poor at the time of the proposal to purchase a ring. I moved the box aside, kneeled before the chest, and opened its heavy lid. The smell of old cedar welcomed me. 

Amongst the sermon notes, the African travel logs, and the archive of Beth Moore; next to framed family photos, children’s artwork, and yearbooks marked 1983 and 1984, was a stack of journals. There I found a gift from a friend, my green diary, the first of many to come. On its gilded pages, I found the date: December 7, 1989. 

My last day of devastation.

Blurred recollections come back into focus: a clenched fist, the search for a vein, my lower extremities going numb. A stool rolled across the linoleum, and I shuddered at the sound. 

“You’re doing great,” the nurse said, squeezing my arm. She wore pastel scrubs that matched the pastel room that matched the pastel painting of a garden gazebo hung on the wall. I’ve yet to forgive the color mauve. 

What else?

My heartbeat stumbled in my chest when they laid the table flat, then the drugs took control. I wanted to lie upon their warmth and float away, but when they led my feet to the stirrups, it anchored me in place. Sadness pressed me down.

“Let’s scoot your bottom to the edge of the table now. That’s it. Good job.”

I offered the nurse a tight-lipped smile and did as I was told. I assumed the position. With my most private parts on display, I fixed my eyes on the ceiling. Yes, I remember the ceiling. I searched the pitted surface of its acoustic tiles for patterns to distract me, but saw angry-eyed monsters instead. 

Murderer!

Idiot!

Liar!

Slut!

Their voices sounded like my own. 

I shut my eyes, tried to stay calm. My lips quivered, but I held my mouth closed. I heard the click of a switch and a machine came alive, humming like a villain. A thought of you drifted across my mind, but I pushed back against the wishing, reminding myself that I was alone and that was how it had to be. How I wish I had known you were there. 

Tremors shook my body and my tear ducts burned. The doctor gave hushed instructions. The nurse took my hand in both of her own, saying “Deep breaths. It’ll all be over soon.” 

I tried to comply, but the air held weight, and it was all on my chest. Still, I kept my mouth shut. Part of me wanted to give up and swallow my sadness, drown in it once and for all. Another part of me held out, but for what? Life? 

I opened my eyes and looked first at the nurse, then at the doctor between my legs. My shame reflected on the lens of his glasses and drove my eyes back toward the ceiling. 

Murderer! Idiot! Liar! Slut! 

No, not me. Well, yes. Me. 

How could I explain? To let the memories breathe meant death of a different kind. God! I held them under as long as I could, but they fought back. My nostrils flared, my lungs expanded, but soon I was the one sinking while regrets made their way to the surface. I wanted to hide. They wanted the light. I needed air. They needed an audience. My lips parted against my will with a quiet gasp as both my tears and my words tumbled out.

“I used to be a dancer . . .”

Surprised by the sound of my voice, the room paused.