Running from Dawn chap 4

4

4:50. Check in time, her brain offered. They were engaged in a waiting game, too wired to sleep, too tired to socialize. The air smelled of sin in the absence of conversation. It was the phantom vibration, faint at her hip, that stirred Stella from her catatonic state. She had thrust her hand deep into the bag wedged between thigh and sofa before remembering the impossibility of it. As she withdrew her empty hand, her fingers brushed up against rounded metal. What was that? She thought, fumbling to find it again. Was that my fucking CHARGER? Stunned by her carelessness, she brought the bag to her lap and ravaged it. All night I’ve been trapped… Where did it go? All goddamn NIGHT I’ve been stranded because of you. She tossed aside gum wrappers, cosmetics, cringed at something sticky. Where did you go? Then she pulled it into the light to examine it. Unbelievable. It was as if God himself had intervened. She laid it on the table for Oswald to see.

"What’s that?" he asked, tugging at his ear.

“My charger.”

“Right… and?” He wasn’t following.

“And I thought I left it back at Talia’s. My phone’s been dead since we left the bar tonight. But now I have it…”

He picked it up and inserted its metal prongs into the wall. Holding onto the end of it, he reached for her phone, but she was faster. "Don’t do that," her voice scolded, holding the phone. Her knuckle bones rippled beneath her skin.

"Are you kidding me? You’ve been looking at that thing all night. I thought you just didn’t want to open it. I didn’t realize that it was dead! So now that you can, why don’t you plug it in and check it? Maybe your husband has called…” He was shaking his head. “Why do people even bother with those things when nobody wants to answer them?”

"Maybe my husband’s called? Oh yeah, Oswald, he’s definitely called. As a matter of fact, I guarantee that there are least six messages from him—probably sixteen missed calls.”

“So see what they are! I don’t understand what you’re doing!”

“Of course you don’t because I don’t even know. All I know is that I’m supposed to at the airport right now, boarding a fucking flight, but I’m not. And now I have to call and explain that to my husband. Have to explain why I’m not coming home. How I’ve given up on our marriage. And I can’t deal with how much that will hurt him. But I know there’s no other way. We have hurt each other too long, and I don’t want to hurt him anymore. So now isn’t that a fucking catch-22!

“So now here’s my charger, and all of a sudden, my phone is alive. That’s great. So now l can call my husband and deliver the news, which has been hanging over my head all night like the hour of my execution, AND I can go ahead and read all of his messages… which should be fun. Because, you know, it’s a blast to see someone’s anticipation bleed into dismay.

“So tell me, Oswald, what is the good in checking those messages? What could he possibly say that would make going home any more desirable? Or not going home any easier? What could he possibly say?”

"Look, I really am sorry. And, I’ll admit, I’m a little afraid to say anything now, but wouldn’t you rather know? Don’t you want to know what you’re up against?”

She laughed, her voice rising like the steam from a pressure cooker. “Jesus! You sound like my dad!” She sat back down and took a deep breath. “You sound just like my dad. If he were here, he would’ve told me to plug that thing in or throw it out. He would tell me how useless it is. ‘All this goddamn communication,’ he used to say, ‘and nobody ever talks.’”

She was on the brink, and this was Oswald’s chance of bringing her back. “And where’s your dad now?”

Stella looked up at the ceiling like she could see the sky just beyond. “I’m sorry for blowing up like that,” she said, then more hurriedly, "Somewhere down in the jungles of South America. He got married again, followed Autumn home like a stray dog.” She rubbed under her eyes.

Oswald grinned, “Autumn? That’s an unusual...”

“It’s not her name. It’s just what I call her. It’s from a Nat King Cole song, Autumn Leaves. You know it?”

“No, but she must be flattered.”

“She never knew. Was gone before I started using it.”

“You mean she split?” He resumed sipping on his Midori. “Wait a minute… how old is your dad?” Wiped the Midori from his lips.

Stella hesitated, debating over whether or not to use the details of her dad’s life as entertainment. Considered the betrayal of the act, knowing her words were too shallow to elucidate the misfortune. The words were already bubbling at the top of her throat, however, and having been keeper of secrets for too long, she spilled. "Seventy,” she paused, letting him try the math, then to add to the challenge, “my step-mom¬,” an exaggerated wink, “was twenty-two when she died." Your turn, she thought, waiting to see which details he would elicit.

Stella’s mood seemed more stable, so Oswald leaned in to the conversation, encouraging her to continue. "How did she die?"

People are so predictable, she thought, rolling her eyes. "Blew her brains out."

"Oh, my God," Oswald whispered, sinking back into the couch. "Are you serious? Who found her?"

"It's weird talking about it. Used to hate the bitch for what she did to him," she said and stopped, cognizant of how harsh her words were, then proceeding in a kinder tone, "It’s just that she was bad for him. She knew she was. She knew how to hurt him…” Stella shifted, remembering the ways. “Nobody had to find her. My dad was with her the in the end, standing on the other side of a barred window. He got home a little too late though. With just enough time to beg her not to do it.”

"Oh no,” he said simply.

“Yeah. Locked herself in, left the window open enough just to taunt him. He could actually get his fingers,” Stella reached out, stroking invisible hair, “just to the top of her head. He didn’t think she would do it. Didn’t think she could. But, just like that,” snapping her fingers, “she propped the shotgun between two feet and pulled the trigger." Stella shrugged, making no attempt to mask her ambivalence.

"It’s kind of funny.” Stella continued, “As soon as I found out I arranged some time off of work to go see him. It took me two days to get there, two to get back. Two days to try to prepare, two to try to forget. Twenty-four hours was what remained just to sit by his side, trying to match him beer for beer. Trying not to stare at that window. I cried with him. For him, I guess. W visited her grave; the dirt was as fresh as powder. Twenty-four hours. That’s all I could give him after something like that. I look back now and wonder why I didn’t just quit my job.”

Oswald waited, letting her purge.

“You’ve had regrets; obviously I’ve had a few. Everyone has, but can you imagine that one? Having to pick apart your entire marriage? Reliving your last fight? Having to think about every single thing you did that day that stopped you from getting home even one minute earlier? Did you stop for a beer? Did you miss that green light because you were too busy checking someone out?”

Oswald was slow to respond, considering the impact of his words. “Could be that that’s how it works, but I don’t think so. I don’t think people narrowly escape suicide because of a skipped beer. If you survive something like that, Stella, you had to have wanted to be saved.”