Fractured Page 6

  Sarah holds me close. She allows me to lose it. My stuttering sobs were somehow muted by the noise emanating from Jimmy’s.

  Danny, it’s your arms I miss, baby. You were always able to dry my tears.

  Chapter 7

  ISOLATION

  ~ Kate, 1 June 2011. Three months on ~

  Watching from my bedroom window as the rain cascades down from the roof onto a bed of winter roses, the delicate plants bow and struggle to hold their stems erect under the unrelenting deluge. Draped over, folding into themselves in a somewhat broken stance, some lose a few leaves as a fierce wind picks up and joins the elements. Yet come the dawn of a sunny new day, these deceptively resilient plants will pick themselves up. Little green limbs will become outstretched, lifting all surfaces heavenward, basking in the renewing and healing glow of the sun. Damaged but not destroyed by the forces of nature.

  If only human emotions could recover from loss or damage quite so easily.

  After experiencing one too many anxiety attacks, and being unable to enter a shopping centre without freaking out completely, I shut the world out, centering myself amid stacks of loose photographs that summed up my life with Danny, refusing to open the door to anyone for days. I just needed to be alone with my memories. It was a living nightmare vacillating between two worlds. Days and nights merged into one painful passage of time. I reminisced, sobbed, drank, passed out. Hit repeat the next day. I couldn’t sleep unless I fell into an alcohol-induced state of unconsciousness, or I’d be assaulted with nightmares of Danny lying trapped under that building.

  Daniel’s smell is committed to my memory; a heady mixture of cologne and something uniquely masculine. I still have some of his clothing folded up meticulously in my wardrobe. I’ve developed a habit of sprinkling a few drops of his aftershave onto his pillow every couple of days to keep that familiar scent of him in bed with me. Three months post quake, and that pillow is both a comfort and a torment to me. I cling to it nightly, lost to precious recollections that the scent of his cologne evokes.

  Grief is an ocean of roiling emotions. It can flow unbidden on the waves of a soft tide, just washing bittersweet memories over me, but not sucking me under. At other times it comes out of nowhere, bowling me over with such a crushing weight, I’m left powerless to escape the force which pulls me down to the darkest depths of my soul. An inner purgatory where relentless upsurges of keening cries raggedly expel from my body like an exorcism, absorbed and muffled by his pillow which has become both my greatest comfort and my most agonising reminder of my lost love.

  I had taken for granted that Danny would always be there. If I’d known he’d be taken from me, there would be so many things I’d have done differently. Life is like a slow moving game of Russian Roulette. Every decision we make, the chances and risks we take, are all figurative bullets that could potentially end our life, or that of somebody else. I guess this translates into making every moment you have in life, really count.

  The early weeks saw Danny’s friends stopping by quite frequently to see how I was bearing up—some possibly through a sense of obligation—but they’d inevitably leave feeling awkward, as I didn’t want to talk, wasn’t in the right head-space to heed their advice, nor pay much attention to suggestions they offered.

  A few weeks down the line, only a few of his friends still trickled by, and my world had grown smaller. I guess my non-communicative, melancholic demeanour had scared them off. Can’t say I blamed them.

  Three months on, as of this week, the visits from his friends have all but stopped, with the exception of Travis, who still pops by from time to time. Sarah and Chase have unfailingly reached out to me either through visits or texts, ignoring my indifference and moodiness. Matt, the medic who attended to me the afternoon of the quake, has been fantastic, too.

  I’m finding it really hard to be around Chase though, and I’ve slowly withdrawn from him. I feel so torn; he reminds me so much of Daniel, his looks and his mannerisms are so uncanningly similar.

  Melanie, who was in the bed opposite me in Christchurch Hospital, has become a good friend. We’ve become very close. I’m able to open up and bare my soul to her, without the fear that she would overreact, or be instantly on high alert after a throwaway comment I made, thinking that I was possibly suicidal.

  Those closest to me do this all the time. I feel that they’re forever watching me for signs that I’ve finally snapped. Their super-vigilance is at times, suffocating.

  Finally, I did open the door to life once more, and attempt to emerge back into the world, yet I feel I can no longer function in it. I feel detached, just going through the motions of living. I’ve changed; there’s been a shift in my emotions over the past few weeks. Raw sorrow has made way for mercurial moods, allowing anger and hostility to settle in. Like a flower garden choked out by a thorn bush, bitterness and antagonism have darkened a part of me that used to be fun loving and light-hearted.

  I had to stop work a few weeks after the quake. The days were sheer torture. That anxiety attack I experienced in the pub three months back triggered a series of paralysing panic attacks and horrifyingly vivid flashbacks. A twenty-four-hour day for me was often spent re-living the twenty-four seconds it took to destroy my life as I knew it. Over and over again.

  The law firm I worked for as a bookkeeper were very reluctant to see me go, but offered their full support. I had no choice. I couldn’t function. A month later, Jimmy offered me a position, which, after some initial hesitation I accepted. Starting work where I experienced my first anxiety attack had me afraid the association would trigger more of them. My position at Jimmy’s is two-fold; I do his books in addition to waitressing. I realised I had to face my fears though, or anxiety and fear would take over my life more than it already had.

  On the job, I can slip behind a mask, pretending that I’m not only alive, but coping with life, while on the inside I’m totally disconnected from how I should be living it. Days pass me by with a numb awareness of my daily existence.

  I function on auto-pilot every day, holding onto the frayed ends of my sanity at night by obliterating my pain with alcohol, clubbing, and dancing, or throwing myself into work. Exercise is another outlet. I love running, whether it be on the road, or on a treadmill. Breaking into a power rhythm, striving to leave the hurt far behind me, I relentlessly push my body to its absolute limits. Thing is, I can never outrun the guilt; it’s a demon that constantly shadows me.

  “You should never have suggested the movies. Daniel would be alive today if you hadn’t,” the voice of guilt whispers to me, time and again.

  I refuse to grieve in front of others; this ravaging grief is all mine. All the tears in the world could not wash away my guilt, or that nightmarish image of Daniel’s lifeless hand protruding through the building rubble.

  The irony of my name is not lost on me either. Katrina. As in Hurricane Katrina. It’s become associated with death and destruction. It’s perfectly fitting.

  The ever-present fear of when the next big quake may hit, and reoccurring nightmares, prevent me from succumbing to any prolonged periods of sleep. I’ll be stuck in that twilight state of semi-consciousness between oblivion and consciousness, when my body suddenly startles me fully awake, heart thundering in my ears, drenched in sweat. Or it can be a routine day, free of quakes, and a seemingly innocuous thing like the passing of a heavy truck, or a the slamming of a door will knock me back down to a place where I’m skittish and shell-shocked once more.

  I’m a wreck and on some level, I know I’m on a self-destructive path. I simply don’t care. I hope that keeping an emotional distance from people will protect all concerned. I just can’t move past this incapacitating fear of facing another loss.

  I know this is selfish, as those around me have also experienced a loss of their own. Some have lost friends, others a relative, an acquaintance, and they’re hurting too. I’m hurting those who love me by being like this, but it’s the only way I know how to deal with the comple
xities of my emotions. Somewhere along the line, I’ve lost the ability to relate to others in real time. It’s as though a dark force has hijacked my brain, numbing that part of me that used to be able to actively connect with the people I love.

  A group of us attended the memorial service for the quake victims in March and met up with Chase, Matt, and the guys. As an extension of a larger group, we ended up in an upmarket restaurant afterwards, needing the company of one another on a day that was filled with so many painful reminders. Matt and Melanie were into each other from the moment they met. They make a gorgeous couple. Mel is small with short dark hair, which she keeps immaculately coiffed. I think her pixie-like features and large hazelnut-coloured eyes had Matt completely captivated by the end of the night. They’ve been keeping things low-key, mainly for my sake I think. I admit, it hurts to be around couples, but I don’t begrudge them the happiness they’ve found with one another. How could I? Mel has also experienced loss of her own, I’m happy for her, truly. Seeing a happy couple is just a tough pill to swallow.

  The folk of Christchurch, by and large, have picked themselves up, determined not to let this catastrophe destroy this city, its psyche, or its people. The sense of camaraderie and united community spirit are seeing people through some very dark days. The atmosphere in our city is achingly sombre, heavy with memories of the lost obviously close to everyone’s heart, but the resilience and tenacity of spirit of the Cantabrians in the face of such crippling loss amazes me.

  Guilt is still my constant companion. I carry it around like a jacket that can’t be removed. I’m stuck. I can’t move forward; it rips me to shreds to reflect back to my life with Danny, to how things were pre 22 February. How things should still be.

  So, three months on from the quake, I’m stuck in a holding pattern, just a hollow spectator to the merry-go-round of life that spins around me.

  I Get up.

  I work.

  I exercise.

  I dance.

  I remember—I relive those final moments.

  I drink.

  I repeat.

  And all the while, each day, every hour, Danny drifts that little bit further away. The mental images I pull from my memory bank are not as sharp as they were three months ago. They’re receding. Their edges blurring like a photograph that’s had a filter effect applied to it. My heart still aches for you, Dan.

  Chapter 8

  SHAKEN

  ~ Kate, 13 June 2011. 4:45 a.m. ~

  His face is just inches from mine. I reach up to trace my fingertips over the light stubble on his jaw. Smiling warmly, he brings his mouth down to mine, whispering the words into my mouth as he kisses me. “Baby doll¸ you look utterly gorgeous tonight.” I melt at his words, gazing up lovingly into the warmest brown eyes. “Thank you babe, I love you, Dan.”

  We move towards one another, our mouths just an inch apart when his face slowly drifts away...

  I wake up with a start, breathless.

  It was just a cruel dream, an illusion, yet so real.

  I glance at the alarm clock and flop back against my pillow.

  4: friggin 45 a.m.

  This is getting ridiculous.

  Hot tears build up behind my eyelids, my breathing becoming ragged, as memories of Danny’s infectious laughter ricochets around in my head; the warmth of his eyes, which could penetrate through any veneer of anger, annoyance, or hurt that I’d be feeling, holding me prisoner to the effects of his charm. I was never able to remain upset with him for very long.

  Each one of these dreams forces me to re-live the crippling trauma of losing him all over again. The subconscious mind is a sadistic bitch, and mine plays tricks on me constantly. It tortures me with horrific flashbacks of the screaming, destruction and panic. Merciless visuals that bounce around in my head like bullets in a small chamber. Each dream pulverising my fragile mind.

  These dreams leave me a trembling mess, my mind derailed after just a few short hours of restless sleep, waking with a start as horrifically graphic images flood my head. Images I wish to God I could cut from my brain with a scalpel.

  I need you, Dan. I don’t want to live my life without you. I’d do anything to have had you for just a little while longer.

  I cling to my pillow, the sniffling soon becoming a hard sob. My ragged nerves are so very close to snapping like that proverbial straw, when it finally breaks, I expect my sanity will, too.

  Wide awake, I remember Sarah isn’t here. She and her folks went away to their holiday home in Queenstown for a few days. They left yesterday. It’s my day off. I feel uneasy. I’m so used to having Sarah here with me, as she’s been spending almost every night here for the past few weeks. Just knowing she’s in the next room when I’m rocked from my broken sleep by either another nightmare, or a quake, grounds me in some way.

  After that cruel dream pulled me from slumber in the early hours, I resign myself to the fact that sleep will continue to elude me. Pulling back my curtains reveals a thick fog has settled over the garden. Therefore, I retreat back to the warmth of my bed, email uncle Dave who is visiting friends in Australia for the month, then snuggle down to watch a few movies on my laptop, before getting up and tackling the housecleaning.

  ~ 2:19 p.m. ~

  Having just loaded the washing machine, the windows and bottles lining the shelf in the laundry start rattling, and a sickening rumbling travels up through my body from the shaking ground beneath me. Before I realise what I am doing, I’m sprinting; my feet are in motion.

  Using the “Drop Cover Hold” technique that’s been drilled into our heads over the past few months, I slam onto the ground and propel myself under the dining room table, my cell phone slipping out of my pocket and skidding across the tiles as I roll. Once under the table, my body goes into lock-down. I’m absolutely terrified. The ground beneath me churns and rumbles violently, while things crash down around me.

  This one is big. Please, God, make it stop.

  I open my mouth to scream, but no sound comes out. Fear paralyses me completely. When the ground finally stops shaking, the immediate stillness is eerie and surreal. The sound of my thundering heart whooshes through my ears as I swallow back bile. Then the shock of it slams into me, and I can’t control the trembling which overtakes my body. Even my teeth are chattering as waves of nausea roll through me.

  The shrill ring of my cell phone breaks the silence. I crawl over to it, my hands shaking so badly; I drop it twice. The caller ID causes my chin to start trembling immediately. “Mom, you okay? G-good. No, I’m...I’m not injured. I’m so s-scared,” I sob.

  “No, t-the roads may be d-damaged, there could be s-sinkholes Mom, please…stay…where you are.” Undeterred, Mom insists she’ll be over shortly.

  I cut the call, shoving the phone into my pocket, my shaking hands incapable of holding onto it any longer.

  Too petrified to assess any damage to the rest of the house, I retreat back under the table, lying on my side with my knees pulled up, but the shaking of my body only intensifies.

  All I can hear is my own frantic breathing and the pounding of my heart. From my partially obscured vantage point under the table, I can see that the kitchen cupboards have all been flung open by the force of the quake, plates smashed to the ground amid potting soil which has tipped out from a plant that now lies broken on the floor. A photograph, which dropped off the wall, is in pieces. Glass splinters glisten off the living room floor in the afternoon light. My eyes zero in on a bottle of brandy that somehow miraculously remains standing upright on the shelf above the oven, which I quickly assess, could be reached in a few short steps.

  Just a few mouthfuls. This will surely calm me down? It’s worked its magic before. If a stronger quake hits, and the house collapses on top of me, at least I’ll be too numb to feel much pain.

  Summoning the courage required to make the dash across the kitchen floor littered by various items to get to the bottle, I clench my fists at my sides, briefly closing my eyes before scr
ambling out from under my shelter, yanking the bottle off the shelf, and tunnelling back under my place of safety. With trembling hands, I unscrew the bottle top and start downing the brandy, the burn making me gag. My eyes water as it catches my throat, as if something with claws is being pulled from my throat by its tail. I soon feel a warm weight settle in my gut. This immediately calms me, so I continue gulping back the contents of the bottle until I’ve milked it dry….

  * * *

  A chemical smell hits my nostrils and my eyes flutter open. I wake up simultaneously wanting to vomit and pull at something taped to my arm. My head feels like it’s stuffed with cotton wool, while a pounding pain drills into my temples. The sound of a heavy rain pelting against glass hits my ears, and I blink, looking around. It’s dark outside, and I’m in a hospital again. How did I get here, and why?

  My sluggish mind suddenly jolts alive as a memory slams into me…the house shaking to its foundations; then the immobilising fear. Panic. Wanting to scream, but incapable of doing so. Brandy. Lots of it. Mom arriving, finding me huddled back under the table, totally disconnected from what was going on around me. Unable to speak. Blacking out.

  At this point, Mom enters the room, bursting into tears as she rushes to my side.

  “Oh, thank God you’re finally awake. You scared the life out of me. What were you thinking, Kate, drinking half a bottle of brandy?”

  I so don’t want to get into this with her now. “Mom, don’t, please,” I rasp, my head spinning as waves of nausea wash over me.

  “No, this has got to stop, Kate. You could have killed yourself, you’re small; consuming that amount of alcohol was suicidal.”

  As she said the words, her hands flew up to her mouth, and her face paled.

  “Oh God, is t-that…was that your inten—”

  “No, Mom!” I snap, not able to maintain eye contact and look at the concern pinching her pretty features any longer. “I just freaked out, I saw the bottle up on the shelf and just planned on taking a few sips to calm my nerves. I guess I ended up drinking more than I had intended.”