Grace for Drowning(9)

"I came over here with my fiancé, Tom, a bit over a year ago. He was a professional poker player, and he wanted to experience 'poker Mecca,' as he called it. I had some contacts from school that hooked me up with a job at one of the nicer restaurants on the Strip, so it seemed like a good move all around." Those words left a bitter taste in my mouth. Coming here had been the worst thing that had ever happened to me.

"Ah, a Vegas dreamer. We get plenty of those. People watch some shmuck win a few million at the World Series of Poker, and suddenly they get delusions of grandeur because they play with their buddies once a week."

I shrugged. "As far as I can tell he was good at it. He supported himself for two years before we moved, just playing poker online."

She studied me for several seconds. Despite her irreverence and breezy personality, she was sharp. I knew she was putting two and two together. "I take it by the way you're talking that he's no longer in the picture," she said cautiously.

I pushed down the retching feeling that was rising in my throat. "He killed himself four months ago."

Her hand flew to her mouth. "Oh Jesus, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to make you bring that up."

"It's okay," I said woodenly. "It's good to be able to talk about it."

I wasn't sure if that was true. It didn't feel bad exactly, but nor was it some great weight off my shoulders. I just felt hollow. Cold. But that's what you were supposed to say, right? Talking was meant to soothe the soul, ease the pain. That's what people wanted to hear. I'd had my fair share of consolation after it had happened, and everyone always said the same thing. "Let me know if there's anything I can do, or if you just want to talk." Part of me wanted to scream at them how ridiculous that idea was, that talking could do anything to stem the anguish and self-loathing that was hemorrhaging through my body. This was beyond words. Sharp and constant and permanent, like a bullet lodged in my stomach. How do you even begin to talk about that?

Joy's brow furrowed in sympathy, and she reached out to take my hand. "Still, I can't even imagine what you're going through. If that had happened to me I think I'd still be in a ball on the floor."

"That's actually my plan for tomorrow," I replied, only half joking.

She flashed a tiny smile. "Nothing wrong with going fetal, occasionally. It's cathartic."

We cleaned in silence for a while, the weight of my revelation suddenly feeling impossibly tangible. I could tell Joy felt the same way. That was another thing I hated; being the person that killed the conversation. The one that made people feel intensely awkward, like they weren't allowed to have fun in my presence. To make matters worse, in some ways they were right. Part of me resented their happiness when all I could do was sit there and wonder if I'd ever have that feeling again. It was illogical and petty and completely unfair, but it was how I felt. I didn't want to be that person, but I didn't know how to stop. Of course, now all of this was probably running through Joy's head, sabotaging whatever chance at a friendship we might have had. Who wants to go to the effort of befriending someone who is clearly working through some serious shit?

But then she surprised me. "You know what we need?" she said, after a few minutes. "Pie!"

The complete ridiculousness of the suggestion took me be surprise, and I actually found myself laughing. "Pie?"

"Pie!" Her trademark grin was back. "There's this fantastic shop called Pie Tin just a few blocks away. They have every kind of pie you can imagine, and they're open until three AM."

"I don't know," I replied, "I'm not sure I'm in the mood to go out, right now. Besides, there's still stuff to do here."

She took the cloth from my hand and threw it dramatically into the sink. "That's exactly why you need pie. Nothing cheers me up like a huge slice of blueberry pie and a big pile of cream." She punctuated this with an excellent impersonation of Homer Simpson drooling. "Cleaning can wait."

I felt my stomach rumble, reminding me exactly how long it had been since I'd eaten. "I'm more of an apple and ice cream kind of girl."

"Sacrilege! But because we're trying to cheer you up, I'll make an exception. You may eat your pie however you wish."

"That's so generous of you." What was the worst that could happen? I raised my hands in defeat. "Fine, fine, as long as you stop saying the word 'pie' so much!"

"I make no such promises."





Chapter Three





Grace





The next day was my first day off, and it was one I'd been dreading. Time alone is the biggest enemy after you've experienced a tragic loss. In the months after it happened, I still had my cheffing job, and it was the only thing that kept me even remotely sane. The pain didn't dissipate, but with something to focus on, it at least faded into the background a little. My days off, on the other hand, were another matter entirely. Tom's schedule was as flexible as he wanted, so those days used to be our time. When he died, I had nothing to fill them except loneliness and self-loathing. Soon, that turned to alcohol, because it was the only thing that numbed me enough to feel like I might actually make it through the day. Of course drinking on my days off led to poor performance in the kitchen, and eventually, all my days were days off.