Kalorama Road

3 Three Faces of Grief

3

Three Faces of GriefSTRAINING UNDER SUMMER HEAT the air-conditioner hiccups, shudders, and thumps. I roll my head toward the noisy corner where the AC resumes a peaceful hum. With apathy, I gaze at the ceiling. Numb. Softly, I rest my hands on my chest. It still beats regardless. I wish to place my heart in a jar, protect and shield it till sorrow's done. Grief … I've never suffered five stages—denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance—just three. How can you deny reality? And bargaining is useless when circumstances are beyond one's control. You can only mourn the loss. Three faces of grief have visited in my twenty-four years. The first time was during my parent's divorce, second, Grandma Blu's death, and third, McClelland's layoff. Each visit, though different, was painful all the same.

When my parents announced their divorce, the life I knew ended. Unlike my sister's grief, a riotous monster spewing paroxysm of anger, I was paralyzed with sadness and suffered pain in silence. But for both of us, sorrow carved slow-healing wounds and left identical scars of constant insecurities. The second face of grief, death, came three months ago with Grandma Blu's loss—my anchor and source of comfort throughout my parent's crazy separation. That pain, still fresh, hasn't healed. I suspect with time, it too will subside, but will always be tangible. The third red-hot grief was McClelland's layoff. Another death of sorts I've filed under miscellaneous. Though different from the previous, it's still a loss I mourn deeply. A loss of worth, a loss of lifestyle, a daunting change, and yet again, forging a new reality.

The layoff is still an open wound. Every emotion and thought that spring day, is indelibly etched like ink across my memory, as vivid as cherry blossoms viewed from the taxi window. I fume, thinking of McClelland's dishonesty. Management never had our backs. Now, retrospectively, I realize the lay-off was a godsend, deflating complacency I'd never allow, but did, putting trust in a profit-seeking company unconcerned about people. The unexpected blow left me confused and searching for a new normal.

Although the lay-off was a month ago, I frequently reflect on my loss but grow tired of drowning in grief. For days, I wake numb with anguish, lying sleepless, staring at misshapen shadows roving the ceiling—a devil's pitchfork aimed to sling me from inertia. Though grief is fading, the loss of Ryan McThursten's contract is infuriating. After the daunting effort to gain his trust, I should be his editor. This is so unfair … Well, I reason, the layoff was for the best—a necessary kick to jumpstart my writing. I sigh with a despairing glance at the laptop, but exerting mental energy is unfathomable.

Outside the window, a garbage truck thunders through a pothole and triggers a blaring car alarm, but indifference holds me unmoving. Headlights flood the window, casting shadows across the dark bedroom. Finally, tired of lying on my back, I sit up, yawn, stretch, and grab the laptop from the nightstand. Opening my blog to a post I'd written the previous night, I notice the blogger named Undaunted, a blogger who'd become a follower soon after the rebuking post about McClelland, has left comments again.

I cringe, remembering b****y poetry and disturbing words, which left no wish to explore her blog. I've considered blocking her, but that would be rude. The sudden desire to write dwindles restless, so instead, I check my email, finding more of the same junk mail, car note payment alert, and a myriad of other bills. Just as I'm about to close the laptop, a familiar email address catches my attention. Three bold words torment fearfully.

“Do you remember?”

The untimely arrival strums an eerie chord, registering greater fear. I sit straight, wondering why the email is so early. The question, now truncated from nine to three urgent words, heightens alarm. Is my tormentor growing desperate for an answer? I can't keep ignoring this. They're not going away. After two years, I've hoped the harasser would stop. The first time the email arrived, I was paranoid, now, I'm downright frightened.

Quickly, I close the laptop, slide off the bed, and walk toward the window, hoping the lavender sunrise sprawling the East River will distract fearful thoughts. Ahead, on the FDR Drive, diametric white lights wend toward a routine destination. A view that inspires calm most mornings has no effect today. Fearful someone who saw me and knows what happened that night is watching, unseen but there, impatiently awaiting an answer. I fear they won't let up until I give them what they want. I look twenty stories below at Manhattan's empty sidewalks. Who are you?

Down the hall, a closet door screech—Nikki's daily dash to dress for work. Grabbing my laptop, I head to the door, hoping breakfast will distract anxious thoughts.