Page 6 of Unbroken
Son of a bitch.
I put my phone away and ignore the rest of the texts.
I ignore the real reason I don’t want him here tonight.
Four hours later, when the bar’s finally closed for the night, I still have the nighttime routine to complete, but I pull out my phone to check my texts.
I blow out a breath. I don’t think so. I have work to do. He can wait.
I run through tomorrow’s prep work and wipe the bar again. Clean enough for surgery now.
Vadka
You underestimate me.
Oh, no, I don’t. That’s the problem.
I grab a broom and sweep the floor, mindlessly pushing crumbs and dust into a pile. I sweep aimlessly, trying to get the job done.
I considered leaving the bar after Mariah’s death, but this is the place I call home, and I hate to think I’m such a wuss I couldn’t stand the pressure. Seriously. I’m anadult.
I turn my back to the bathroom, to the place that reminds me of Mariah. I can’t think back on that night. No, not now.
I told myself that if I kept coming to work, if I kept putting one foot in front of the other, I’d eventually erase the memory of her vacant eyes and Vadka’s screams of pain and devastation from my memory.
But I can’t.
So this time, I don’t try to. I face the vacant room and the whisper of Mariah’s ghost. I let the tears fall silently and don’t bother to wipe them.
“Why you?” I whisper into the stillness. If it had to be a random person, why did the universe have to pickmy sister,the woman who was married and in love, the woman with achild?Why her? Why sunshine in human form and notme?
I was the one who was alone and barely lovable. I was only a bartender. Single, and probably would be for life. I had no children, and even my mother, god bless her, would look at me through the haze of dementia and still call meMariah.
Why not me?
I choke on a sob and let my shoulders sag.
Why? Why am I still here, and the only person I’ve ever loved more than myself, erased from existence forever?
Why?
My phone rings. I hiccup through a sob and glance blearily at the screen.
Mom.
I let out a ragged breath and answer the phone.
I let myself hope that this time, she’ll remember.
“Hello?”
“Hello? Who is this?”
“Mom. Mom, it’s me. You calledme,remember?”
“Ohhh,” she says, and I cringe at what I know is coming next. “Mariah, honey, can you please bring me some groceries?”
“It’s not Mariah, Mom. It’s Ruthie,” I whisper, squeezing my eyes shut against the pain that chokes me. I don’t say the next sentence that’s on the tip of my tongue. I don’t have the energy to explain it again. I don’t have it in me to make anything harder again.
