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Grief robs you of time. Personality. Heart and senses.
Grief robs you of the most precious thing you ever held within arm's reach.
It festers over any great plan one might have and tints any idea with gigantic bold letters that read: and for what?
Grief, it turns out, also opens your eyes about what truly is worth wasting the few agonizing time you have left on hellish Earth.
Through grief, Taissa is more open to embracing the rediscovered epiphanies about her ex-non-teammate.
Rebuilding her memories from twenty-five years ago, with the jagged edges of the last few months as a measure against them, and throughout her life, she cannot keep it as it was.
She doesn’t fool herself, no matter what the tinnitus with Van’s voice hints at, she understands that they were not innocent. Part of her reasoning around that time was indeed based on that notion. The world would not open its arms to them again, not with blood pooling under her fingernails and teeth with flesh still stuck in between, knowing that all the animals were well done and buried when they found the girls.
She understands, looking back on her memory, what happened and how it is not as simple as washing her hands on Shauna. Yet, she recognizes the signs of her spiraling down into paranoia again.
So, Taissa resorts to calling on another wild card, one who, at least, is as fed up as she is.
Truly, her mind remains scattered, even though she pulls on the reins and drags her consciousness onto firing all cylinders.
Misty has good intel, is a fiercely loyal foot soldier, and is in pain, as well.
After their first reunion, a way to taste the waters, Taissa tunes her voice out and finds that the days pass without meaning to.
The calls to each other are short, cut and dry, the interest in sudden murders like Lottie’s and Shauna’s lover is enough to draw an audience, the era of the internet is fast, avid. There is a certain hunger for their story in a way that they preach it is close to the starvation they endured in the wilderness. Then, someone ‘leaked’ the fact that Shauna’s family, the yellowjacket turned housewife, left town without a trace.
“The narrative is that Natalie and Charlotte are troubled survivors.” Misty asserts over her pink travel coffee mug, she refuses to be served the tar they pour on the dinner they met at, Taissa refuses to welcome her anywhere near her house. “Shauna is troubled, too, clearly, but she is alive.”
“That’s an issue,” Taissa mutters, her mouth moving before her mind catches up.
Misty continues without missing a beat.
“That’s an angle.”
Taissa shivers; Misty has a penchant for dark humour, but these days she has taken on an almost solemn demeanour. Meanwhile, Taissa feels jittery, her hands clammed up and cold despite holding so many cups of nearly-boiling coffee.
She displays the paper trail of Shauna’s erratic behavior, not unlike some of Taissa’s missing days Simone covered up in the years of her marriage.
They both inspect the impulsive buying, some speeding tickets, Callie’s skipping classes, and the teachers' notes on her, even Jeff’s tax returns. It is not much, not clean investigative work at all, but Taissa paid Jessica Roberts for less.
They are not kidding themselves as to how this is going to end.
“Such a pity,” Misty taps over the latest shopping spree of Shauna, notebooks, and other utensils to put to shame a scribbler monk. “Old habits die hard, I suppose."
Taissa squints, “you are one to talk.”
Misty smiles, her lips bright red move, and Taissa can’t remember what she says next, only that it reassures her.
Only that she gets some rest that night.
***
Taissa knows it happens fast, even without the recollection of the facts neatly put in a summary, provided by Misty like court proceedings.
One week, she is still puking out Van’s heart from her insides, crying til her eyes hurt; she is lightheaded, crawling back to bed, more like an injured animal than a person, howling and lamenting at the gap growing inside where her heart was before.
Then, she receives a sealed envelope, some printed chats, highlights, transcribed calls, a new address she is to keep as the most guarded secret.
By the third week, Melissa is found, her wife crying and screaming at the journalists.
Then, by the end of the month, they got Shauna in custody.
Highly monitored history in the making: Callie and Jeff are safe, Melissa’s wife explains the violent assault, Randy testifies about the journals, which are cross-examined with the recent draft Shauna’s been doing about those nineteen months. Post-partum psychosis is explained in countless fifteen-second videos; both of them are called to give a commentary on the accusations, Taissa dresses herself after weeks, her clothes loosely hanging off her body, her hair brittle and unkempt. But she must make an appearance, at the very least, it should give her closure, though, cynically, she knows it is not at all about that; everybody wants a scoop of the truth finally revealed twenty years after.
A whirlwind of emotions, all felt through the fine screen of grief. Taissa puts on her best politics sad face, calculated response, Van and their relationship take the shape of tragic love amidst the chaos and dread. They ate it up. Her stomach churns, caffeine and little water disagreeing with all that emptiness she has within, threatening to spill its contents and show her bright red heart, chewed up and beating still with the love of her life.
“Don’t you feel lighter?” Misty asks from her seat, “That was a beautiful speech.”
“Was it?”
Misty hums, “it is a win, nonetheless, even if it isn’t over.” She is completely turned to the side to inspect Taissa, who grips the steering wheel harder.
Taissa doesn’t see it that way at all. She hasn’t even faced Shauna yet, would probably be able to, doesn’t see the point, as it was Melissa’s who dealt the final blow. All of these feel theatrical, just as Misty would orchestrate it; she rides shotgun, despite Taissa having an inkling she would not survive another crash in her life.
She isn’t sure she wants to.
“Drained.”
Misty laughs, her hand stretches over Taissa’s shoulder, she doesn’t look at her, but she knows she must be saying something else, as Taissa answers, and she can’t recall exactly what.
She wakes up in her bed, having forgotten the ride back or anything else she did the week after Shauna’s arrest.
She traces back her steps in her house, where the dust accumulates, the number of mugs she finds half-full, her nails and teeth aren’t in a worse state, yet she still feels dirt on them.
***
Days later, Taissa calls Misty, and they agree on the meet-up; however, they don’t take their coffee to that damn dinner.
Despite the fact that they always go there, she drives to Misty’s, and she is on the curb waiting, no suspicion in this change of pattern.
Taissa called about wanting to clarify some stuff, such as some statements she gave that are not her words, but they come out of her mouth, or how Simone had her signature on papers Taissa never got to review; maybe just about the baffling laundry done and folded wrong materializing in her closet.
Misty receives all the non-accusations and adjusts her glasses, her manner calm as ever, her eyes cold and calculating.
The bird squeaks, she was warned about its presence when entering the house. Taissa steps back, ignoring the espresso she saw pour out of the machine, her hands itching for a cigarette, knowing full well that Misty considers it a filthy habit she must break.
“It has been a hard time for a long time, hasn’t it?”
“Huh?”
Misty nods, she gets closer, her tone is just a notch away from being condescending, tender, deliberate, rehearsed.
“Re-building a life, kept away from the love of your other life, incapable of protecting her.”
“What are you talking about?” Taissa’s voice wavers, Misty looks past her, and in those eyes there’s a sudden sympathy that revolts her.
Misty opens her arms, Taissa fights against her own body, the way she seems to bow and bend into Misty’s hug.
She chokes on her words, tears gathering in her eyes, and she suppresses any reaction that isn’t anger at being kept in the dark.
She still ends up waking up with Misty, cuddling on the couch.
“What the fuck are you doing!?” Taissa jumps; she’s dizzy, feeling all sore; she stumbles on the floor and picks herself up as inelegantly as possible.
“Is it you?” Misty says under her breath before shaking her head, “are you sleeping well? That was a big cry even for a big girl like you.”
Taissa blinks; her face feels cleansed, soft streaks of tearpaths, and a raw nose are hints that Misty is telling the truth. She just can’t remember.
She runs out of the house, screaming at Misty to never, ever contact her again.
***
The next time it happens, she can’t count how much time has passed.
Misty, allegedly, keeps her end of the deal, sending e-mail updates and nothing else.
Never mind that some days Taissa can’t get out of bed, and her plants still haven’t died.
Never mind that Simone always gets the checks on time, and Sammy sees her biweekly.
Never mind that she isn’t socially destroyed by being linked to the same scandal she brought from the plane crash, now having given it a platform of her own accord.
All that happens in another plane of existence, one where she remembers how to be a functional human.
Where she remembers Van’s laughter.
She can barely remember how they settled the matter with Shauna’s family.
She has a calendar, a schedule of must-dos, and that's the only thing that gives her some structure, going through the motions until it all blurs together. Taissa sees her fingernails grow, break, and then be filed and coated with a bitter polish that prevents her from biting them.
She definitely hasn’t given her key to anybody since changing locks, right before leaving Simone on her hospital bed; and all those products aren’t her favored brand going by the scent of the soap. But she is sitting in her bathtub, water up to her neck, head lolling into some tender hands, her hair kneaded and shampooed properly, without pulling in new tangles.
“What the hell is happening.” Taissa grunts, the room is warm, steam and incense filling the air, clouding her vision.
“You are safe,” Misty murmurs without stopping, “you have done more than enough, and you can rest.”
Taissa is frozen, all her instincts kicking in with the sweet nothings pouring from Misty’s mouth. “W—what are you doing here?”
“I am reliable, remember?” And Taissa wants to yell how much she is not, and also that she can't remember shit. Her head nods slightly on its own. "I know you’re still hurting, how could you not, so let me handle it a bit longer, okay?”
Taissa struggles against the water; her eyelids are heavy, her throat chokes on words she isn’t sure are hers. She considers her options: the immediate exit from her own house? Demand more answers she would not remember hearing?
A pang of ache surges from her heart, the one thing she always remembers is that Van is gone. Not in the nebulous 'away', not in the safe 'away from me', not even in the cruel 'away from my issues', she is dead, and she can't bear it, air is drained from her lungs, her head throbs in dull pain, her ribcage collapses on her stomach.
Taissa sinks into the bath, she shivers despite the water temperature, all fight gone from her body, and soon enough, she feels her rinsing her curls.
When she wakes up, her hair is dry, and her body snuggles against Misty’s on her bed. They aren't wearing any clothes.
Taissa realizes she cannot tell if it is the same day, or what date it is at all, she thought she had beaten that part of hers, but couldn’t be more wrong about that. She starts crying, then sobbing violently, prompting Misty to hold her tighter, even as she grips her shoulders until she scratches her flesh with dull nails.
She is reassured that it is not the first time she has these fits. “Desperate times, aren't they?”
Taissa nods, burying herself in sorrow, screaming inside her mind, although she seeks Misty’s warmth, only kindness she would yield for, she is thoroughly defeated by the weight of surviving one’s love after wasting a lifetime without them.