Broken

By Dawn Michele

Is it a betrayal to those you lost to move forward? Can you find moments of joy amid devastating loss? And does living mean forgetting?

Allison had it all - A great marriage, a beautiful daughter and a future she was excited for - until it was all ripped away.

It's been six months since she lost her f

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dawn Michele Books
• Release date: Apr 4, 2023
• ISBN: 9781088113110

Book preview

BROKEN

Dawn Michele

Dawn Michele Books

Copyright © 2023 Dawn Michele

All rights reserved

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

Cover design by:Mike Ugbogbo – IG the_pixel_maverick

Printed in the United States of America

To Anthony for believing in me, and for constantly harassing me to make sure I was writing. To Sam for the many LET’S GOOOO texts he sent when I would update him on my word count. And to Jake for his efforts to help me find the perfect book cover.

Contents

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Broken

Chapter one

Chapter two

Chapter three

Chapter four

Chapter five

Chapter six

Chapter seven

Chapter eight

Chapter nine

Chapter ten

Chapter eleven

Chapter twelve

Chapter thirteen

Chapter fourteen

Chapter fifteen

Chapter sixteen

Chapter seventeen

Chapter eighteen

Chapter nineteen

Chapter twenty

Chapter twenty-one

Chapter twenty-two

Chapter twenty-three

Epilogue: six years later

About The Author

Broken

Chapter one

     Allison? Startled, I look up from my thumb, which I have been slowly working a sliver of rough skin off of, drawing a bead of blood. I had been lost in thought, wondering if it were possible to pinpoint the exact moment that the life I was living had become unrecognizable. Was it the impact of the crash, or the dozens of tiny choices I made throughout that day? What if I had fed my daughter frozen waffles for breakfast instead of cereal, which used up the last of the milk? What if I had stopped at the store on the way home from the park, instead of going home because she was cranky and needed a nap. What if I had decided to make rice for dinner instead of mashed potatoes, necessitating the need for someone to run to the store for milk? What if I had been the one to go instead of asking my husband to take our daughter and go to the store because I just wanted thirty minutes to myself where someone didn’t need something from me? If I had gone alone there wouldn’t have been extra time spent placing Tabby in her car seat, taking her out of her car seat, walking slowly in the store because she loved to walk rather than ride in the carriage. Would that difference in timing have changed the outcome? How far back can I go with all the different choices I could have made that would have prevented what happened? It’s the what if’s that torture me. What if, what if, what if. And milk. Milk is the reason I no longer have a family. Well, milk and Justin.

     I stand, gathering my purse in my left hand and pressing the index finger of my right against my thumb to hide the blood. I slowly walk towards the woman with the friendly, open face, waiting for me in the doorway to her office. Dr. Marion Whitman motions me inside and gestures towards two chairs facing one another. I move towards the one closest to the door and settle myself on the edge. I’m strung as tight as a bow, desperate to be anywhere but here. It’s only been 6 months since I lost my two reasons for living, and I have yet to fully allow myself to feel that loss. It feels too big; like if I allow myself to really and truly feel all of it at once it will destroy me, and I’m barely holding on as it is. It wasn’t even my choice to come here. Not really. The idea of therapy has never appealed to me. Honestly the idea of tearing my emotional wounds open for someone else to poke around in is terrifying and a little nauseating. I don’t want to share my grief with this stranger. I don’t want to share my memories of my husband and my daughter. And I definitely do not want to talk about Justin. My mother pressured me into this. She is the only person who tolerates me, and her tears and pleading over her fear for my mental health and wellbeing were too much to bear up against in my current state. So I’m here, but I’m not happy about it.

     Dr. Whitman is in her late 60s, with fluffy white hair and dozens of wrinkles. She immediately reminds me of Betty White. She’s dressed in a short sleeve navy blue cotton dress printed with colorful peacocks and brown comfortable looking flats. She looks far too cheerful and upbeat for me. My tolerance for happy people is fairly low these days. I pretty much want everyone to be as miserable as I am. It’s insane, I know this, but I also don’t give a shit. My husband and child are gone, and I have trouble understanding how the world around me continues on without them, and I resent every happy, smiling person I see, which is why I stopped leaving the house months ago. One of the many reasons my mother guilted me into being here in the first place. Dr. Whitman sits in the chair opposite me and offers me a warm smile, but her eyes are sharp and assessing, and I know she isn’t missing much.

     It’s lovely out today, isn’t it? she begins, catching me off guard. It’s such a benign question and certainly not what I expected. I assumed she would ask about my family, or their deaths, or how I’m coping, not about something as inconsequential as the weather.

     What? Oh! Yes, um, I guess it is, giving away too much information in that bumbling sentence. My eyes move to the window, and I see that it is, in fact, lovely out, which I also resent. It’s sunny and the sky is a brilliant blue, and I remember wondering when it got so warm when I left the house this morning. I hadn’t really noticed, I say, stating the obvious.

     Dr. Whitman chuckles softly and says I gathered that.

I shift uncomfortably in my chair, unsure of what to do with my hands and feet. My limbs feel awkward and unmanageable, as if they belong elsewhere, I just don’t know where that might be.

     I’m sorry, I mumble, looking down at my lap, although I’m unsure what it is that I am really apologizing for. My discomfort, maybe, or maybe my clear lack of desire to be here. It’s not her fault my mother forced this on me, and while I may not want to be around happy people because the desire to slap the smiles off their faces is almost overwhelming, it feels so wrong to direct those feelings towards Betty White's doppelganger. I sigh deeply and shift in my chair.

     She spends the next 30 minutes taking me through basic background information. Things like where I grew up, my parents’ marital status, where I went to college. Questions that lull me into a false sense of safety that maybe this session will be easy. She hasn’t touched on anything that would indicate she was leading up to asking about Will or Tabitha or Justin or that day. I should have known better.

     Allison, she says softly, looking at me with a gentle expression on her face, tell me why you’re here.

     I stare at her, suddenly tense and angry. I’m sure my mother told you what happened.

     "That’s not what I mean. I mean why are you here? Your mother is the one who called and provided the initial intake information. I know why she thinks you need to be here. What I want to know is why you are here."

     Because I got my family killed? Because I stopped leaving the house because I was having homicidal fantasies when I saw people going about their lives when my life is gone? Because I dream of all the ways I wish I could torture Justin in the hopes of making him hurt just a fraction of the way I hurt?

     My mother is worried about me, I state banally.

     Dr. Whitman smiles and says Yes. She made that clear. Do you think she has reason to be worried?

     I cross my arms across my chest and sigh like a petulant child. I feel angry and defensive as I cross one leg over the other and bounce my foot against my calf. My mother has her own ideas of how I should be handling my grief. Since I am not grieving the way she thinks I should be, she decided I needed therapy, and she can be, I pause, throwing out an arm and finish with a forceful persistent. I know this is not a fair assessment. I know that the truth is so much more complex than what I just said, but I can’t bring myself to explain how desperate and worried my mother has been – how my anger has changed me into someone vile and ugly that even I don’t recognize, and how much that scared her.

     Dr. Whitman writes something in the notebook on her lap and looks at me expectantly. The silence lingers so long that my discomfort grows exponentially. I know her game; stay silent until I’m so uncomfortable that I talk just to fill the void. I hate the person I’ve become since I lost Will and Tabitha. I am a screaming bitch now, and I know it. Before – before this wretched, disgusting life I am now living – I was nice. People liked me, and I liked people. No one would have ever described me as bitchy; they would have said I was sweet, or friendly, or outgoing. When Will and Tabby first died – God even thinking those words send shockwaves of pain coursing through me – friends and family tried so hard to be supportive, to visit, to be there, but I eventually drove them all away with how hideously I treated everyone. I have no idea how to let go of all the anger inside of me, and I can’t seem to stop myself from lashing out at everyone who tries to connect with me.

     Giving in, because clearly Dr. Whitman is the queen of the silent game, I tell her the truth. I hate everyone, I say. I hate that the world still spins, I hate that people around me are happy. I hate when I hear someone laugh or speak, or, fuck, even breath. I am so fucking angry all the time, I spit, and I don’t know that I even care anymore.

     Dr. Whitman nods, You lost a great deal, and anger is completely normal - healthy even. Tell me this…how do you express your anger?

     I’m a hateful, screaming bitch any and every chance I get, I say, honestly.

     Does it feel good? When you lash out and are, in your words, a screaming bitch, does it feel good?

     Yes. It feels, I pause, searching for the right word, freeing. Like, when you open the valve on a pressure cooker and the steam streams out? It feels like that; like a release of all the pressure building inside of me. And the thing is, no one will say anything. I’m the widow and the childless mother, I can say whatever I want, and no one is going to say a damn thing.

     She nods and writes something down, then looks at me and asks, Besides your mother, who do you have for support?

     I make a self-deprecating noise and state flatly, No one. Not anymore. When she says nothing, I continue, I used to have a lot of friends. Friends from college, from playgroup, couples’ friends that Will and I went out with often. Now? Now I have no one. I have systematically run every single person out of my life, and truthfully? I don’t care.

     I slump in the chair and stare out the window. I’m lying to her and myself, and I know she knows it. I do care, on a very deep level, that I am the loneliest person I know. I lost my whole world in an instant, and then proceeded to push away every single person who tried to support me and comfort me. I didn’t want their comfort, or their kindness or their soft smiles of pity. Mostly though, I didn’t want the, what? Reminders? No, because not one second goes by where I didn’t remember; I didn’t want the memories I associated with them and my loss. I didn’t want to see Sarah, one of my closest friends from playgroup, because she got to leave me and my grief, and go home and cuddle her beautiful daughter, and I did not. I didn’t want to see Jeff and Ann, a couple Will and I routinely had dinner with, because they have each other, and I would never have Will again. I couldn’t bear to have tangible evidence of my never agains constantly in my face.

     I turn from the window and regard Dr. Whitman. She’s watching me with a thoughtful expression on her face, almost like she knows what I was just thinking. I can’t be around people. Seeing them have what I have lost, it’s too much. It hurts too much. Why do they get to have their children when my baby is gone? Why are they still complaining about their husbands’ leaving socks on the bedroom floor, when I would literally give my life to have to pick up Will’s socks one more time? The unfairness of it all just adds to how insanely angry I am all the time.

     She nods and touches the pen to her mouth, thinking. Your mother expressed concern that you don’t leave the house and haven’t in several months. How are you meeting your needs? How are you working or making sure you have food? How are you taking care of you?

     I work from home. I edit books, so I can do that anywhere. I get my groceries and household supplies delivered. I do all my banking online. I literally have no reason to leave the house.

     What about self-care? Are you showering? Cleaning your house? Exercising?

     This question makes me uncomfortable, but I don’t know why. When everything first happened, I was in such a fog that the first several days are just blank. I just remember going through the motions, robotically selecting a casket, burial plot, flowers, shutting out every feeling and emotion. I remember going to shower the morning of the funeral and just standing under the water, unsure what I was supposed to do. I was in there so long that the hot water turned so cold that I was shivering, and yet, I still just stood there. Eventually my mother must have become worried about me because I remember her coming in, helping me out of the shower and wrapping me in a towel, stroking my wet, but still unwashed hair, and murmuring soft words at me. I wore a hat to the funeral to cover my hair, since there wasn’t time for the water to recover and wash it. In the weeks after the funeral I would go days without showering or eating.

     I’m better at it now, I answer honestly. The first several weeks things like bathing and eating seemed so pointless, but now I try to remember to eat at least once a day, and I shower every day, or every other day at least. I really only use the family room, kitchen and downstairs bathroom, so it’s not hard to keep those areas picked up. As for exercising, no, not really.

     I noticed Dr. Whitman’s eyebrows go up when I mentioned only using a few rooms in my house, so when her next question comes, it’s not a surprise.

     You are only using 2 rooms and a bathroom?

     Even though her question was expected, it doesn’t mean it isn’t hard to answer. Coming here today I expected questions about Will and Tabby, questions about Justin, questions about how I’m grieving and what I am doing to move on. God, I hate that expression…move on. Like somehow I’m going to wake up one day and no longer feel like half of my soul, both of my reasons for living, are missing and just skip merrily into the next phase of my life, leaving my grief and sadness behind. I didn’t expect that questions about my hygiene or which rooms in my house I’m occupying would be so difficult to answer. But they are. I feel ashamed and uneasy, which only adds to the intense anger I carry around with me.

     I narrow my eyes at her and practically snarl Yes, almost daring her to judge me for it. Except all she does is nod, like she understands, which makes me even more irrationally angry, so I glare at her.

    God I am such a bitch.

     Do you have a fenced in backyard? She asks, apropos of absolutely nothing.

    What? I ask, stupidly, feeling unbalanced.

     A fenced in yard? Do you have a fence?

     Uh…wha…a I blink at her, yes? I answer, although it sounds more like a question.

    Can you go in a store?

    A store?

     She crosses her legs and leans slightly forward, You said you don’t leave the house, and haven’t in months. I’m asking, can you go into a store?

     I think about this and answer with a confused Yes…

     She nods and then only furthers my confusion when she says On your way home from here, I’d like you to stop at a second hand shop, Goodwill or the like.

     I stare at her, trying to keep up with this sudden change of topic and wondering if it really is a sudden change. The first few months after losing Will and Tabitha, I would find myself zoning out and losing time or missing big chunks of conversation, but I thought I had at least gotten that under control. What? I ask, again stupidly.

     Dr. Whitman smiles at me and says I want you to go to a second hand shop. I want you to buy as many ceramic dishes and mugs as you can. Nothing glass though. Grab a sheet as well. I want you to go home and lay the sheet out on the ground in front of the fence. Then I want you to throw those dishes and mugs at the fence. Throw them really hard. Smash them. Shatter them. Scream at the top of your lungs while you do it. Embrace all that anger in you and send it flying with each plate you throw.

     I look at her like she’s lost her mind. She wanted me to….smash dishes?

     I can tell she knows how confused I am. Trust me, she says. Trust me. Smash all those dishes and mugs. Then gather up the corners of the sheet and place it, with all the pieces, in a box. Next week, when you come, bring the box with you.

     I…what? Why? I ask, so confused by this request.

     Dr. Whitman gives a soft chuckle and says Next week Allison. Ok? Just bring the box next week. Just like grief is a process, therapy is a process too, and I need you to try and trust me to lead you through both of them. Eventually I will be asking you to trust me with much bigger truths, and feelings, and actions, but while we build up to that part of our relationship, I’m just asking you to trust me with broken dishes. Can you do that?

     I think about it, and decide that yes, I can do that. Okay, I say. I can do that.

     She smiles at me, and for the first time in six months I don’t want to slap the smile off of someone’s face. Instead, I feel like I just passed a test I hadn’t studied for, and I feel a little shimmer of pride light somewhere so deep inside of me it takes me a moment to recognize it. Okay, she says, moving to stand and walking to her desk. She makes me an appointment for next week and hands me a little business card with the date and time, and then leads me to a side door and out into a small hallway that leads to an exit door. I had noticed when I came in that she had two separate exterior doors, and clearly this was why. So patients leaving their sessions didn’t have to go into the waiting room and see or be seen by whoever was waiting for their appointment. For some reason I took comfort in this. I mumble goodbye and exit the building, get in my car and head to Goodwill before going home.

Chapter two

     I drive to the house from Dr. Whitman and Goodwill feeling conflicted. For the first time in months I’m excited about something and there is an intense feeling of guilt associated with it. What right do I have to be excited about anything? Will and Tabby will never experience excitement again. They will never laugh or smile or feel joy. Am I diminishing their loss by looking forward to something? Objectively, I know that is crazy. While we do not grieve the same way, not by a long shot, hence her manipulating me into therapy, I know my mother grieves the loss of my husband and my daughter. She adored Will, and she loved Tabby to distraction, and she was devastated when they died. It’s less obvious now, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t still there. What it isn’t is her entire existence. She goes to book club and bridge club, she gardens and shops and goes out with her friends for lunch. She has a life that isn’t just about the loss of her son-in-law and only grandchild. I resent her for this, just like I resent everyone.

     In six months I haven’t laughed once. I don’t watch television. I don’t listen to music. Even the books I edit no longer bring me joy. I used to love reading and thought I was the luckiest person in the world that I got paid to read books for a living. I would devour my authors’ books. Romance and mysteries, dramas and psychological thrillers, page after page of new worlds and new friends and crazy enemies. Now? Now I edit dry, dull nonfiction books on financial planning, cabinet building, and engine repair. I have systematically removed anything from my daily life that might bring me even the slightest hint of joy. Feeling this spark of excitement is uncomfortable, like trying on shoes that don’t fit correctly. It pinches and pulls in weird and painful ways, but it’s there all the same, pushing its way towards the surface, making itself known.

     I pull into my driveway and see my mother sitting in one of the Adirondack chairs on the front porch. I should have expected that. She knew my first therapy appointment was today, after all, she is the one who scheduled it. I should have anticipated she would be here waiting when I got back to see how it went. And seeing as her own house is only a block and half away, it’s even less surprising to find her sitting here waiting for me.

     I take in my house that is now just a house and no longer a home. I remember the day five years ago when Will and I pulled up to this house, having already seen close to a dozen that for one reason or another, were not right for us. There was the house wallpapered with giant yellow flowers in every room, and by every room, I mean every room including the bathrooms and weirdly, even the garage. There was