Chapter 19
Susan opened the door to room 120 and flopped down on the bed. What a nightmare it all has become. Mark is dead. I have no source of income. It’s over. I’m finished. I don’t want to go back to Charlotte. I don’t want to return to Qualla. I don’t want to tell my parents that Mark is dead and that we were headed for divorce. I don’t want to answer any more questions. These questions will never stop. I can tell. I’ll be questioned and doubted the rest of my life. Five, ten, twenty years from now, and they will still be asking me questions. It will never end. I’m that wicked woman to them. I don’t want any more humiliation. How did that yellow stain get on the ceiling? I don’t want to see Mark’s dead body in a casket. I don’t want to see his gray face. No way! I don’t want to attend any funeral or memorial service for Mark. I could never face Mark’s friends again. Never. Charlotte is cursed for me. I don’t want to live anymore. I’m done with it. I quit. I want out of this Earth-life.
Susan opened her pill box and took out the remaining nine OxyContin pills that she was saving. She crushed them and swallowed the chalky powder. She chased it down the hatch with a swig of the now-warm PBR beer-swill that Greg had left on the dresser. Death would be assured now. She had just ingested her exit ticket.
She then made her way to the balcony and sat down on the salt-air-rusted metal chair. She repositioned the foam seat cushion, covering the worst spots. It was still quite foggy, even though it was almost noon. The temperature was only 68°F. Hardly anyone was on the beach, just some runners and a few shell searchers. Then an older man and his apparent grandson walked by with a metal detector and a plastic black-and-yellow spade. Wonder if they find a gold earring.
Her mind began to ebb and flow with the surf. Mark loved these mild, steel-gray, overcast days. I guess this will be the last one that I will ever see. I’ll be joining you shortly, Mark, wherever that might be. Though, maybe you don’t want to see me ever again. I can certainly understand that. But, we had some nice times. It sure was a strange life, wasn’t it, Mark? So sorry about the ending. Maybe it just changes form now, or goes entirely formless. I guess you already know about Heaven, or the next phase: perhaps some metaphysical adventure? Or, maybe eternal, dark, cold silence? No, not that, Mark.
She gazed out at the sea. Waves. It all moves in waves. Crazy waves.
A lone seagull flew up to her balcony railing. It was loudly cawing as it hovered. It must think that I have some food. ‘Sorry, no bread, winged one. I know that it’s no easy life on this planet for birds like you.’ Yeah, such a constant battle for survival for just about all creatures. ‘I guess to you seagulls, I appear to have it made.’ No food procurement issues. If they only knew how hard it could get mentally and emotionally for a human being. ‘Be glad that you only have basic needs and simple desires, high flyer. Just be glad.’ If only …
Then the bird flew away, alighting on a dead crab halfway down the beach, some thirty yards away.
Susan’s throat was feeling very dry. She pushed herself up and out of the chair, and dragged her numb body inside. She found her last bottled water and took a swig. She then grabbed her handbag and shuffled back to the balcony. She barely landed on the seat.
Twenty minutes had now passed since Susan had taken the nine pills. She already felt like she was being encased in concrete. Breathing was an uphill struggle. Her heart rate was slowing. Her ability to focus was fading fast. She couldn’t walk back inside her motel room if she had to. She felt totally immobilized.
Her mind meandered further. So, this is where it will end. I never imagined that I’d die at a beach when I was a five-year-old girl, running around on the reservation in the Smoky Mountains. Who will find my body? Ah, who cares? Does that even matter? Transition will occur one way or another.
Susan gazed back out at the most-distant part of the sea, looking for the horizon. She couldn’t make it out due to the dense fog. This fog is so disorienting. Maybe that’s why Mark loved it so much. Almost like a mind drug in itself. It seems to dissociate the thoughts. You can project your thoughts onto it and watch them go … wow and flutter. A gray wafting canvas. Ethereal etchings. Mark would have loved that one. Points! He secretly wanted to become some kind of neo-beat hipster poet. I know he did. No one makes it big as a poet anymore. Do they? Gosh, what drew me to him? He was a kind and handsome guy with unique features. Almost looked like an international spy when he wore that tan tweed blazer. How I was so intrigued with him at first sight. I am going to miss his cock. It was a perfect fit. Such an arty guy. Ah, that time he painted me in the nude, literally, in a mechanical room at WCU. That music he played on the CD player. Really dreamy surreal sounds. It took three days to wash all of that acrylic paint off. Crazy ideas. One after another. With an unmistakable penchant for unprofitability. If there was money to be lost, he was in line. A constant certainty. I was so naïve back then. A shy studious Cherokee girl. An easy mark for Mark. Mark would’ve written that one down. Always a pen in his pocket. All those times with Mark in Boone. Howard’s Knob on that cold winter day. Watching the snow squalls move in from the west. He held me tight and kissed me. The ‘I love you’ soundtrack he made for me. Gosh, that music was so cool. The valley below turning white. Dusted. We almost slid off the mountain coming back down. Our times at the Klan Dike Café. It’s all gone. Irrevocably. Can never go back. The past has passed us by. Wow, am I starting to think like him in my final dying moments? Always playing word games. Why the hell was he in my motel room? And under the goddam bed? He actually stayed under the bed for at least thirty minutes. He had to have. What did he think of Rick? Hell, what did he think of me?! I know what he was thinking … ‘What a fucking whore!’ And, he just stayed down there recording my moans. Too strange. It’s all too damn weird. How’d I end up here? I was going to be a success in the white man’s world. I did it the right way. And, I didn’t cheat on Mark until this crazy weekend. And, it doesn’t count anyway. We were already kaput. Our marriage was already in the casket before I came down here to bury it. Another line Mark would’ve loved. I swear I am channeling his spirit. He’s probably fighting it all the way. Being jostled in the offsets. Dangerous riptides. I wonder when that sign was put up. I wonder when it gets replaced. I don’t think Mark ever cheated on me. No, he didn’t. I know he didn’t. He was a gentle guy. He never hit me. Never even touched me in anger. Not even when I was in full-throttle, bitch-witch mode. I knew he wouldn’t. Maybe that’s why I got so nasty with him. I could get away with it. But, I was a good girl back then. I got good grades. I was going to be successful. It was going to be a good life. I was not an evil person. Thank God, we didn’t have kids. That would’ve been the worst. I couldn’t have ended it this way if I had a child. I would’ve struggled on somehow living off welfare and food stamps. Probably just become another alcoholic pill-popper on the reservation. I never wanted to get hooked on prescription painkillers, but damn, that stuff is so fucking addictive. I know that I’m not the only one hooked on those damn pills in this zero-tolerance-for-pain nation. I wonder how my parents are doing. What might they be doing at this very moment? Mom is probably watching the We or Lifetime channel in the living room, while sipping her favorite herbal tea. Dad is probably piddling around the house, doing simple projects to stay out of mom’s hair. I’ll miss them. Immensely. Forever. And, I know they’ll miss me. Terribly. Gosh, I love them so much. I don’t want to hurt them, but I can’t endure this anymore. My hurt is the greatest. No one else has to walk in my moccasins. No one else. They’ll never understand what led to all of this. My God, the fog seems to be getting denser. Maybe it’s the damn oxycodone. All I see is gray. Soft gray clouds. They look like pillows going on forever. I can almost feel them. Well, I better write that note now. I probably only have ten more minutes left. I wonder who will find it. Does the cleaning lady know English? Maybe she’ll pass it on to someone. And maybe they’ll forward it on to someone who knew me. Maybe. Oh, what the hell am I thinking? This is Mark’s madness. His spirit has invaded my brain. I can feel it. He’s exacting his revenge in my last cognizant minutes. As nice as he usually was, he could be evil that way with his bizarre mind games. ‘Hey Mark, I know it’s you. Ok, you win. Whatever, hon. You’ll only have my brain for another five minutes. Maybe just three. Then, it’s all over, hon. You won’t be able to torment my soul anymore. Nevermore. Never – that’s a really long time, Mark.’
Susan opened her handbag. Her right hand slowly and lethargically fumbled around inside, feeling the hidden pocket where her car keys were always kept. She could tell that there was nothing in there as her fingers traced the thin fabric. Her index and middle fingers brushed over the pouch once more, just to make sure. Nothing. They’re gone. Huh?
She was startled by the revelation. Where are my car keys? It certainly doesn’t matter now, but that’s odd. I know they were in there. Did Mark take them when he came to my motel room? Was that what he wanted? But, why did he want them? He didn’t drive off that night in our Dodge Neon. Was he going to return the rental car in Wilmington and drive off in our Neon, going back to Charlotte, leaving me stranded at Carolina Beach? Well, it hardly matters now. Fuck it! It’s way too late to figure it out now. Gosh, my mind feels like overcooked, mushy spaghetti. I wonder if the guys who built this motel balcony are still alive. I wonder if they’re still pumping. Oh, I’ve lost my mind. And, I don’t want to find it … ever again. Never.
She pulled out a small pad of white notepaper and a blue ball-point pen. She sighed and gasped. This simple task had left her out of breath. She was starting to turn blue. Her drugged mind fumbled over her condensing thoughts. Whew, not long now. Not long at all, Susan. I’m certainly on the exit ramp now. It is really setting in now, like cement in my veins. Hope I can still write. The sea could care less, I know. The sea, the sea, the sea. The sea sees me … and just has another wave-crashing laugh. Another splash. Yes, the sea has seen it all. All of humankind’s nautical foibles and coastal follies. ‘Ah, Mark, there you are again. You bastard, you!’ The sounds, sights and scents of the surf will all be here tomorrow. The morning sea breeze will greet the happy faces of the vacationers and toss their hair. It will still be a great beach for tourists. Just remove my corpse promptly. Don’t let it start to decompose and stink up the place. I don’t want to spoil someone’s summer vacation by shocking their seven-year-old daughter. ‘Mommy, there’s a dead woman there.’ Lovely. Just lovely. Not!
Susan managed to grasp the pen in her right hand, while holding the little pad in her left hand. What kind of closing statement should I write? I can barely hold this pen. This square-shaped pad of paper feels like a marshmallow.
The blue ink’s trail left only a few words as Susan’s life on this oblate spheroid expired.
Floating. Floating farther … away. Not sad.
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At 11:17 AM Sunday morning, Susan’s body was found by the Hispanic cleaning lady, Louisa. The motel’s checkout time was 11:00. Louisa finally opened the door after three knocks and three “Hello, housekeeping” shouts, even though a Do Not Disturb placard hung from the rusting doorknob.
Louisa scanned the room. She quickly noticed that the sliding glass door to the balcony was open. When she saw Susan’s stiff, lifeless, gray body on the balcony, she freaked. She ran back to the motel office, hysterically screaming, “El diablo mató a la mujer!” [The devil killed the woman!]