The Runaway Bride.
I should say right at the front that none of what I did that day had anything to do with me not loving George. In fact, if you want to get right down to brass tacks, the whole day start to finish was a result of how much I did. Some people probably can't understand that, but not everybody knows what it's like to have died, either.
I'm also going to admit up front how ridiculous it was. I mean, I don't think I should be plagued with guilt or anything because it turned out okay in the end, and it isn't like people can predict when they're going to have a severe emotional breakdown. But it was pretty damned stupid, not to mention hurtful, even if I couldn't quite help myself.
The day had started out okay. I'd gotten up early, talked to Nixon about the reception, arranged to have the cake carted out to the Officer's Club. I double-checked everything I could think of: Food, decorations, seating, music. After a long shower, I let Shane do my hair and then let Vince have his way with me so that he could make sure the dress was perfect. For the most part, any nerves had been kept at bay -- I was fine, really. I put the finishing touches on my makeup, stepped back to look at myself in the mirror of the downstairs bathroom that had been appropriated for my private use, and... well.
I sort of lost it.
It was so supremely stupid, like I said. If I'd been in another bathroom, it might not have happened at all, but when I stopped long enough to actually think, all I could do was remember running into Tim in there. How embarrassed I'd been, but how easy he was about it. Sitting on top of the washing machines while we debated the relative merits of classic copies of Playboy.
It was all downhill from there, all of the things I'd been keeping inside for months hitting me in a rush: Loss and lies and fate and uncertainty. This was wrong, I thought. All wrong. I wasn't meant for this, to be married, to have a family, to be alive. What if George disappeared? What if I disappeared, leaving him to raise a kid alone? What if Jimmy disappeared now that I'd finally gotten him back? What if I was dooming Dean and Sam by loving them like brothers?
Over and over, one thought pounded through my head in a pervasive mantra: You should be dead.
Some people have asked me what I was thinking when I left, but the truth is, I wasn't thinking at all. I just ran. White silk hiked up, heels abandoned on the boardwalk, I ran. All the way down to the dock and onto my boat, which I untied and hastily set sail in. I didn't even know where I was going, I just knew I needed to go, that I was wrong and not meant to be. Maybe it was my fault that Tim had gone. Maybe it was my fault with all of them: Mason and Odd and Tim and Jason... who was next? Was I cursed?
I couldn't tell you how long I'd been out there when I finally stopped. I didn't even bother running down the anchor, I just collapsed atop the deck in a flurry of silken ruffles and sobbed. Sobbed until I didn't think I could cry any longer, until my throat was raw and my makeup obliterated, face red as I rocked with each desperate, gulping breath and the tide.
I'm also going to admit up front how ridiculous it was. I mean, I don't think I should be plagued with guilt or anything because it turned out okay in the end, and it isn't like people can predict when they're going to have a severe emotional breakdown. But it was pretty damned stupid, not to mention hurtful, even if I couldn't quite help myself.
The day had started out okay. I'd gotten up early, talked to Nixon about the reception, arranged to have the cake carted out to the Officer's Club. I double-checked everything I could think of: Food, decorations, seating, music. After a long shower, I let Shane do my hair and then let Vince have his way with me so that he could make sure the dress was perfect. For the most part, any nerves had been kept at bay -- I was fine, really. I put the finishing touches on my makeup, stepped back to look at myself in the mirror of the downstairs bathroom that had been appropriated for my private use, and... well.
I sort of lost it.
It was so supremely stupid, like I said. If I'd been in another bathroom, it might not have happened at all, but when I stopped long enough to actually think, all I could do was remember running into Tim in there. How embarrassed I'd been, but how easy he was about it. Sitting on top of the washing machines while we debated the relative merits of classic copies of Playboy.
It was all downhill from there, all of the things I'd been keeping inside for months hitting me in a rush: Loss and lies and fate and uncertainty. This was wrong, I thought. All wrong. I wasn't meant for this, to be married, to have a family, to be alive. What if George disappeared? What if I disappeared, leaving him to raise a kid alone? What if Jimmy disappeared now that I'd finally gotten him back? What if I was dooming Dean and Sam by loving them like brothers?
Over and over, one thought pounded through my head in a pervasive mantra: You should be dead.
Some people have asked me what I was thinking when I left, but the truth is, I wasn't thinking at all. I just ran. White silk hiked up, heels abandoned on the boardwalk, I ran. All the way down to the dock and onto my boat, which I untied and hastily set sail in. I didn't even know where I was going, I just knew I needed to go, that I was wrong and not meant to be. Maybe it was my fault that Tim had gone. Maybe it was my fault with all of them: Mason and Odd and Tim and Jason... who was next? Was I cursed?
I couldn't tell you how long I'd been out there when I finally stopped. I didn't even bother running down the anchor, I just collapsed atop the deck in a flurry of silken ruffles and sobbed. Sobbed until I didn't think I could cry any longer, until my throat was raw and my makeup obliterated, face red as I rocked with each desperate, gulping breath and the tide.