joined fingers, something would shift so that the hand was not Nick’s. It was
bloody and clawed, not a hand at all.
When I slept, I gave myself wholly to the peak. I dreamed of Luke, of his
eyes rolling back in his head. I dreamed of Dad, of the slow rattle in his
lungs. I dreamed of Shawn, of the moment my wrist had cracked in the
parking lot. I dreamed of myself, limping beside him, laughing that high,
horrible cackle. But in my dreams I had long, silvery hair.
The wedding was in September.
I arrived at the church full of anxious energy, as though I’d been sent
through time from some disastrous future to this moment, when my actions
still had weight and my thoughts, consequences. I didn’t know what I’d been
sent to do, so I wrung my hands and chewed my cheeks, waiting for the
crucial moment. Five minutes before the ceremony, I vomited in the women’s
bathroom.
When Emily said “I do,” the vitality left me. I again became a spirit, and
drifted back to BYU. I stared at the Rockies from my bedroom window and
was struck by how implausible they seemed. Like paintings.
A week after the wedding I broke up with Nick—callously, I’m ashamed
to say. I never told him of my life before, never sketched for him the world
that had invaded and obliterated the one he and I had shared. I could have
explained. I could have said, “That place has a hold on me, which I may
never break.” That would have got to the heart of it. Instead I sank through
time. It was too late to confide in Nick, to take him with me wherever I was
going. So I said goodbye.