sandra kolankiewicz It's not as if I don't care or anything, he says, and he thinks he has me then. I'm worried about you, he continues, and I tell myself, Who wouldn't be? Who wouldn't be worried about his wife who left a melodramatic note about her dying mother, disappeared for two weeks, and was found by a maid in a hotel room in some far away city, lying dead drunk in her own vomit, a bottle of pills not having finished the job? Oh, I'm home now, or as close to home as I'll be getting for a while, and I reach forward and pull a cigarette from his pack on the table between us, smiling sadly as if he weren't talking about me, as if we were discussing some mutual friend who had gone overboard, frightened and lost in the cold cold sea. But it is me he's talking about. I know that. A me of the past, who had ceased to exist by the time I opened my eyes in the emergency room with all those intent faces above me, brows knitted, creased with the effort of trying to save my life. And for what?
Frontiers: A Journal of Women Studies – University of Nebraska Press
Published: Jan 4, 2002