Killing Yourself to Survive by David Corbett

Author:David Corbett [Corbett, David]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781784083762
Publisher: Head of Zeus Ltd
Published: 2012-03-15T00:00:00+00:00

Dead by Christmas

I’LL TELL YOU WHAT ruined my marriage, and it wasn’t gambling or drink or chasing skirt. Our son, Donny, was walking home from a friend’s house when a LeSabre blew the stop sign, ran the poor kid down in the street and dragged him twenty yards, then fled the scene.

Seven years old, Donny was. And he fought, or his body fought, half the night, until the ER surgeon came out to talk with Barb and me with that look on his face.

All I remember of the next two weeks is I went on a mission—horning my way into the loop as every department in the valley tracked down the driver, even tagging along when the arrest came down in Apache Junction. They put two men on me, to make sure I didn’t take my shot as they dragged the guy out. His name was Phil Packer, an insurance adjustor with a DWI sheet ten years long, bench warrants in four counties—he’d been hiding in his girlfriend’s trailer.

After that, every time Packer shuffled into court from lockup for a hearing, I was right there, front row, eye-fucking him and his wash‘n’wear lawyer. None of which made a difference, of course, nor was it anything close to what Barb or our baby girl needed from me. That wasn’t part of the mission.

My wife called me out on all that one night—it was late, she’d had a few, her face streaked with mascara from sitting in the dark with a bottomless cocktail and her son’s ghost. Melodie, the baby, lay asleep in her room. I’d been out in the car, driving around, something I did a lot.

Seeing me there, Barb stood up and tottered closer, into the light. Her eyes were puffy and raw.

“I’m sorry. Do I know you?” She had that tone.

I said, “I had to finish up some work.”

“No. I called. You left hours ago.”

I had a lie ready. “A CI called, he wanted to meet. They didn’t tell you?”

She laughed acidly, inches from my face now. “You’re such a coward.”

Looking back, I think of the things I might’ve done, might’ve said, but all I could come up with in the moment was, “How many have you had?”

“Not nearly enough.” She shoved the glass into my hand, a dare. “You know, Nick, disappearing isn’t the same as dying.”

I remember feeling cold all over. “You’re not talking sense.”

“You’re jealous of Donny.” Her eyes, glistening in the light, turned hard. “Somehow you think staying away is going to make me miss you. The way I miss him. Christ. Are you honestly that pathetic?”

Some scientist should measure the speed at which shame turns into hate. I’ll never forget that sound, never forget the feel of the glass shattering in my hand or the sight of her crumbling in front of me, no matter how much I try. There’s some things “sorry” won’t cure, no matter how many times you say the word, or even how much you mean it.

It’s said that only one in five marriages survives the death of a child, and maybe I should take comfort in the numbers.

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