"Your husband and son are dead."
The phone fell from her hand and onto the sandy earth below, leaving the man on the other end confused, asking if the woman who had been holding the device was still there.
"Impossible," she breathed, snatching up the cell and ending the first call, trying her house, her husband's cell phone... there were no answers. She even tried her cousin, her sister, her parents... all said the same thing.
Even the obituaries online read what she didn't want to hear.
DAVID AND OLVER DEVAUD
Dr. David Devaud, age 28, and Oliver Devaud, age 3, were declared dead at Augusta Regional Hospital, following hospitalization due to illness. Dr. Devaud was a Professor of Medicines at Augusta University. The two are survived by Dr. Devaud's wife, Dr. Miranda Devaud née Spicer, age 25, fellow Professor of Archeology at Augusta University.
Miranda had been sent home immediately for the funeral she didn't want to arrive at, and she didn't know if she breathed, cried, slept, ate, did anything for weeks after. She didn't want to breathe, though she had to have, she reasoned, for she was still alive.
The first day, she went to the funeral, heard the words of others, the scorns and whispers of David's relatives.
"Why wasn't she there to take care of them? She must be a horrible wife. She didn't deserve a husband as wonderful as David."
The second day, she laid on the floor of her living room, hugging onto one of her son's toys and wearing her husband's clothes. She didn't respond to visitors, speak, or sleep. She merely remained in the same spot on the floor.
The third day, Miranda spoke to her favorite cousin, Jack. That was also the day she grabbed her hair in her fist and sliced it with a butcher knife, tossing it away. "He never liked it long," she said, and fell silent once more.
The fourth day, Jack had dragged her out shopping. She still wore her husband's clothes, and hugged onto the red-head's arm. When she saw a family happy together, a young son, wife and husband, she broke down in the middle of the mall.
The fifth day, she burnt the house down, wearing new clothing that Jack had gotten for her. "I don't want to see anything of theirs anymore," she said, watching the happiest years of her life burn to the ground.
The sixth day, Miranda took a cross-country flight to San Fransisco, to stay with Jack. She remained in his room, in his bed, hugging onto his arm for the entirety of the day. Surprisingly, he never complained.
The seventh day, she had finally had enough. She went out into the shed in the garden, grabbed the shovel, and while it poured down rain, she slammed the spade into her head, ridding herself of consciousness and memory.
The three hundred and seventy fifth day, she walked into a cafe in China, drenched from head to toe and craving a warm drink. Stepping in, she ordered a hot bowl of spicy soup, then sat down at a booth. When she looked up, however, she saw a face that had been free of her memory for a year.
Inhale, exhale. She was aware completely now. Now that she could breathe again.
