Chapter One of The Fatal Flaw
I am so very humbled by the early reviews for my most recent novel, The Fatal Flaw. Thank you to all who have read and reacted so far. For those who haven’t, and for whom a suspense novel might be of interest, I offer the first chapter as a “sneak peek” as to what’s inside…
Chapter 1: The Look
IF I LIVE TO BE 100, I’ll never forget that look.
Meghan and I were taking County Road 16 away from the city and traveling the usual rural highway out to our respite from the real world we’d visit as often as we could. Meghan’s parents had an away-from-it-all cabin in the woods overlooking a small rustic lake seemingly in the middle of nowhere. It was the perfect location for us to reflect and a quieter environment offering us the peace and solitude we both needed in order to process the news we had received the week prior.
We sat mostly in silence, listening to the soft rock from the early 70s and 80s that Meghan and I both grew fond of over the years, echoing with a certain comforting omnipresence throughout the vehicle’s cabin. Gordon Lightfoot passed the audial torch to Kenny Loggins, who in turn passed the proverbial baton to Ambrosia. It was a fitting soundtrack for two minds that were racing with panic and conjecture, both of us determined to maintain the brave face of calm and confidence, if only for the other’s sake.
Meghan kept her gaze mostly on the landscape we passed, as if she were watching a movie — perhaps a documentary on the wooded hills of the northern part of the state. She’d point out a deer, or turn her eyes aloft in hopes of spotting a bald eagle, periodically commenting on the beauty of it all.
She rolled down the window, without ever saying why or asking if I wanted to turn off the air conditioning (she knew I had peculiar quirks like that), and simply extended her arm out to feel the passing wind blow through the flowing, open-sleeved blouse she was wearing. I’d occasionally glance over to see her forming an aerodynamic posture with her hand, then maneuvering it to pierce the oncoming gusts as she would fluidly move her arm up and down to guide the waves of the breeze through her sleeve.
With the window open now, I’d occasionally glance over to capture a glimpse of her flowing grace. Watching the character in the foreground, with the beauty of a wooded meadow and open, rolling hillsides in the distance, it was like something out of a movie. Or maybe a vignette from a really good television commercial for white wine.
Her hair was blowing in the breeze, long flowing locks that were beginning to reveal the truth behind the authentic hair color of a woman rounding the age of 50. Her roots, now an ashy salt-and-pepper mélange, would betray the blonde color she had worn since the day we met, some five years prior.
Occasionally, our eyes would meet as I peeked over to memorialize the scene she was suddenly the star of. She would crack a subtle smile, if only in her eyes, as a silent expression of both love and mutual understanding. We both knew what the other was thinking, and not just because we had always “shared a brain,” as we’d both like to say. It’s one thing for couples to metaphorically read each other’s minds; what Meghan and I shared was something closer to true telekinesis.
Of course she knew what I was thinking about. What else was there to distract me? And I knew what she was dwelling on at that very moment. Neither one of us had to say a thing. We were both mentally in the same exact place, gripped with a combination of panic, fear, depression, uncertainty and remorse.
But Meghan said it anyway.
“It’s going to be okay, you know,” she finally started. I stayed silent. Why say anything at all, when it was obvious that the two of us were already mentally engaging in this very conversation, albeit silently? “We’ve prepared for this,” she tried to comfort me.
The thing is, despite Meghan’s reassurances, I don’t think anyone truly prepares themselves for what was coming. I know I hadn’t. And if Meghan said she was prepared, I would call her a liar for the first time in my life.
After a couple of minutes of uncomfortable silence, Meghan tried again to break the ice. “It’s important that you say it, Nick.” She paused a beat before continuing. “Doctor Marinelli said —.”
“I know what Doctor Marinelli said, Meghan” I barked back, interrupting her in hopes I could short-circuit a conversation I wasn’t ready to have.
The small cracks resembling a smile in the corners of her eyes faded softly away, and she returned her gaze to the passing scenery. She rolled up the window, and the warm breeze that was contributing to make the magic of the moment was stifled. Meghan reached over to the radio and turned the volume up. Jim Croce was fading out, as Cat Stevens was fading in. Some peace train this ride is, I thought to myself.
“Why won’t you say it?” Meghan finally spoke up, breaking an uncomfortable silence that seemed like it had lasted for minutes on end.
“You know I don’t process shit that way,” I snapped back.
“I know, Nick. That’s the problem. You don’t process things at all. You just let them fester, rolling around in your brain for weeks, making dings and dents along the way as you allow that poison to clutter your mind and emotionally break you.”
I thought for a moment. How could I respond in a way that would dead-end this conversation? I wasn’t lying. I don’t process things by talking them through. I process them by thinking them to death. And eventually, I do kill them, these negative thoughts and intrusive topics of conversation. It’s just that I do it in silence. My way. On my schedule.
Finally, I calmly responded, “I am processing things. The only way I know how. I just don’t see what good it does to verbalize what we both already know.”
“Because,” Meghan insisted, “it’s what Doctor Marinelli called fully immersive sensory processing.” She was repeating the doctor’s proscription practically verbatim. “We think about things, but we also need to hear them…and we definitely need to say out loud the things we’re thinking about…the things causing us grief or despair or anxiety. To send a signal to our brain so it can know that we understand what’s happening and can properly categorize and intellectualize our competing emotional states.”
Now, I’m as new-aged as the next guy, but it all sounded a bit too touch-feely, or maybe overly sophomoric sophistication, for my liking. I’m sure the technique is not without its merits, but I wasn’t then willing to accept any other way for me to move through the stages of grief. Denial was long gone, and I was still stuck firmly in the bargaining phase.
Meghan acquiesced, if only for a moment or two, perhaps conceiving of her next vocalized thought. “I think it will help you, that’s all,” she solemnly offered. “I’m not trying to tell you how to process, I’m just trying to help.”
It wasn’t the help I was asking for, or even looking for. I wasn’t there yet. Meghan clearly was, I wasn’t.
There seemed to be a quiet confidence on her face when I turned back to have our eyes meet yet again. A quietude that exuded acceptance, I thought. Maybe she was further along in the process than I had even considered.
“I can say it, Nick,” she practically whispered. Then, more to herself than to me, she uttered the words she knew I could not. And it was out there, into the open and circling the cabin of our car like a thick ring of smoke.
That look. One of confidence. One of acceptance. One not of grief, nor resentment, nor anger. It’s a look I only truly saw one other time on her face, which would be weeks later, right before the very end. I’ll never forget it, nor the tone of her voice as she broke that silence I was committed to maintaining the entire drive up to the cabin in the woods. There it was, emanating calmly, quietly but caringly. And I had to hear it, whether I was ready or not.
“I’m dying.”