When You Stop Carrying Them
A story about what happens when the person everyone called a burden finally leaves
I had spent the better part of twelve hours helping keep a burned Labrador alive, and I still smelled like antiseptic and singed fur when my headlights swept across the front yard and I understood that something was wrong. My brain refused it first, the way your brain refuses information that is too large and too ugly to absorb all at once. The lawn was wrong.
The porch light was wrong.
Everything the light touched had a jagged, scattered quality that was wrong. Then it came into focus.
My duffel bag, the zipper splitting open in the grass. My winter coat half in the flower bed.
A cardboard box of childhood photographs tipped onto its face in the dirt.
One of my old textbooks lying in the driveway with its spine wrenched backward, pages spread against the concrete like it had fallen from height. My high school debate trophy, something I had not touched in years but had kept because certain things you keep without knowing why, on its side in the mulch near the porch steps. My father was standing in the porch light with his phone raised, recording.
My mother stood behind him with her arms locked across her chest, the specific posture of a woman who has decided to endure rather than interrupt.
My sister Tessa was perched at the edge of the front walk with a smirk on her face, and as I watched she nudged one of my tote bins with the toe of her sneaker and sent a stack of framed certificates sliding into the street. The neighbors across the road were on their porch, not looking away.
My name is Savannah Brooks. I was twenty-eight years old.
I had just finished a twelve-hour shift at an emergency veterinary hospital, and I had come home tired in the particular way of someone whose work involves controlled crisis management for hours at a stretch, the kind of tired that lives in the shoulders and behind the eyes.
All I had wanted was a shower and something cold to eat and six hours of unconsciousness. Instead I stood in the driveway in the headlights of my own car and looked at the visible contents of my adult life scattered across my parents’ lawn while my father filmed it. He told me I was twenty-eight years old and I sucked them dry and he wanted me gone that night.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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