Pillows

Trigger Warnings: mental health, suicide/self-harm

The house was small, the sky blue paint faded to robin’s egg. Haden parked under the carport, the brakes squealing like a newborn. He came around and opened the door for Veronica. She had no idea who he was, and that wasn’t even an exaggeration. 

She slid out of the car, clutching the strap of her purse. The purse she didn’t remember getting because it hadn’t happened yet. Yesterday, she had been sixteen, sunbathing in her backyard and listening to cavity-inducing pop music from when she was in seventh grade. Now, it was the spring of 2024, and she was turning twenty-seven in a month. She had skipped a decade of life, a decade in which she had moved out of her mom’s house, gotten a Master’s in psychology, and married. 

Her husband was fine. He was quiet, courteous. Sad. His eyes held a kind of weight, and Veronica wondered if he had always looked like that, or if this accident of hers had stripped something from him. Your wife forgetting who you are must hurt, but shit, what was Veronica supposed to do about it? What was anyone supposed to do about it?

She had heard Haden talking to the doctor early in the morning as she’d awoken. She hadn’t caught much of the conversation besides out of the question and anything to fucking fix this? 

There was just time in front of them. Time and physical therapy every Tuesday until they were sure Veronica’s motor skills were up to par. She had passed the swallow test in the hospital with water. That was, apparently, a high bar. “They didn’t even have to thicken the water. Remember Joe? They had to do that for him,” Veronica’s mother had whispered to her husband.

Veronica’s stepdad had nodded once. Glanced at Veronica’s mom before looking back at the nurse and the plastic cup of water in her hand. 

Joe. Joe. Who was Joe?

She had only just met her future stepdad, but she had a sneaking suspicion that might be his father’s name. Or perhaps Joe was his brother, an uncle, a cousin he was close to. Who knew? Certainly not Veronica who swallowed the water from the plastic cup with ease.

The tension in the room released like a balloon stabbed with a knife.

The nurse removed the IV from her arm.

***

Wilted roses dominated the kitchen table. They were more than dead, black with age. Dirty dishes clouded the sink, and the dishwasher gaped open, the maw of a monster with plates for teeth. There was no laundry room, at least not one Veronica could see. She peered into the living room and blinked. An ancient dog, small with a mop of white hair, sat on a bed too large for him. He lifted his head, and Veronica noticed one of his eyes was cloudy.

“Hi there,” she cooed, slipping past Haden and kneeling in front of the dog whose tail made an attempt at wagging. She stroked the dog’s ears, noticing the oiliness of his fur. “Hi, honey. What’s your name?”

“That’s Eggroll,” said Haden. His voice was tight. “Remem—hmm. We found him behind your favorite Chinese place. The one you used to go to with your mom on special occasions.”

Sixteen-year-old Veronica had gone there a month ago for her birthday. Money was tight since Dad couldn’t help himself from gambling it all away. He would take weekend trips to Oklahoma, hitting up the casinos one after another. He would pound shot after shot and then slump into his car and wobble to the next casino. Bail for drunk driving was a really tough thing to scrape together when he never won more than fifty dollars per two hundred he put in. Mom only paid it once.

“He was old when we got him, huh?” said Veronica. She scratched under the dog’s chin and down his back before standing back up. She faced Haden who stood awkwardly in the threshold of the living room, his eyes downcast. 

“Yep.”

The silence was deafening, and Veronica could hear it crackling behind her eardrums. She nodded, pursing her lips. She wandered down the hall to their bedroom. The blankets were twisted, and all the decorative pillows had haphazardly made their way to an empty shoe box, the windowsill above the bed, and the closet left slightly ajar. Goddamn, Veronica had really turned into her mother within a decade. Did they really need three sunshine-yellow pillows with golden tassels?

Veronica stifled a laugh. A bubble of it escaped, pushing between her lips. The sound was strangled when it wrestled its way out.

Haden had followed her, hovering nervously in the doorway. “What?” he asked, alarmed.

“Shit, the pillows,” Veronica said, unsure how to explain. It was probably simple, but her thoughts were scrambled eggs. They had been since she’d woken up, restrained to the hospital bed.

“The… oh,” said Haden. “Yeah, you bought those like a few months ago.”

“Were they on sale? ‘Cause they’re hideous. Old me has some questionable tastes.”

“Uh, I don’t remember.”

A flare of anger flashed through Veronica. Later, she would reflect on how silly it was to be angry. She and Haden must have had hundreds of interactions a day. Why would he remember if the pillows she had bought were on sale? 

“Hmm,” said Veronica, her voice venomous. “You don’t remember?”

“No?”

“You know my birthday, right?”

“What? Yeah, of course, I—”

“What’s our anniversary? You don’t know that either, do you?”

“What? I remember your birthday, Ronnie. What the hell are you on about?”

The nickname pissed Veronica off. Not even her family called her Ronnie. What right did this fucking man who she didn’t even know have to call her Ronnie?

“I don’t even know who you fucking are!” Veronica shouted. “Who the hell are you? I wake up in the hospital, strapped down, and my parents are telling me that I’m married and have to go home with you? I don’t want to be here! I wanna be with my fucking mom! I’m scared, goddammit!”

The fear that she had been pushing down burst to the surface, a volcano erupting. Tears shoved at the backs of her eyes and welled to the surface. They spilled down her cheeks, one after the other, a constant waterfall. She wiped them away as quickly as they fell. 

Haden just stood there, his whole body rigid. He didn’t seem angry. He didn’t yell or stomp or slap her like her father would have done. Instead, he watched her, fear burned across his face like a brand. His chin wobbled but only slightly.

When Veronica could finally breathe again, her chest shivering with anger and nausea, she slammed the door in his face. Looked for a lock. It was broken off, a hole where the lever trim should have been. Ice fluttered down her spine. Something chewed at the back of her mind, a piece of the puzzle she hadn’t yet put together.

She spun on her heel. An empty bright orange pill bottle sat on Haden’s bedside table, and she crept toward it as if it might bite her. She picked it up gingerly, her heart hammering. She wasn’t even sure why until she saw the label.

Her mouth went dry.

It said her name. Her married name. Veronica Hansburg.

The date of the fill was from five days ago, and it had been a ninety-day supply. Why keep an empty pill bottle of hers? A better question was, why was it empty? 

Veronica’s breath caught on her ribs like tied shoes on an electrical line. She stared at the pillows again, seeing them for what they were. A comfort. An impulse buy. A coping mechanism.

She had been restrained in the hospital room. Had woken up from a three-day coma with brain damage. The doctor had said she was lucky to be alive. Her parents and Haden had only referred to what happened to her as an “accident.” Had Mom asked the doctor to keep quiet about it? Was that even legal? What kind of doctor would go along with that? 

Mom had said she had found Veronica right after the accident. Someone must have called her mother, and obviously, Mom hadn’t gotten there fast enough. At least, not right after.

“Shit,” Veronica whispered, clutching the bottle of pills to her chest. “Shit, shit, shit.”