Sarah
She put her hand out for another drink, rattled the glass without a word, sat back on the couch, felt a grumble rising up in her throat but swallowed it. Grumbling is bad. Though she was home, there was still PR to be considered, the kids looking at her differently than they used to, the once-rich landscape just beyond the windows seeming to have lost some of its luster over time. She smoothed the sweatsuit she was wearing, wondered if she should be more dressed up, wondered where everyone was anymore. There used to be so much noise, she thought. There used to be a lot of things. It was getting cold, middle of October now, the sky a thin pearl color for a few hours and then bending down into the charcoal blackness of early winter. At least the stars gleamed, at least there was that. At least there were constant things, way up there in heaven, that still burned bright and true and forever. “Four years ago,” Todd said as he handed Sarah her drink. “That was four years ago. Crazy, huh babe?” Sarah stared at the muted TV, Joe and that kid doing some kinda back-and-forth, and she felt a pressure in her chest, like an invisible hand trying to will her back into life, as if she’d just washed up on some river shore, not breathing. I’m still alive, she thought. I’m still somewhere. She told that pressure to go away. Chased it away like birds. Said shoo to it, wanted to run to the window and watch it flap up into the dark ruined sky and fly away. But she didn’t want any of the kids, or Todd, or good old Todd, to think anything was wrong, so she took a gulp. Sarah Palin took another gulp and, with trembling thumb, unmuted the TV. She let the noise of it wash over her. She closed her eyes. Four years. Somewhere a wolf howled. And somewhere a helicopter chopped through the air, using all the wind it created to keep itself aloft.
