Monday, April 25, 4:00 PM. Amy.

Garrett shouted at me today.

He said it was time I snapped out of it. He said I am being selfish. He’s right.

It happened because I didn’t get out of bed for church. The kids did church on their own. It’s probably good for them to do it like that once anyway. But he’s right. He barged into my room and shouted for a good ten minutes. I don’t know if I’ve ever heard him shout before.

We’re all sad, he said. We’re all in pain. How can I stay in my bed all day as if I’m the only one hurting? He’s working the farm morning to night, Trevor too. I’ve got a baby to raise that Claire is raising, feeding her from a bottle because I’ve completely withdrawn, that I’m seeing just when Claire brings her in a few times a day. I’m not eating. The room stinks, he said, it’s dirty, you can’t walk for wet tissues and junk. I need to get off my backside and take responsibility as the parent around here. What would Brewer think?

He’s right. I know he’s right.

He said he was going to make lunch but would I come out and make supper? And would I come out and spend some time with the family this afternoon? I said I’d try. He said if I wasn’t out by tonight he would come in here with a fire extinguisher and a bottle of spicy ketchup and spray them all over the bed so I had to come out. Then he left.

Then I went out into the living room for a quarter of an hour but no one was saying anything. I could barely keep my eyes open, so I came back to bed.

I will make supper tonight. I don’t feel like it, but it’s the only thing to do. Frankly, if Brewer—damn. I mean if Garrett did come in here tonight and sprayed carbon dioxide and ketchup all over the bed, I’m not so sure that would get me out of it. That’s not what’s getting me out of it. What’s getting me out of it is that Garrett is right. It’s time for me to put my big girl pants on and try to live, with whatever is passing for “living” these days.