Play & Book Excerpts
The Return Trip
(Rising Action Publishing & Blackstone Publishing)
© Maya Golden
Coming November 14...Pre-Order Available
Chapter 1: HOMECOMING
TODAY IS the day I am going to die. Few people wake up with this knowledge; death row inmates, war criminals awaiting execution, terminally-ill cancer patients, maybe. What’s that Bible verse? “No man knoweth the day or the hour,” or something to that effect? During my southern Baptist upbringing, I wasn’t attentive enough to have it committed to heart.
But today, I know. I just know.
I’m okay with it—the dying. Detached and numb, I’ve watched my life experiences pass by, as if I were a mannequin in a storefront window.
Dying is a formality.
Four days ago, I was on Cloud Nine. But that joy soon became another thing snatched away from me. Happiness isn’t meant for me. So today is the day.
The air purifier, set on high, blasts at a pitch meant to drown out the cars beeping and lawnmowers whirring outside. I throw back the too-heavy-for-the-summertime comforter, the pits of my T-shirt now damp with sweat. I’d been cocooned in that comforter for at least ten hours, seven of those in a dreamless, black sleep thanks to two Xanax pills.
From the other side of the closed bedroom door, muted by the white noise, a children’s show is playing on the television and my two-year-old son, Charlie, giggles as he babbles with my husband, Everett.
I stretch, then adjust my sticky underwear back into place before padding barefoot, phone in hand, to the bathroom. My steps follow the choreography of a beleaguered mother’s daily morning routine: shoulders hunched, eyes half shut, feet barely lifting with each step over the carpet.
But there is one deviation—I have an assignment this morning—my Mission: Possible.
Toiletries, medications, and beauty products clutter the cabinet suspended to the wall. I reach over eye drops and nail polish bottles that haven’t been opened in years, colored with seductive red and flirtatious pink lacquers, until my hand locates translucent orange bottles. The contents rattle like a morbid maraca, the soundtrack to my determination. Muscle relaxers (a common gift from my mother), antidepressants, various painkillers, and my sweet, savory friend: Xanax.
Quite a few pills—but maybe not enough?
Not enough to be sure.
When I was twenty, my then-psychologist told me that most suicide attempts from pills and alcohol fail and result in severe brain damage. I can’t dwell on this. The perfectionist, hyper Type-A in me isn’t going to let me half-ass this job. This will be another checkmark, another gold star on my list of successes. The Final Act done well. An automated message greets me unceremoniously after dialing the number to my pharmacy. It sounds as lifeless as I feel. The tip of my finger taps the screen as I enter each prescription number. Two brand new, filled to-the-childproof-lid bottles to add to my exit collection would soon be waiting for me to pick up.
The phone and I return to bed. The sheets and thick comforter touch my chin. A tiny voice outside the door sounds closer than before.
“Mama?” Charlie calls.
Wincing, I wait. Please go away.
“We’re letting Mama rest,” Everett replies. “Come on, buddy.”
“No!” Charlie wails in resistance.
The doorknob jostles.
“Nope!” Everett’s voice is at the threshold, and the twisting knob stills.
My eyes remain on the door, waiting for it to be thrust open. My two-year-old enters my room most mornings like a SWAT officer. The fact that I haven’t died from a heart attack from one of these abrupt daily awakenings might be the miracle that is lost on me. I have been bargaining with God for so long—for something. Hell, maybe that I hadn’t been startled to death yet by an anxious toddler was it.
But the tiny voice retreats. My entire body exhales. I check social media, look at the “news” on Twitter, and stare at the clock. The pharmacy opens at 9:00 a.m., and it’s around 7:30. Prescriptions won’t be ready as soon as the store opens, yet I will emerge from the bedroom with enough time to make the fifteen-minute drive into town and be there when it opens. I need my final destination cargo quickly because later this morning, we will leave East Texas for my hometown of Garland, two hours west.
I am left alone in the bedroom. And in my aloneness, I think. I mull over about what will happen later that afternoon. I am tired, so incredibly tired.
Should I write a note? Tell them all why? No. They know why.
Then I think of my son. What will they tell Charlie? All he will know is that his mother was here, and then one day, she wasn’t. As he grows older, transforming from my beautiful, curly-haired toddler into a lanky, gangly teenager, will he still remember me? Will he remember my face from something other than old pictures on an iPad or in a frame? Will there even be pictures of me in frames? Or will every reminder of me be wiped away like dust off a coffee table?
Will he know that I loved him? Will he remember what it felt like to snuggle in my arms and drift into a protected sleep? God. I would fight a hurricane for that kid.
My soul holds a microphone up to my brain, as I have done during a thousand interviews and interrogates: But, Maya? Are you sure?
“Yes,” I whisper to myself. I frown as my lips part. Then another deep exhale. “No.”
Do I want my son to grow up with a legacy that he wasn’t worth his mother sticking around for? That she couldn’t tough it out for his sake?
TODAY IS the day I am going to die. Few people wake up with this knowledge; death row inmates, war criminals awaiting execution, terminally-ill cancer patients, maybe. What’s that Bible verse? “No man knoweth the day or the hour,” or something to that effect? During my southern Baptist upbringing, I wasn’t attentive enough to have it committed to heart.
But today, I know. I just know.
I’m okay with it—the dying. Detached and numb, I’ve watched my life experiences pass by, as if I were a mannequin in a storefront window.
Dying is a formality.
Four days ago, I was on Cloud Nine. But that joy soon became another thing snatched away from me. Happiness isn’t meant for me. So today is the day.
The air purifier, set on high, blasts at a pitch meant to drown out the cars beeping and lawnmowers whirring outside. I throw back the too-heavy-for-the-summertime comforter, the pits of my T-shirt now damp with sweat. I’d been cocooned in that comforter for at least ten hours, seven of those in a dreamless, black sleep thanks to two Xanax pills.
From the other side of the closed bedroom door, muted by the white noise, a children’s show is playing on the television and my two-year-old son, Charlie, giggles as he babbles with my husband, Everett.
I stretch, then adjust my sticky underwear back into place before padding barefoot, phone in hand, to the bathroom. My steps follow the choreography of a beleaguered mother’s daily morning routine: shoulders hunched, eyes half shut, feet barely lifting with each step over the carpet.
But there is one deviation—I have an assignment this morning—my Mission: Possible.
Toiletries, medications, and beauty products clutter the cabinet suspended to the wall. I reach over eye drops and nail polish bottles that haven’t been opened in years, colored with seductive red and flirtatious pink lacquers, until my hand locates translucent orange bottles. The contents rattle like a morbid maraca, the soundtrack to my determination. Muscle relaxers (a common gift from my mother), antidepressants, various painkillers, and my sweet, savory friend: Xanax.
Quite a few pills—but maybe not enough?
Not enough to be sure.
When I was twenty, my then-psychologist told me that most suicide attempts from pills and alcohol fail and result in severe brain damage. I can’t dwell on this. The perfectionist, hyper Type-A in me isn’t going to let me half-ass this job. This will be another checkmark, another gold star on my list of successes. The Final Act done well. An automated message greets me unceremoniously after dialing the number to my pharmacy. It sounds as lifeless as I feel. The tip of my finger taps the screen as I enter each prescription number. Two brand new, filled to-the-childproof-lid bottles to add to my exit collection would soon be waiting for me to pick up.
The phone and I return to bed. The sheets and thick comforter touch my chin. A tiny voice outside the door sounds closer than before.
“Mama?” Charlie calls.
Wincing, I wait. Please go away.
“We’re letting Mama rest,” Everett replies. “Come on, buddy.”
“No!” Charlie wails in resistance.
The doorknob jostles.
“Nope!” Everett’s voice is at the threshold, and the twisting knob stills.
My eyes remain on the door, waiting for it to be thrust open. My two-year-old enters my room most mornings like a SWAT officer. The fact that I haven’t died from a heart attack from one of these abrupt daily awakenings might be the miracle that is lost on me. I have been bargaining with God for so long—for something. Hell, maybe that I hadn’t been startled to death yet by an anxious toddler was it.
But the tiny voice retreats. My entire body exhales. I check social media, look at the “news” on Twitter, and stare at the clock. The pharmacy opens at 9:00 a.m., and it’s around 7:30. Prescriptions won’t be ready as soon as the store opens, yet I will emerge from the bedroom with enough time to make the fifteen-minute drive into town and be there when it opens. I need my final destination cargo quickly because later this morning, we will leave East Texas for my hometown of Garland, two hours west.
I am left alone in the bedroom. And in my aloneness, I think. I mull over about what will happen later that afternoon. I am tired, so incredibly tired.
Should I write a note? Tell them all why? No. They know why.
Then I think of my son. What will they tell Charlie? All he will know is that his mother was here, and then one day, she wasn’t. As he grows older, transforming from my beautiful, curly-haired toddler into a lanky, gangly teenager, will he still remember me? Will he remember my face from something other than old pictures on an iPad or in a frame? Will there even be pictures of me in frames? Or will every reminder of me be wiped away like dust off a coffee table?
Will he know that I loved him? Will he remember what it felt like to snuggle in my arms and drift into a protected sleep? God. I would fight a hurricane for that kid.
My soul holds a microphone up to my brain, as I have done during a thousand interviews and interrogates: But, Maya? Are you sure?
“Yes,” I whisper to myself. I frown as my lips part. Then another deep exhale. “No.”
Do I want my son to grow up with a legacy that he wasn’t worth his mother sticking around for? That she couldn’t tough it out for his sake?
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Maya Golden is an Associated Press-winning and Emmy-nominated multimedia journalist. She is the winner of the Excellence in My Market Award from the National Academy of Television Arts and Sciences and the founder of the 1 in 3 Foundation, a nonprofit organization that provides recovery and counseling resources to survivors of sexual trauma with little to no income in East Texas.
Maya has been featured on Bally Sports, Fox Sports College, ESPN 2 and 3 and other broadcast mediums including Blackgirlnerds.com and Salon. She speaks as a survivor for organizations such as the Children’s Advocacy Center, Court Appointed Special Advocates and Kids Aspiring to Dream. The Texas A&M alum’s career includes experience as a sports anchor/reporter and television production editor, newscast writer, field producer and print writer. She is a member of the Writer’s League of Texas, Women’s Fiction Writers Association and the East Texas Writers Guild. Follow Maya on:
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Photo Courtesy: Maya Golden
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