What Lydia would come to realize is that the reason why she could not remember any but the most dramatic days of that fateful summer, was that there were no last days, just one really long, Groundhog-esque day that kept repeating over and over again. Lydia had a vision of herself as a respectable woman. She was reasonably attractive, some may even say statuesque. She had a beautiful house, and a solid income. In many real ways, Lydia could have taken the opportunity of Henry’s departure and done anything. Their separation could have been a launching off point for Lydia. She had what very few people in life are blessed to have: the money to support her wildest dreams coupled with zero ties to hold her back. She had freedom and means.
Lydia could have spent the sweltering summer in Argentina. She could have moved to France and studird cooking. She could have bought a second house in Napa Valley and spent her days painting the California country-side.
And yet, Lydia was totally trapped within the prison of her mind. Lydia’s most striking memory from that time was the insane sunlight as it pooled through her cheery bedroom windows. She loathed the light, hated the idea that day was passing about her outside and she could do little more than drink in complete solitude. The laughter of the neighborhood children, dogs barking in delight, sent shivers of anger coursing through her body. If she could have built a deprivation chamber, or better yet, lived in one of those far-away places that is dark 18 hours of the day, Lydia would have been far happier.