Nothing more to be done
by Cheryl, posted on February 18th, 2011 in Red Writing Hood
I knew it was coming, could feel it waiting patiently, breathing its cold breath, the inevitableness making it arrogant.
There was nothing more to be done. The flowers had been arranged, nothing too showy, but awkward in their message: bright for cheer? white for respect? The dinners thoughtfully divided into smaller servings were stacked in the freezer, where they would become ice crystals after a few months of residence and end up in the trash.
They didn’t want to leave. At least, that’s what they said. But they had lives to get back to, husbands, kids, dogs, jobs, anywhere where grief didn’t smother them like a heavy woolen blanket.
And I couldn’t think of a reason to make them stay, other than I was terrified of what waited after I’d hugged them, promised I’d call them, and yes, they could come back tomorrow after work, after school drop-off, not to worry, I had my meds – and closed the door behind them.
Then, the silence came, just like I knew it would, to make all of this real.
I was alone. Not the kind of solitude you’re grateful for after a houseful of people have finally, finally left after an extended stay.
I was alone.
My worn pink slippers with the pig faces slapped the wood floor as I walked back into the kitchen. Justin had given them to me before we were married as a joke; he’d said when I snored I sounded like a baby pig. When I’d asked how he, who grew up in Chicago, knew what a baby pig sounded like, he’d only smiled and grabbed me into a hug and said, “Sometimes, you just know things.”
Justin knew things. Especially about me. He was in law school when we met and I spent many nights in his apartment near the El, waiting for him to take a break from Torts so he could study me. And he did. After, he didn’t let me hide behind my long blonde hair or lame attempts at jokes. He wanted my secrets, and when I gazed into his calm, moss-green eyes, I wanted him to have them. And he gave me his.
It was all too perfect. That’s why this happened. Because life isn’t supposed to be this easy, you’re not supposed to find the love of your life at 21.
I stood up and impatiently brushed the tears away. Enough crying, for today, anyway. I poured water into a mug and stuck it into the microwave.
We’d moved to this apartment with the view of Lake Michigan a few years ago. Justin’s job at Hilliard McKutchen was taking off and he worked crazy hours. But I mentioned a certain clock ticking and we dreamed together of little blonde-haired, green-eyed babies. I’d just gone off my birth control pills the week before and we were ready.
The microwave beeped and I pulled out the mug, forgetting how hot it got, and dropped it from my burning fingers. It shattered on the counter, shards of ceramic and boiling hot water landing on me and the floor.
“Dammit!”
I mopped the water with paper towels and opened the small cabinet that contained the hand-held vac. I reached back to grab it and felt a small bag. I hadn’t seen it before. I took it out and pushed aside the white tissue paper. Folded carefully in the bottom was a small yellow cotton onesie with “Worth The Wait” on the front.
I clutched it to my chest and curled upon the unforgiving floor, rocking, keening.
I was alone.
This is a work of fiction for The Red Dress Club based on the prompt “Write a piece about finding a lost item of clothing, and what it means to your character.”
Tags: fiction, red writing hood, worth the wait
And when he said, “Sometimes you just know things,” sigh… Beautiful job.
Leighann Says:
