Memory was of course a luxury for the young. After 89 years, the old woman could barely even remember those people who had left her long ago. She also couldn’t remember falling in love, or the feeling of the first kiss, or anything that felt really good. She couldn’t remember doing anything great, and she couldn’t remember doing anything really bad either. She was ordinary as the sauce she was making. No one ever complains about spaghetti for dinner, but no food critics ever review it either.
She had only married once, believe it or not. In this day and age, everyone takes a mulligan on the marriage thing. If they even marry at all. She had not been too young, but it wasn’t desperation either. She could have hung on for a few more years for something better, but she didn’t. She seemed to remember that she loved him. They had never had children. It wasn’t by choice, but it didn’t tear them apart like some couples. They always felt if it was meant to be then kids would come. And kids came. Other people’s kids. Her niece was her favorite. With that face which reminded her of a long gone sister whom she’d loved with all her heart. She convinced everyone that she had no biological clock nor any facsimile of one. She constantly referred to her life as “carefree and unhindered”, and talked about how she could go anywhere at the drop of a hat or do anything on a whim. No one ever had the nerve to mention that she had gone nowhere and done nothing. She imagined they believed that she was internally wrecked by the fact that she was barren. Likewise, she never had the nerve to tell them that she wasn’t bothered at all.
She continues to stir with one hand while reaching blindly with the other and begins adding spices without even a glance. She doesn’t have to measure anymore. She has made this exact dish every Wednesday for the last 58 years. That was her husband. A Monday is meatloaf, Friday is Chinese take-out and Wednesday is spaghetti kind of man. He was kind but not loving. He was decent but never righteous. He never raised his voice or hand to her, but he also never went out of his way to compliment her. He had gone to work every single day for almost forty years, yet never displayed any ambition. He was a good man with no passion, and that made her sad.
In the beginning they had made love often. But then it just dwindled from twice a week to Saturday nights to on birthdays and anniversaries to never. They had never had an actual conversation about sex in all the years that they were having it, and neither one of them seemed to miss it terrible once it was gone.
The one thing she does remember is the first day that she realized she was old. Really old. She woke up and looked in the mirror and saw an old woman peering back at her. Watery light eyes, translucent skin barely stretched over creaky bones. She started to cry as she realized that her life was now behind her. She had gotten a seat at the table, and she had been satisfied with meatloaf and spaghetti. Now, every course had been served and all that was left was to wait for the bill to arrive.
These days she was used to the idea. In fact she was getting a little impatient. She had served her time, now wasn’t she supposed to go on? Move to the next plane, come back as a housecat, whatever is supposed to happen, can’t it just happen already? Then she realized there was something heavy in her hand. She looked down and to her surprise she was adding a new ingredient to her sauce. “How funny.” She says quizzically as she continues to pour.
After she had administered half the box into the pot, she replaced the Rat under-B-Gone under the sink.
She hears the front door open and close. “Honey, I’m home!” yells her husband.
“Dorothy Parker!” she exclaims as he walks into the kitchen.
“No, try again.” He says dryly as he sits down at the table. “Sorry, I just remembered the name of a woman who said something important.” She says as she makes a heaping helping of spaghetti and sets it down in front of him, just as he lifts his fork. It’s a dance they’ve been doing for almost 60 years. He asks about her day before he fills his mouth with a giant bite. She begins to ramble about the neighbors getting new puppies, Shih Tzu she thinks, and so that woman who wears heels even to the grocery store has had to walk them at least four times.
“It’s a wonder she doesn’t have bunions the size of oranges!” she says as she begins to rinse off the utensils and run hot water in the frying pan she used to cook her deadly meal.
Within fifteen minutes she hears his labored breathing. She turns her back to him and starts wiping the counters. “I also found some adorable sweaters at Walmart” she goes on, as if nothing unusual is happening. “I thought we could pick a few up and put them in the Christmas closet for the girls.” She winces slightly as he crashes to the floor, turning over the chair with him. He’s convulsing and a weird foamy mixture of sauce and bile is coming from his mouth. Finally he stops seizing and she moves back to the stove.
“Now go on, and don’t worry. You’ll do fine in Heaven.” She says as she sets her own plate on the table across from his now limp body.
She picks up her phone from the counter and dials 911. When the operator answers she calmly gives their address and tells the woman on the other end that there are two people dead inside. Then she hangs up and begins to eat. Her last thought was one of comfort, because if he is going to Heaven then she won’t have to face him after this horrible deed. She says to no one in particular, “I have a feeling I will be going somewhere else.
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About the Author
Helen Downing likes to describe herself as a trophy wife, a bit of a diva, and of course Author of her own destiny! In reality, she’s a chubby, middle-aged wife and mother of two who is addicted to BBC Television and social networking.
Please buy this book. It’s her only chance of ever fulfilling her full potential, and possibly getting into heaven.
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On the web: www.authorhelendowning.com
Awake in Hell Page 18
