They say when you’re about to die, your life flashes before your eyes in a myriad of pictures. For me, there are no flashes—just the inner voice of my mother saying,
“Be organised, dammit. And do things properly.”
I sigh as I look down at the words I have written in my amended will. I move the documents and lighter to my left-hand side, and then the cup with the foul-smelling liquid to my right. My flat is dark and dingy, like my heart. The steady pattering of the rain on my rooftop and the slight wind blowing in through my window seem to offer a soft protest to my decisions. But my mind is made up.
Today is the day I cut off both my children. And today is the day I die.
They say when you’re about to take a wrong turn, your spirit warns you with a sign, an unrest, a tightness in your chest. I feel nothing but relief. The clearheadedness with which I have decided to kill myself is astounding. Perhaps my spirit approves.
I pick up the copy of the old will and lighter and try to take deep breaths but fail. I’m about to make a second attempt when I hear a loud crack outside my window, followed by a loud voice,
“I dare you, James. Tell me! What? For the five years we have been married, what have you BLOODY DONE RIGHT?”
I wince as her voice carries all the way to my window. Poor James, I think. He and Sandy are having another fight. Sometimes, I look outside my window and see them arguing. Or rather, Sandy yelling, all red-faced, and James listening, also red-faced. Then they’ll both see me and smile politely before walking inside. However, everyone knows that old houses have thin walls. I feel for James, but I do know Sandy. She’s a sweet girl. Never mind that she’s unraveling on a rainy night in her driveway at 2:45 AM.
“Answer me!” she screams, following James, who never answers and isn’t about to start now. He climbs into his pickup truck.
Dropping the lighter carefully, I take my mug of the foul-smelling liquid and wheel myself closer to the window so I can hear clearly.
Being elderly has some perks. Young people will often come to you to acquire your pearls of sagely wisdom.
This is how I know that by morning, one of them will come to me. I want whoever comes first and discovers my dead body to know that till the very end, I rooted for them.
“Good. Go hide! That’s what you do well! I’m so freaking tired of running after you, of trying to make you look at me, James. I’m TIRED!”
But he does look at you, I think before I can stop myself. I really shouldn’t take sides. I watch as Sandy bellows into the rolled-down windows of James’s shiny red truck.
“You know what else I’m tired of? Freaking cleaning up after you! You’re a GROWN MAN, James. Why do I have to pick pieces of soap off the bathroom floor? Wipe your bloody soap suds off the shower walls, why? And how hard is it to hang up a coat? Answer me! Would you die if you put your plate away one freaking time?”
I frown as I listen to Sandy’s words. I know James. He’s much too sensitive to see what’s really at play here. That this isn’t about pots or dishes, or messy showers alone. I grab a piece of paper and a pencil and turn on the lights. I may be dead by morning, but tonight I can write to them.
Dear Sandy and James,
I start to write before I am interrupted by a loud wham!
I squint into the driveway to see that James is out of the car. Uh oh, this can’t be good. James never engages. Not ever. I see the startled expression on Sandy’s face and then the relief, but she quickly hides it under a veneer of anger. He stands before her now.
“Why don’t you care, James? Why?” she asks, slapping her palms against his chest. I know what she’s talking about. And I know James does too.
“And who says I don’t? What do you want me to do, Sandy? Obsess over it the way you do? Have sex every damn minute and in every position those harebrained books and podcasts sug-gest?”
Livid now, Sandy throws her head back in a mirthless laugh. “At least, I try, James. I bloody make an effort. I give making this baby everything I’ve got. But like everything else about me, about us, YOU DON’T BLOODY CARE!”
“I CARE!” James bellows into Sandy’s face. “But I have far less chance of making you happy than freezing hell over. I’m bloody doing everything I can! MAYBE THE REASON WHY WE HAVEN’T HAD THIS BABY IS BECAUSE WHO KNOWS WHAT KIND OF PARENTS WE’LL BE!” James spits out, a muscle pulling in his cheek. There’s a stunned silence in the air. Sandy looks too shocked to speak. And I close my eyes in pain. James has bungled it all. He doesn’t really mean that. I know he doesn’t because James and I talk.
And last week we had spoken about his fear. The irrational intrusive thoughts that told him every minute of the day that he would make a horrible father. He had sat across from me in the living room, head in his hands as he said,
“I think I would make a horrible father, Ms. Edwards. Maybe that’s why God is delaying this baby.”
“Why do you think so?” I had asked.
“Well, I can’t seem to do anything right.”
“Right or the way Sandy wants it?” I had enquired, leaning forward to look him in the eye.
“It’s sort of the same thing, Ma’am,” he said and lowered his eyes. But not before I had caught the shame in them.
I glance at Sandy now. The fight seems to have left her. Tears are streaming down her pale face, and her shoulders are heaving from sobs. James stands conflicted and afraid to make contact. At last, he capitulates and tries to touch her, but she moves swiftly out of his grip.
“So this is how you’ve been jinxing it. I keep trying to have our baby but you don’t think I’m good enough,” she says as she crumbles to the floor and begins to rock her knees. “You don’t think I’m good enough.”
“You don’t love me.”
“You think I’m a horrible person, a horrible mother. My own husband.” She wipes her tears and continues to rock herself.
I close my eyes and let out a sigh I don’t realize I have been holding. Tomorrow, Sandy will want to walk into my flat and tell me, “I told you, Ms. Edwards, he doesn’t love me. He doesn’t want me anymore.” I know because we’ve had this conversation more than a dozen times. No matter how I try to convince her, the voices in her head tell her otherwise. She’s convinced James is go-ing to leave her. And every day she battles the thought. Sometimes when he’s late from work, she comes and asks me if I think he’s gone.
Of course, James will do no such thing because every time we have spoken about Sandy, it’s about him working harder to make her happy. It’s about him getting committed to the period app she sent him to track her fertile window, and wearing nice clothes for date night rather than the black tees and shorts Sandy hates and says speak of no effort.
I sigh as I watch James sit beside his weeping wife. His shoulders are drooped, and I can tell he’s weary from all the fighting—both the ones in his head and the one with Sandy. And I know by morning, they’ll each sneak in behind the other’s back to fall into my arms and sob.
I look down at my piece of paper and set it aside. A letter will not do it. Do I postpone my death by one more day? I sigh as I raise the foul-smelling liquid to my lips and then let the cup clatter to the floor. All my pain and anguish have to wait. I can’t die tonight. Tonight, I weep with Sandy and James, and I wait for morning when I know they’ll come.
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Rekanor Christabelle Mbeh is a formally trained attorney-at-law and creative writer with over five years of professional experience. She has worked as a ghostwriter of several fiction and nonfiction pieces that suited the needs of both local and international clients. She has helped clients tell their stories in a voice that is bold, authentic, and resonates with their target audience.
As a writer who’s also a futurist, she believes in finding new and evolving ways to understand the world around her and is committed to telling stories about what she sees. She is obsessed with the wild, mysterious, and quirky ways of our world. When she’s not stuck in a loop of daydreaming about vintage-styled libraries with never-ending chocolate fountains, she can be found at her desk writing in the following genres: fiction, creative nonfiction, and business writing.
Rekanor’s short story, “Me, the Wedding and Papi” is on Witcraft published in September 2024. She can be found at https://medium.com/@thequirkyblast or Email: rekanormbeh@gmail.com
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