No Exit
For the past few months, I’d been sleeping in her bed, with the cinnamon covers and the polka dot pillows that don’t match. Her soft, waking smile flashes across my eyelids. Her sweet scent scampers up my nostrils. My dark-chocolate hands become clammy anticipating a visit from their caramel colored counterparts. The hazelnut eyes roast me until a thin sheet of sweat covers the crown of my forehead. The memories only serve to haunt me now that she is gone.
I run my hand across my bald head feeling the roughness of newly re-growing hair. I glance at the prescription bottles on the nightstand: the half dozen orange bottles, the white labels on these orange bottles, the many colored borders accenting these white labels on these orange bottles. The red, blue, green, accents over the tiny black ink listing dosage amounts and side effects. A rainbow as a panacea. The pitcher of water sitting next to the half-filled glass. A sigh. A sip.
A feeling of wretchedness overcomes me. I stagger to the bathroom and heave myself on the commode. Supplicant on bended knee, I become Jackson Pollack on my ceramic canvas. Heave. The cold of the seat on my cheek contrasts the acidic warmth bubbling up my esophagus. Heave. The water mixes with the roast beef, the collard greens, the broccoli, the sweet onions, the radishes, the over-cooked bell peppers. Heave. My anticipation for another round comes up dry. The coldness of the tiled linoleum floor welcomes me as I lie back. Sharp breaths, pounding head, and I close my eyes momentarily dreaming.
Morning sickness. It was morning sickness. The first rays of sunlight shining into our bedroom. My queen lied on the checkerboard of our tiled linoleum bathroom floor. A step forward, she looks up at me and smiles weakly. Eyes locked: deep brown to flighty grey a glint of green. My queen. I sit beside her, wrap her in my arms, wipe the spittle from her nightgown. A soft kiss to her crown, I rest my hand on her navel; an ocean of emotion wells up inside me. My eyes blink in Morse code signalling the threatening deluge. Eyes meet again more green now, filled with expectation. My hands too.
The plunger eyes me dubiously; I return a quizzical look feeling relieved of a burden deep in my belly. Rising to cup water to my mouth, I meet myself in the mirror. Taut skin, hollow cheek-bones, chapped full lips, a hint of grey at the edges of my eyebrows. Pudgy nose, square jaw, the patchy beard of three days, the doleful eyes. Another scoop of water, and I step into the baptismal steam of the shower. The warmth of the water cascades over me, not quite heat. I turn the knob to the left. More warmth flows out sweat and water mix, not quite heat. A little more to the left, the shower head whistles, not quite boiling. More to the left, the sharp scalding pain of a million pellets of scalding water uplifts me. Pain is life.
We were newly weds not too long ago. Her soft supple body would writhe against my wiry embrace. Her kinky hair would entangle my tight curls. The first time — in the bath, in our castle. Beginnings of new life. The warmth of the water. The warmth of her. The smell of jasmine, her jade eyes; a rose petal caresses her bosom then mine. The warmth, the quivering warmth, we dance as we did the first time. Dancing enshrouded in warmth, the music crescendos.
We don’t dance anymore. We don’t do much of anything anymore. Clean and sufficiently sedated, I sit there blankly eating cold cereal. She sits on the loveseat contemptuously sucking on a cigarette. I lose what little interest I had in the Saturday morning cartoons playing, and become engaged by the brightening and dimming of the embers of the cigarette. Inhale, the embers brighten. Exhale, the embers dim. Her thin hands grasp onto the small stick. Like well-manicured crab pincers. Lying back on the Méridienne, She mindlessly flips through her French-vogue. Haute Couture — this brings meaning to her life. She handles cigarette so daintily, with such care. A vision engulfs me.
Six months ago, a phone call to my office number. A raspy voice, hoarse with fear, vibrating with delirium, “Ray somethings happened…I don’t know…I need you…Hurry.” The fear of the worst quickened my heart rate. My mind gave chase. I remember it had rained that night and the visibility was low. I could see only as far as my headlights extended, yet I pressed on with reckless abandon. Until I ran into traffic on I-40 near exit 47. Up ahead I saw the circus of police lights the red, the blue, the hint of purple when they fade in and out. The worst became more certain. Her mother stood to the side sobbing silently.
I walked cautiously with bated breath, as if my slowed movements might give the events time to undo themselves. A gasp of air stabs my chest, when I see her tiny body lying on a dull, gray stretcher too big for her. Little Artreece, Artie baby sleeping so peacefully, almost like you don’t ever want to wake up, but you have to wake up Artie ’cause Daddy’s here to take you home and have you sleep on your bed. With the bed set you picked out, the cinnamon covers and the polka dot pillows that don’t match. Artie baby, I know you’re scared of the dark, but these police lights aren’t as pretty as your Cinderella night light at home.
The logic was clear. It could happen to anyone. Mechanical failure, child car seat defect, not necessarily human irresponsibility. These thoughts had occurred to me day and night since it happened. Maybe, it was an accident. Maybe, this was her way of grieving — indulgence in high fashion and every other hedonistic pleasure. As I stood, I saw a vague look of concern cross her face. Almost as if she wanted to ask “Why are you doing this again?”
We didn’t exchange any words as I grabbed the keys. I got in my car headed for exit 47 off of I-40.
Originally published at https://www.hectorbis.com on October 19, 2020.
