[RF] Creations shortstories

Creations

The drive back from the hospital was long and awful. Margie sat beside her husband Harold without looking at him. Her long face, long from so much worry and defeat, looked out the window onto the asphalt that raced away from her as they drove. After a slow thirty minutes, Harold pulled into the garage. He and his wife sat in silence for a moment. He looked at her and registered the lines on her face; she had always looked younger than her fifty years but the last two months seemed to have carved ten times their length into her skin. Then, after no more than a breath, they opened their doors and walked into their home. “Dinner?” asked Harold. “What?” said Margie. “Should we eat dinner?” “Oh,” she ran her hand slowly over the counter, as though the wood grain contained the answer. “I don’t know.” “I think we should,” said Harold. “I don’t want to cook.” “I’ll order something.” Harold and Margie sat across from each other at the table with a box of pepperoni pizza between them. Both of their slices of pizza were untouched, the grease seeping was into the paper plates. Harold wanted to take a bite, to eat something for the sake of normalcy, but he could not shake the feeling of absence at the table. Margie gave up any hope of eating, she stared at a picture of her son on the shelf next to the table. She wondered if it was going to be like this from now on. Bedtime at least brought relief from the unbearable silence of dinner. Harold and Margie got into their bed together as they’d done for thirty years. But neither slept—it was impossible. Margie hoped that Harold would take a pillow downstairs to the couch, like he had the time he confessed to a stolen snog with a coworker at a retirement party. But, of course, this was nothing like that. It was not her husband who had betrayed her but the universe. When the doctor told her what happened she had not believed him. He had looked into her eyes, held onto her shoulders, and said, “Your son has died.” 

She responded, “What?” needing repeating. She wished she hadn’t, because he said it again, “I’m so sorry Ms. Roberts, Michael has died.” “That’s impossible,” she thought, “That simply could never happen.” Doctor Martin disappeared into the hospital, leaving her to decipher his message. “Impossible.” The word spun around in her head until it dissolved into anger. “Impossible,” it was outrageous that this could happen. How could this happen? Who could let this happen? The doctors? But no, they had been so kind and accommodating. And Harold liked them so much. Someone else must be to blame, someone else was responsible, it couldn’t possibly be her.

 In the hospital, Margie remembered a conversation she had with her sister when she was pregnant. Susan had asked her if she planned on having another baby after little Michael was done being born. “Don’t tell Harold, but I don’t think I can,” Margie had said. “Oh Margie, I know the pregnancy has had its ups and downs but I’m sure you’re exaggerating! A little morning sickness won’t make you barren,” Susan had responded. “No, it’s not that I don’t think my body can, I don’t think that I can.” “What do you mean?” “I’m already so worried about this one. No, it’s true—Susan I am up all night worried that I haven’t taken the right vitamins, that I’ve slept too much on my side and squished him. And then I’m up until morning wondering about what will happen when he’s here. How will I make sure he takes the right vitamins and how do I make sure he won’t get squished?” Margie looked at her sister, as if her question were entirely legitimate and in need of response. Susan’s nature hardened a little as she looked into the petrified eyes of her baby sister. “Well, I guess I shouldn’t plan on a niece then.” Susan dropped the subject there but Margie suspected it continued in her mind: she ran into Susan buying child vitamins at target that weekend. Without a good answer on how to keep her son safe, Margie went on worrying. She worried for twenty-seven years that Michael would get hurt. The first years were the hardest; when he was an infant Margie had the distinct feeling and compulsive thought that anything could be fatal. Suddenly, play toys resembled Kevorkian death-tools, a playground might as well be Guantanamo. Harold was always pleading with her to let the boy be young and careless. When she did let Michael play freely, she was likely to be impressed by his aptness. She would watch his little body roll around with play-trucks and tumble down slides; sometimes he would wobble a little but his head always stayed upright. As he grew from a toddler to a kid, his confidence in staying on his feet led him to all sorts of physical hobbies. When he asked for a skateboard for his tenth Christmas, Harold had to sit down with Margie for some convincing. “Margie, it’s a skateboard, it is not a torture device,” he said calmly to his wife. “You think I’m being crazy, you think I’m some sort of crazy control-freak. I’m not Harold. Skateboards are dangerous, he’s more likely to break a leg than to not if he’s riding one of those things,” she said. “I’d rather him break his leg than to never ride a skateboard.” Harold put his hand softly on his wife’s shoulder. She hated him for saying it. She hated him for accepting that her son would have to be hurt. It was such a ridiculous idea—why were men always boasting about bruises and scrapes? Why did they show off their casts and talk about the times they’d passed out? Did they ever consider what those cuts and bruises meant to the people, the mothers, who loved them? To Margie, every cut or bandage she saw on a child gave her the image of a mother somewhere gazing out a window with a look of terror. She would not accept that Michael had to hurt. Michael was understanding of his mother’s concern. In high school, he would text his mother every hour when he went out. He got creative with his messages, saying things like, “Walked through a landmine and did NOT get blown up” with a big thumb’s up and a heart. She would chuckle and respond that he was so much like his father, but she could never fully silence the worry that seemed permanently in her stomach. His acceptance letter to NYU made things even worse: she developed night terrors and panic attacks, she was convinced by a psychiatrist to start taking Xanax at bedtime. When Margie woke up the morning after the world’s saddest pizza party, she found herself alone in her bed. Harold’s side of the bed was cold and the sheet had been pulled up over the mattress. She did not wonder where he was; she closed her eyes and sobbed into herself. She stayed there sobbing until her stomach let out a deadening growl. Harold was in the kitchen with a cup of coffee, he was reading the newspaper. She had no interest in breaking the silence so she went to the refrigerator and took out a yogurt without a word. She sat across from her husband and stared at his head. She wondered lightly why he insisted even now on checking the scores of his favourite sport’s teams. She wondered more if every morning would be like this. At noon, the hospital called. Harold answered and dealt with the conversation. Margie could not stand to hear any of it so she went into the den and sat with her coffee, looking out onto the trees in their backyard. A light snow had fallen during the night and covered the treetops with the most delicate and innocent powder. She thought of how at night she would sit in the den and wonder what Michael was doing. After college, he moved into an apartment with Jessica in the city. He got a job at a start-up, doing something with computers that Margie would never understand. He got engaged, he got a promotion, he got hit by a car and died. Margie could feel the sensation of the crash and recoiled, spilling coffee onto her lap as Harold walked in. “Oh dear, oh dear, here, let me grab a towel.” Harold exited and returned quickly with a white dishcloth. “No, that’s fine,” said Margie. She did not want to stain the dishcloth over lukewarm coffee on an old, tattered night gown. “So, I suppose you know who that was on the phone,” said Harold. “The hospital?” “Yes. Yes, indeed,” Harold joined Margie in looking out the window. “Apparently we have to sign some paperwork.” “A death certificate?” The question surprised even Margie. There was a somber pause. “Yes, among other things.” Harold looked down, disappointed, and left the room. She felt a brief pang of guilt for having said the words out loud for the first time, Harold was upset and it was sort of her fault. But then she thought, “I think I feel bad enough right now,” and she let it pass. Michael did not die right away. Impact put him into a coma. Then there were surgeries—terrible ones. They drained his brain, they reset his jaw, they re-broke both legs. Some surgeries went well and others did not. Margie could not remember which one had killed him. Instead, she remembered the time he fell off of the skateboard he got for his eleventh birthday and broke his arm. Harold was there when it happened and called her from the emergency room. He said, “At least it wasn’t his leg.” Margie tried to stay angry but a laugh of relief escaped her. She let Harold’s joke give her some comfort but when Michael came home with his cast she burst into tears. It was Michael who held her with his small body and told her that he would be more careful for her. She kissed him on his head and pulled him tight against her. “Thank you.” 

That was the only bone Michael broke until he broke most all of them—and all at once.

For the next two weeks, Harold and Margie hardly ate and hardly slept. By some chemical understanding, Harold started to sleep on the couch. That left Margie to cry alone in the mornings, she wondered if Harold cried at night. Visitors began arriving with casseroles. They talked to Harold; Margie took no comfort in their sincere eyes and gentle hand-holds. Her husband seemed to love it—she heard him indulging every guest who stopped by. When Mark and Amy brought a meatloaf, he told them about how empty the house felt: 

“It’s just so hard, you know, now that it’s just us. I miss him, I really do.” And then he cried. Right there, in front of them. Margie was disgusted. She could not stand that Harold would let other people see him mourn their son’s death. It was not because of her prudishness, it was not because she wished he would be more open with her. She could not stand to see him share this grief over their child, their creation, with people who had no part in him. She found herself wishing that she had created Michael all on her own, that her body could create sperm for its eggs to create a whole being by itself. But for what? For it to die all over again? Before they were banished to the garage fridge, Harold would have a portion of the casseroles, meatloaves, pies, cakes, and edible arrangements with whoever brought them. He would sit with their neighbours and friends at the dining room table and slowly make his way through a plate between sighs and sobs. Margie stayed in the den. She was happy to see him feeding himself, even if he did so while airing his side of their loss for the world to observe and have opinions over. Margie still could not eat and did not think much of it. Mostly, she shuffled around the house with her own shadow—drifting like a ghost.

 One night, she dreamt about Michael. In the dream, Michael was no older than fourteen, just on the edge of puberty. He was running through their backyard only it was ten times larger than reality. He was covered in bruises and casts, but somehow he ran with fluidity and grace. Harold was watching him from the other side of the lawn. She looked over at Harold and he said, “You see that? He’s fine.” Just then, Michael fell to the ground and began to howl in pain. In outrage, Margie turned to her husband and screamed, “He’s not fine at all!” But as she looked at Harold’s face it distorted into someone else—she thought maybe it was the face of the fat man who once refused to make change for her twenty at a grocery store. Whoever it was, he bore no resemblance to her husband. She looked back at Michael and he was gone. She stood by herself in the giant field before waking up in a panic, alone in her bed. After a month, they stopped receiving visitors. Harold began bringing out the dishes from the fridge and cutting larger and larger portions for himself. He sat eating in front of the TV, watching comforting shows from his childhood. Once, he tried to get Margie to come join him: “Hun, you ever rewatch Happy Days?” he asked. She let out a snort. She still could only manage a single bowl of oatmeal at lunch time, she had not left the house, she had not spoken to her family. Sure, she would eventually re-enter the world but she would not be starting with Happy Days reruns. 

Harold waited for a response beyond her grunt, when nothing came he slammed his hand against the door frame. “Holy hell, Margie. Are you ever going to talk to me again?” “I don’t know the answer to that, Harold,” she said. "Listen Margie, I know it’s awful. God, I know it’s real fucking awful what happened. But we have to go on. You sit here like everything else has stopped forever but it hasn’t.” “Harold, I wouldn’t know what else to do.” “Get up, for a start. Get up, go see some people, talk about it, talk.” He stood with his arms out in frustration, pleading with his wife. “You’re wasting away Margie.” She was, of course, quite literally wasting away. As Harold’s food-variety indulgence expanded his belly and arms, Margie was shrinking. Her clothes hung loosely over her and her cheeks were sinking a little further into her face each day. But she knew it would all pass, she knew one day she would wake up and know what to do and where to go. She tried explaining that that day was not today and, by all of her calculations, would not be for some time. Harold walked back into the living room and sat in front of the TV, defeated.

 Margie had never wanted Michael to be a mama’s boy. She had hopes and dreams of raising a well-rounded, independent man. But she could see with his first girlfriend that her constant worry had had an effect. The girl’s name was Pauline and she was lovely. They met at their school and Michael was crazy for her. Margie felt far more comfortable knowing that Michael was spending his free time with someone she knew, someone she liked and respected. Pauline was responsible if a little bold. Margie even knew her parents, they were part of the same parent-circle that had begun when the kids were in elementary school. Margie loved to see the two together, to see her son so happy. But then, Pauline broke up with Michael. Michael told her the circumstances of the abrupt break-up one night during a family trip to the beach. Harold had gone to sleep early and Michael was still reeling from the separation. Usually, Margie avoided this sort of talk with her son, she thought his father should be the one for him to discuss these things with. But Michael was in pain and she wanted to soothe his sorrow, so she asked him what the matter was. “She said I’m too clingy,” he said, his eyes beginning already to water. “What did she mean by that do you think?” Margie asked. “Hell if I know—I mean, I guess I know a bit. I would call her a bunch sometimes, kinda freak out if she didn’t respond you know? But if she really hated it that much she coulda told me before just dumping me out like that.” His eyes were fully watered and he put his face in his hands. 

Margie rubbed her sons back as he convulsed in tears. His first heartbreak, and she felt entirely responsible. She knew that clingy mothers made clingy sons. And clingy sons apparently got their hearts broken by girls called Pauline who described themselves as “staunch-feminists.” She felt just awful while Michael cried for a month over Pauline. Eventually, he began to pull himself together and stopped crying over her, then he stopped talking about her altogether. He was resilient the way that teenagers are, even when they have been crushed. His mind and body could repair themselves. Why couldn’t Margie do that? Anyway, Michael met Jessica in college and she didn’t leave him. And that would forever be the end of that.

Another three months and the funeral passed before Margie left the house. She went to the grocery store looking for some bread, butter, and sugar. They were things they already had at the house; Harold had been going to the grocery store a few times a week. Margie figured he did so to run into people, to suck in their sympathetic eyes, and to cry some more for them. Margie walked into the store wearing sunglasses. She wanted her own bread, her own butter, her own sugar. She would make her first meal entirely new. She would buy her ingredients without saying a word to anyone. A few familiar faces recognised her in the store but her desire to be left alone was palpable,—no one bothered her. She got home and toasted two pieces of bread. While they were hot, she smeared them with butter. Then she carefully caked them with sugar. She got out a ceramic plate from the cupboard and set some water on for tea. When her meal was prepared, she went into the den and sat down to it. She balanced the plate on her lap and sat the tea on the coffee table. The first bite was perfect: the bread was crunchy and the taste simple and sweet. After the first slice of bread, her stomach hurt from the unusual sensation of fullness. Still, she pressed on with the second and finished the meal. She set the empty plate on the table and held the warm tea in her hands. No thoughts entered her mind as she sipped at it, she just looked out of the window at the trees that were beginning to grow leaves. Harold came in from the living room and looked at her. He had stopped his obsessive eating and had begun fixing things around the house. He had been the one to plan the funeral and after the ceremony he started back at work. He had stopped asking Margie to do anything, but he was visibly glad to see her leave the house that morning. “How was it?” he asked, his eyes gesturing to the empty plate. “Just fine,” she said, still looking out the window. “That’s good Margie. It’s nice to see you—well first it’s nice to see you eat something.” “I told you it would come in time.” “I’m delighted that the time has come. Maybe now we can start getting things back to normal.” “Harold, that will never happen.” “Not normal-normal, you know what I mean,” he said. “I know what you mean, and it will never happen.” “Why would you say that, Margie? Why are you making everything a thousand times worse?” “I can’t make this any worse. I couldn’t if I tried.” “So you’re intent on staying entirely broken then? You’re fine with this.” “I’m not fine with anything. But I accept that our old life together is gone.” “And what will our new life look like?” “I don’t know.” “What am I supposed to do while you don’t know?” “I don’t know that either.” Harold turned to leave but turned back after the first step. He looked at his wife sitting on their sofa with all these new lines on her face. “You know, a lot of couples get divorced when these sorts of things happen,” he said finally. “I know that.” “Is that what you want?” “Please stop asking me questions,” she said. The morning of the day Michael was born, Harold was fired from his job. As Harold sat in their kitchen confessing his failure to his wife, Margie went into labor. From that moment, Harold forgot about the whole thing and shuffled his wife to the hospital where she gave birth to their beautiful and healthy baby Michael. Margie could not believe the look on her husband’s face when he got to hold his son. It was like watching real magic the way his face lit up like a sun. He held the boy and cooed over him, slowly rocking him in his arms. Margie looked at the two of them and felt overwhelmed with fruition. Harold never mentioned his firing after that: he took a few weeks to stay home with Margie and Michael, doting on the pair with every free breath, and then he found himself a new job that payed better than the last. For those few weeks that they lived together, without any other responsibility but to evolve into a real family, things were incredible. Margie woke up each morning feeling full in every inch of her body. She spent all day with her boys, feeding them and laughing with them. She loved watching Harold make faces at Michael, loved even more the way the tiny infant giggled at his father’s buffoonery. She spent all day in bliss. She knit a hideous child’s sweater, she cooked hot meals, she made love to her husband, and kept the house cozy. When Harold went back to work, the worry set in again. Left alone in the house with the baby, she worried constantly that something terrible would happen. It was a relief when Harold came home from work and she could tell him about all the ridiculous things that had worried her throughout the day: “And then he tried to climb right out of his crib, I was only a step away but imagine if I hadn’t been!” Harold would laugh lightly and adoringly, he would calm his wife and assure her that God could never have created a better, or at least safer, mother. He would kiss her and peck at her until she smiled and laughed. By dinner, she was full again with contentedness and joy. She would tell Susan that she was starting to believe she should have another child. But, when Harold left for work again in the morning and the worry took over, she would know that it was impossible. After the divorce, neither wanted to keep the house. Both sides of the family were understanding of the decision and forgiving of the separation. No one could imagine what it must be like for them and they did not care to try. Instead, they accepted everything that Harold and Margie did and expected very little explanation. Harold went ahead and got himself an apartment in town. He decorated it with sport’s memorabilia and mahogany wood furniture. He went to the gym three times a week and joined a single’s group. Margie rented a small condo in the next town over. She had a kitchen, a bathroom, a bedroom, and a sunroom. Most days, she would wake up early to watch the sun rise over the trees while sipping on tea. She had begun working as a first grade teacher and had to be up plenty early to enjoy some solitude. Once she got to work, it was chaos. The children were full of energy from eight in the morning to three in the afternoon. They called her Ms. Margie and drew her pictures of dinosaurs and princesses. One day, on her way to work, Margie was hit by a car. She rode in an ambulance and had an IV stuck in her arm. The injuries were not serious and she only had to spend a night in the hospital. When her sister came to see her, she was shocked by how calm she was. “I’m fine, Susan, the doctor said so himself.” “But you must be terribly shaken,” said Susan, holding tightly onto her sister’s hand. “No, not terribly. My neck hurts. Mostly I’m just sick of hospitals. I’ve seen enough of these white walls and florescent lights for my lifetime. Plus, I should have another five or ten years before I start needing monthly check-ups.” Susan looked at her with confused but loving eyes. “Margie I need to ask you something,” Susan looked at her sister waiting for the okay to continue. Margie gave a slight, encouraging nod. “It’s Harold. He wants to see you. In fact, he’s in the waiting room. Now, normally I’d tell him to leave but I wasn’t sure you wouldn’t want to see him. I don’t know, I just thought he might be a comfort, I’m sorry.” “No, Susan, don’t be sorry. I would like to see him.” Harold walked in. He looked strong but weathered. He sat down in the chair next to her. He planted his feet on the ground, as if preparing for anything, as best he could. “Hi Margie,” he said. “Harold, you look good.” “I wish I could say the same for you,” he said. They both let out a calming laugh. “But really, you do look well, IV and bruises aside.” “Is it bad?” she asked. She had not yet looked in a mirror. “Oh no, not really. You got yourself a shiner, you look pretty tough. But the smile is there, that’s good.” He sighed and relaxed a bit into the chair. “So, tell me, how have you been?” she asked. “I’ve been good, I really have. Started working a bit less so I can help out my parents with the house and what-not. I’ve been keeping busy.” “That’s good, Harold,” she said. She smiled at him and he blushed just slightly. They held their stare in each other’s eyes. “You know, Susan told me you started working with kids. I gotta tell you, I was more than a little surprised.” “Oh?” “Well yeah. I mean, with the worrying you did over Michael,” he paused at the name of their creation, “I just never thought you’d start worrying about other people’s kids too.” “I try not to worry so much these days,” she said. “You’ll save yourself a lot of trouble. And me too, come to think of it—I don’t wanna be paying anymore hospital bills for you,” he said. “Oh you’re not paying a penny Harold,” she said. “I insist, Margie. I have nothing else to put the money on and you know I still want to take care of you when I can. I’m not asking you to be grateful, I’m not even asking you to think of me or anything like that. Just let me take care of you a little.” Margie let Harold pay the hospital bills which otherwise would have been covered by her half of the divorce settlement. Both left the hospital in good shape and spirits. Margie didn’t mind Harold thinking he was taking care of her. She went back to her condo and had a few days of rest before starting at work again. Harold went back to his apartment and soon met a nice woman from the single’s group. Margie went to the wedding. She met Harold’s grown step-children and drank three glasses of champagne. She danced with Harold and his friends, she laughed hysterically at their jokes. Over the coming years, Margie continued working at the school and met a few men here and there. She kept herself busy creating lesson plans. She became a decent cook and was close with the other teachers from the school. Still, she appreciated ample time on her own, she never tired of the ever-changing view of the trees. Every so often, a few times a year, Harold would come over for a dinner. Margie came up with elaborate dishes and poured fancy bottles of wine. They made beautiful conversation for a few hours; the laughter they created bore no necessity. And then, at a reasonable hour, Harold would leave. He would kiss Margie on the cheek and say goodnight; they looked each other in the eyes. And, for a moment, they would remember the life they created. 

Submitted January 05, 2018 at 10:55AM by Louise9511 http://ift.tt/2EadxNM shortstories