Elaine

The kettle hissed long before she remembered to pour it. The sound had always comforted her. It was unconventional people used to say. Technology had moved on. But she had liked the ordinariness of the steam pouring upward into the air. It slowed down the process. Made tea a ritual. It had become part of their routine. But tonight, she barely registered the familiar noise. It just didn’t belong in the silence of the night. Felt out of place somehow. She set down the cups, placing them lightly on mismatched saucers. The clink of porcelain refocused her for a moment. Breathe.

Upstairs, in the makeshift bedroom, she imagined her wife was sleeping. Just sleeping. Dreaming perhaps. But content. The morphine has softened the edges. Made sleep a possibility. A kindness she was grateful for - especially now. The quiet signified peace. A moment of respite.

Except the clock. That bastard still ticked like a metronome in an Artaud production.

And the sun will come up too soon.

—-------

She asked me to.

The pillow is still on the floor, maybe I should put it behind her head. That might be a little too messed up, maybe I should go downstairs and throw it out. Or burn it. Or sleep with it. What do you do with something like that?

It was exhausting, I didn’t expect it to be but it was. My arms and wrists hurt. My jaw aches too, maybe I was clenching it.

For such a fragile thing she held on longer than I thought was possible. My wife thinks I’m sound asleep, loaded with xanax and the tiny dose of morphine that Elaine isn’t using anymore but instead I am staring at a blank page, waiting for words to come to me. How honest is one supposed to be in these things? Do people really want the truth or do they want me to paint a pretty picture over the imperfectness?

People are complicated, that’s not exactly a revolutionary statement, but should I try to push nuance into it? I don’t even know what she wanted, she wasn’t exactly forthcoming in life and she’s certainly not forthcoming in death. What if I say something wrong and she smites me or something.

Should I wipe the hard surfaces down? They do that in movies. I live here though. It wouldn’t make a difference.

Elaine wasn’t all there in the end anyway, I don’t even think she knew what was happening even if she did she would have hated us for leaving her that way. I think. She sure had some fight left in her though, I think that particular decision was a bad one, even if the outcome was okay.

I thought it would feel more merciful.

She asked us to.

People look so different after, it’s not just the stillness though, there’s just nothing there. She’s still warm though, that feels extra wrong.

She asked me to.

This room, I hate this room. It smelled like death even before tonight, death and stale air because it was always too cold for her. She never let me open a window.

Elaine was…

Elaine was…

Elaine was…

What the fuck was Elaine? As of three hours ago she was screaming in agony cursing the lawmakers that wouldn’t let her feel peace. It’s quiet now, it feels too cliche to say too quiet.

I spot the blanket she had been attempting to finish, she taught me how to crochet, I wasn’t very good at it.

Elaine was…

Elaine was…

Elaine was…

Do they do autopsies on people who were terminal anyway?

I didn’t think it was possible for anxiety to fight this hard against sedatives.

Elaine was…

Elaine was…

What do they want me to say? She was a grumpy asshole until the end, but she made good meatballs? She was a creative teacher and mentor, but she never finished a book?

It was louder than I thought it would be, she hadn’t said much for days, when I told her what would happen she thanked me. It was almost like she was there.

She asked us to.

She asked me to.

Elaine was…

My arms are sore, it’s really strange how much strength it takes.

Elaine was a teacher…

No that’s not enough.

What if the brothers and sisters get angry that we didn’t invite them to come for her last days, what do I tell them? They didn’t want to see her that way anyway. As usual, we took care of it.

How should I record time of death? They do that in the movies too. The hospice nurse isn’t supposed to come until eight in the morning. It’s still dark out.

I should be asleep.

She asked me to.

Elaine was a bitch.

No no, she wasn’t. Well she was but I think maybe she earned that right.

Elaine was a hard working and caring mother and grandmother, she fought the good fight for as long as God allowed.

Well that’s wrong too, though I guess there was a little bit of fight, just not the kind that people might think I mean. I hate to bring god into this but she bought that shit so I guess I should slip it in somewhere.

Googling if they do an autopsy on someone terminal would probably incriminate us.

Elaine was an important member of our community and was known by all as a generous and creative soul.

I should pick up that pillow from the floor.

—-

The bleach stings her fingers. The floor has needed scrubbing for days. She couldn’t do it. But now in the slant of moonlight it looks dirtier. Filthy even. Her knees dent with cat biscuits and small stones. She thinks of nothing.

The stones dig further into her dry skin but she doesn’t brush them away. They belong there now. Like everything else. The floor creaks under her weight. Too loud. Like an accusation or a sigh of acceptance.

Gone.

Gone.

She scrubs harder. The damp green fragments of sponge fall onto the wet floor. Shedding skin. The bleach smell clings to her throat. She scrubs harder at a bit of something dried. Embedded in the grout between the tiles. It may be soup, maybe blood, maybe both. It doesn’t matter. It has to come up. It has to be cleaned. She checks the tile with her fingernail. Scratching skin.

Still sticky.

She goes over it again. Harder. Scrub.

The moon slides behind a cloud. She doesn’t notice the shift into darkness. Somewhere upstairs, the heating clicks on.

She moves deftly on to the next square. There’s a hair caught in the corner. Blonde. Long. Probably hers. Though she can’t be sure. She stares at it for a moment. Then wipes it away. Gone.

A moth hits the glass outside the window.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

She wipes in small, slow circles.

Nothing left to do.

She pours the warm water into the waiting cups. Two. Not three.

She picks up one.

It trembles.

Then tumbles to the floor.

Crack.

Shards of porcelain bounce across the tiles. She does not bend to pick them up. Instead she places the other cup on the small wooden tray and walks barefoot towards the door.

Upstairs, she sets the cup down on the bedside table.

‘Thank you.’ Her wife says. As if it means something. She had thought she would be sleeping.

Had she thought?

_________________________

My wife looks shocked when she walks in and sees me kneeling next to Elaine.

“I was just trying to see what was missing.” I muttered. I had already figured it out, but my wife didn’t look like she could handle that conversation.

I pick up the pillow.

“No, don’t touch that” my wife begs.

“What’s it going to do?” I say. “It’s not like it’s got muscle memory.”

I gripped the sides just like I did just a few short hours ago. I dropped it like it burned me.

“She asked us to.” I whispered.

“Yeah” my wife answers.

“I’m trying to write the eulogy”

“The body isn’t even cold”

“Well it’s probably going to take me a while”

I walked to the desk and sat down at the computer.

I type “Elaine was…” then I stop.

Elaine was gaunt and her eyes were sunken in and she was tired. She was a person. A complicated one.

I type “She asked me to” on the screen, my wife sighs, leans over, and presses delete.

The sun will rise soon, it had snowed during the night.

“Leave this,” my wife gently turns the chair around and pulls me towards her.

“You’ll have time later.”

We kiss. But it feels cold.

We kiss. But it feels cold. She turns to leave. Her hand flicked the lightswitch.

“Leave the light on” I say. I think I say. Said. “Please.”

She flicks it back on. She’s tired. I think. Thought. Maybe. I think. Have I thought?

She sighed and walks away, closing the door behind her. The latch clicked.

I just want to be with her. Until morning. You Know? Until they come.

I heard the creak of familiar wood. She’s already at the bottom of the stairs.

She asked me to. I typed.

She asked us to. The sun outside slanted red through the window. Elaine wore red to our wedding. The cursor flicked.

The cursor flicked. Like the last breaths. Lying.

Waiting for our excuses.

Was it for her or us?