Till Death Do Us Part

Weak December daylight filters through the gauzy bedroom curtains. I roll over and reach for Nick, but of course, he isn’t in bed. I almost forgot Nick is leaving me today. Leaving me for a younger version--of me. Leaving me and my infertile womb and my drinking problem brought on by my infertile womb. Leaving me. Discarding me. Moving on without me.

Last night Nick tossed the divorce papers on the counter. A check for $20,000.00 paperclipped to a copy of our prenup agreement. We both have good incomes, and I will be okay on my own, but it stung to see the surprisingly small sum he and his lawyer believe I have contributed to our life together. Nick poured us a scotch, then another, and another mind-numbing-pain-relieving shot.

I would keep the house. Nick would keep the boat.

We would divide our friends right down the middle.

Yours and mine.

Our friends together would have to figure it out on their own.

I know her. This twenty-year-old version of me with a ponytail. Nick’s assistant lives two streets over, and the explanation for his late-night walks to “clear his head.”

My forehead is throbbing. I touch my hairline and feel dried blood. Fear shuffles and side steps in my belly, and I know I should remember something vital, something urgent, but Nick’s never-ending scotch and a sleeping pill fog my brain.

The house is quiet. The quiet you feel and know, you are alone. I smell coffee, and Nick's body wash. The steamy shower has fogged the mirror, and I grab Nick’s wet towel off the floor to wipe it clean. Feral eyes stare back at me. Panic squeezes my throat, and I gag, vomiting into the sink.

The coffee maker is flashing 12:45, 12:45, 12:45, and my head throbs in sync as I fumble to reset the clock. Nick’s coffee cup sits beside the sink. Half full. I can smell the sweet sticky hazelnut creamer he loves. Plip-plop, plip-plop, the leaky faucet echoes my tattered heart. I sip the lukewarm coffee. The memory of Nick’s warm hazelnut breath kissing me awake washes over me.

The divorce papers lie unsigned. Nick has left our black honey-do notebook open on the counter. We use it to remind each other of appointments, shopping lists, social events, and a lifetime ago corny love notes. I’ve saved all the notebooks, and like a road map, I can navigate Nick’s affairs.

I read the last entry.

I forgive you. Nick

Forgive me, forgive ME, FORGIVE ME?

A knock at the front door is rare, and for a split second, I think it's Nick, but I can see two figures through the frosted glass.

The police officers, male and female, hats in hand, study their boots.

“Mrs. Taylor?” The male officer asks.

The question hangs in the air like a kite rising higher and higher, pulling at its tether until the string runs out.

“Yes, is there a problem?”

“Your husband was killed in a hit and run accident.” The female officer takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

I half laugh, half squawk, “That’s impossible he just left. For work. He was fine.”

“He was identified by his driver’s license and pronounced dead on the scene at 12:45 am. Is there someone we can call for you?” The male officer fingers the brim of his hat as if the secret to imparting grief is hiding there.

I remember what I have done. I see Nick walking down the sidewalk, hands in pockets, his last breath billowing in the cold air.

The officers leave. Leave with condolences and instructions and promises. Promises to solve the crime. Promises to get justice. Promises to get closure.

I am calm now. I hit the buttons on the garage door opener and wait as the door chugs its way up the metal track. My car is there. Right where I left it. The windshield a spider web of cracks. The side mirror hanging by a thin wire.

I can’t explain the unexplainable, the unimaginable.

But I can say thanks, Nick.

I forgive you too.