In The End

I am excited and it is oddly easy to get up and moving this morning. The sky is blue. The day is mild. The sun is brilliant. It is one of those days that envelopes you in warmth when you walk out the door.

Michael has agreed to talk. Though I’ve been pushing him for this, I put him off for a while. He agreed last week. I will see him today, after class. My mind is bouncing with thoughts of reconciliation.

Moving swiftly through my morning rituals, I complain to myself that there is too much to get ready. Workout clothes, check. Office clothes, check. Food and water, check. My life demands so much more attention than it used to. The stress of our separation has me burnt out. Life is not an even playing field, but I must play in it.

After class, I cannot get the ladies to stop the chatter and get moving. They have questions, observations and gossip. Man, I hate gossip. “Time to go ladies, I have a chance to meet with Michael this morning. I must run!”

I have to go to the bank. Shall I go before or after seeing Michael? Before. Then I can drive right to the office from the house. Either way, I will be late. Banking is annoying at best and today I must go in. I get in and out quickly, but as I am headed to my car I hear my name being yelled across the lot. Damn! It is so hard to keep conversations short. I am not a woman of few words and this is an ex client.

Approaching the house, I see Michael’s red Ram in the driveway. I kinda wonder what allows for a morning meetup. Usually at this time he is at work. Regardless, he seems to be here. I pull up behind and head in, only keys in hand. Boom, de boom boom, boom. I turn the door handle and it opens. I head into the house, assuming he will know it is me by the knock.

The sunlight shines off the stark white walls. It is everywhere and it is my favourite thing about this house. I insisted on brilliant white when it was being painted. The natural light is stunning. I miss this house. I miss him.

“Michael,” I yell as I wander around the house. “What the hell, where are you? Answer me please!”

A collection of things on the coffee table catches my eye. Why would his necklaces be in the middle of the table? He never takes them off. His crucifix and gold chain are just lying there. Beside them, a picture and a note. My heart starts to race, going directly from first to fifth gear.

Picking up the picture, I see that it is a Polaroid of Michael, stern faced, crazy eyed, staring directly towards me. There’s a noose around his neck, one like I have seen in movies. Heavy rope. Handwritten, the note says only, “ I am in the basement, dead!”

The Polaroid falls out of my hands.

This is ridiculous, I mutter. What the fuck is he up to? Why is he scaring me like this? I drop everything and start calling his name over and over. He does not answer. Staring momentarily at the basement door, I decide that if he really is down there dead, I sure as hell am not going to be the one to find him!

I run out to my car, grab my phone and call my sister. She works close by. She will know what to do. Did I see what I thought I saw?

“Do not go down those stairs,'' she says. “I will call the police and be there in a few.”

The wailing of sirens begins. One after the other, cop cars surround our block. Two young, notably handsome uniformed men approach me. I tell them what I found. They tell me to stay outside.

Sitting on the front stoop, I wait. My sister arrives. We wait for the officers to come back out. We wait for them to tell me that my husband is not down there and he is not dead! To tell us this was all a mistake, just a prank.

Locked in this moment, my mind endlessly runs through possibilities. I work to remember exactly what I saw in that pic and what it may mean.

An officer comes out the front door. He has the Polaroid picture in hand. He flashes it my way, and asks if the man in the picture is my husband?

“Who else would it be?” I snap. He draws in a deep breath and patiently asks again, “Is this your husband?”

“Yes, that is my husband. Is he really down there, dead?”

“I am afraid so,” he says with gentle eyes.

Firecrackers begin exploding in my brain and my head starts to pound. I turn and walk away. My body releases one loud, cacophonous scream. This cannot be right! This is not fair. This is rediculousness!

Sobbing coming from my porch beckons me back. My sister asks “Why would he do this?” Like I may actually have an answer.

Nicotine. I need nicotine! Cravings haunted me daily since quitting, but this is different. Today, I NEED a cigarette, a coping mechanism. I head inside to find one. Michael is a smoker. There will be at least a pack in the house.

“Sorry, you cannot go in there, this is a crime scene. We have to be sure of what took place here.”

“What took place here,” I repeat. “Then you go in and look. You find me a cigarette.”

The narrow street is impassable. The cop cars are two deep. No one can get by. Officers stand around, serving no purpose I can think of. Behind them are the neighbours. Some I know, some I do not. Gabbing and standing quietly with questioning expressions. They stare. What they must be thinking!

When I manage to clear my head for a second, my thoughts move to my daughter. She adores Michael. She adores that he asked her if it was okay for him to move in. She adores that he spoke to her before his proposal. He had easily filled the gap growing between her and her father. She loves him. This will crush her.

I turn to my sister. “We have to find her,” I say we, but I mean SHE, she has to find her. She is either walking to school for her exam or already writing it, she needs to know ASAP. If I wait, she will be pissed.

No cigarettes could be found in the house! Rather unbelievable. What did he do, smoke his last butt and go downstairs and hang himself? I cannot wrap my head around any of this.

“Buy me smokes,” I yell as my sister heads out.

“No way,” she says.

“Buy me smokes.” I snap, with a don’t-fuck-with-me’ tone.

Selfishly, I am relieved I will not have to tell her, her aunt will do that.

Half the cops are in the house now and half remain standing around, gazing into what was a beautiful day. All I can do is wait.

The coroner arrives, introduces himself and tells me that the police officers believe that my husband’s death was a suicide. By law he is required to do a postmortem and tease out the cause of death. Were there any substances he should expect to find in Michael’s system? Yup, prescribed meds for sure. I tell him what Michael takes daily. He asks about any other possibilities? Swallowing hard, I suggest that he may find something not prescribed, perhaps cocaine. Michael makes a lot of money, yet we always seem to be broke. I have asked him directly a time or two, without any satisfying answers. Perhaps today's tests can confirm my suspicion. He will let me know what he finds.

Arriving with my sister and my cigarettes, my daughter had not made it to school yet. As she approaches, I wonder what I am going to say to her? Not in the deepest, darkest places of my mind could I have prepared for this conversation. She asks for details. I give her details. No holding back. This is devastating. A tight hug does not console her.

I need a moment. Clawing at my insides, anguish is falling on me hard. I must find a path that keeps me calm. Losing it now is not going to do anyone any good. My daughter needs a mom who can be her wing man, who can help her navigate her way through this mess. I grab my smokes and head to the back yard where the lawn chairs are set up for the season. Lighting a smoke, I sit and take a long slow drag. I can feel every curve of my lungs fill up. With a long exhale, I contemplate why I am not yet in a puddle of tears. I should be, shouldn’t I?

The body bag is black. We used white ones at the hospital. I have put a person in a body bag before, but inside this one is my husband. The man I love. The man I married only seven years ago. He does not move. There is no jumping up and exclaiming “got ya!” No bad joke is declared. This is all real and so nonsensical.

One of the officers, the one who first entered the house, approaches. The contents from the coffee table have been photographed and bagged and will eventually be returned to me. They found a note upstairs too. It is dated one week earlier. We can now go inside.

We were supposed to meet last week. Did he want to plan this death, this ending of his life, on the same day my dad died? Was this vengeance?

The cop offers to call Toronto police and request someone drop by Michael’s parent’s place to tell them what has happened. No way am I going to let some stranger knock on my mother-in-law’s door and tell her that her first born is gone, that he took his own life by hanging himself in our basement, a room hardly higher than he was tall. Nope, this will not play out that way. I will be brave enough to tell her myself. I will.

The cop cars start to leave. Hours have passed. We have not eaten. I’m sure by now the news has spread throughout my family. Bad news travels fast. I want to tell my mom in person, but someone has beat me to it. Someone told her over the phone. Jesus people, someone needs to go and be with her, please! Everyone loved Michael.

The drive to the city seems endless. Traffic chaos has the 427 creeping. The banter in the car goes on around me. I hear it, but I am not part of it. The mess in my head centers around arriving at the apartment. I am not certain what to say, how to explain. Do I tell them the back story? They have not seen him in three years. My phone call alarmed them. They will be wondering. Drive safely I tell myself, drive safely.

Sitting on my knees in front of his mom, with his dad in the chair to the right, all I can do is share the truth, fill in story lines I cannot confirm, declare my sorrow and hold onto her trembling self, while she takes all this in.

In the end, there are really no truths. I have no facts. This day turned itself upside down. I tell her I am sorry, a phrase I hate. He suffered in silence. I did not know. I missed the signs. There are no more details than that for now. I will let her know what I learn. I am sorry I repeat, again and again.

Michael never understood that life is not an even playing field. We were very different humans. There is no way for me to understand the agonizing thoughts that led to his choice.

Each of us has dominion over our lives. Not everyone can handle the days. In the end, Michael could not.