Composing Amelia

by Alison Strobel

  He pulled into the apartment complex’s parking lot and sat in the car for a moment, praying for Amelia’s response. Then, gathering his courage, he went inside.

  Amelia shrieked when he opened the front door. “Sorry, babe,” he said, feeling sheepish when he saw the look of surprise on her face.

  She slapped his laptop shut and stood. “Why are you home so early?”

  “I felt bad for being so short with you earlier. And I wasn’t getting much work done anyway.”

  Her eyes darted toward the bedroom and then back to the laptop as she slowly sat back down again. “I was in the middle of something,” she said as she opened the machine and rotated it slightly toward the far wall.

  “Um … okay.” He shrugged and crossed the room to go change his clothes.

  “Wait!”

  He stopped and turned. “What?”

  “Um … there’s a … mess. In there. I was going to clean it but I got distracted.”

  He waved a hand. “I don’t care.”

  “No, I mean—”

  He opened the door and the smell hit him before the sight did. “What the heck? Amelia?”

  He heard her muttering under her breath and then the click of his laptop shutting. “I, um … My stomach was a little upset …”

  “A little?” He scratched his neck, looking from the small piles on the carpet to his wife who now stood beside him, her face red. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine.”

  Marcus moved past her to the kitchen and pulled out the cleaning supplies. “Go relax, I’ll take care of this.”

  “No, I’ll do it.”

  “No, really, it’s all right.” He kissed her cheek. “You should have told me you weren’t feeling well when you called; I would have come home sooner.”

  She said nothing as she turned and went back to the dining room. Baffled, Marcus knelt to work on the carpet, hoping no permanent damage had been done. With rubber gloves on and a roll of paper towel in hand, he began to clean, noticing after a few minutes the small white lumps, smaller than peas, that littered the stains. What the heck are those?

  Once finished, Marcus returned to Amelia’s side. “So, what happened? Did you eat something … weird?”

  She shrugged as she stood, having once more shut the laptop when he’d come out of the bedroom. “No, nothing weird.” She nodded to the living room. “I’m going to go, um, sit.”

  He walked her to the couch and sat beside her, troubled by how guarded she was being. Aside from the minute he’d walked in the door, she hadn’t looked him in the eyes yet, and she seemed off somehow. He got the sense she was hiding something. Aren’t we all?

  He decided not to push, trusting she’d open up when she was ready. For now, he’d just try to mend things between them as best he could without going into any details. He had a feeling this wouldn’t be a good time to tell her his own secret. “Hey, I’m sorry about earlier—when you called. Now that I know you were getting sick, I feel really bad.” He stopped, forced himself to tell the truth. “Honestly, I felt bad before I knew you were sick. I’m sorry I haven’t been very … attentive … lately. I’ve just been really preoccupied.”

  She looked at him with surprise in her eyes. She opened her mouth, shut it, and then with trepidation in her voice, asked, “With what?”

  “Well … long story. We’ll talk about it later. I just wanted to apologize and tell you that I’m going to try to be better for you. Okay?”

  “Is—is it me?”

  He frowned. “Is what you?”

  “Whatever it is you don’t want to talk about right now. Is it about me?”

  He shook his head, guilt flooding his heart. “No, babe. No, it’s totally not you. And I’m so sorry if I’ve done anything to make you think it is.”

  She didn’t look that relieved as she pulled invisible lint from her shirt hem. “I wouldn’t have been surprised if it was. I know I’ve been awful lately.”

  “You? No you haven’t.”

  She looked at him, bewildered. “I haven’t?”

  “No, babe, not at all.” He kissed her forehead, trying not to let his nose wrinkle from the smell that still clung to her. “You’ve been great, like always. Trust me, it’s not you.”

  The side of her mouth twitched in a half smile, but it didn’t make him feel any better. What kind of a husband was he? How could he be so self-centered that he didn’t even realize Amelia was blaming herself for his moodiness?

  He stood. “I’m going to go make myself some dinner.” He went to the kitchen and stood in front of the open fridge, looking for something easy to make. But in reality he didn’t have an appetite anymore. He was too preoccupied with how bad he felt. The list of things he needed to fix in his life just kept getting longer.

  He shut the fridge and went instead to his laptop on the dining room table. It was definitely time to find a therapist.

  Amelia didn’t think she’d ever feel like more of a failure than her mother was. But at least her mother had been able to off herself properly.

  She’d waited all night for Marcus to put two and two together and figure out what she’d tried to do. The anticipation of it was maddening. Every time he spoke her whole body tensed, waiting for the accusation. But bedtime rolled around without him saying anything about it, and she breathed a sigh of relief as she pulled the sheets over her head and tried to fall asleep.

  Of course, sleep was impossible. The voice of shame was louder than ever, and she was too busy trying to figure out what to try next. She’d always thought a bottle of any kind of medicine was enough to do someone in, but now she knew the truth. She didn’t have it in her to research anymore, but she had to come up with a different plan, one that would work the first time. She couldn’t afford to screw it up again.

  Marcus came to bed after a while, and Amelia faked sleeping so she wouldn’t have to talk. She evened her breathing and tried to send out sleeping vibes as Marcus got comfortable and turned on his lamp to read. But after a few minutes she heard him whispering. At first she thought he was talking to her, but then his words became clearer, and she realized he was praying.

  “I don’t know what to do, God. I’m so overwhelmed. Please show me what to do to fix all this.”

  Fix what? Why is he so overwhelmed? She couldn’t help rolling her eyes. How bad could his life possibly be? He had the job he’d always wanted. He wasn’t losing his mind. He didn’t want to kill himself. He didn’t have the crazymaking genes that she did.

  After a few minutes of aimless thinking, she came to another question. When was the last time she’d prayed? When was the last time she’d given God any thought at all? She honestly couldn’t remember. Even at church when Marcus spoke, as much as she tried to be a good wife and listen, she was too easily distracted. It was like listening to a lecture on some foreign culture’s mythology. It had no meaning to her, no bearing on her situation. The more she thought about it, the more she realized that’s how it had always been with her.

  She wasn’t bothered by the realization. God didn’t seem to be doing much good for Marcus, and if a pastor couldn’t get help from Him, what chance did she have? It was probably all phony anyway. Just another way for people to try to make sense of their world when it was spinning out of control. Amelia didn’t care to find rhyme or reason for things anymore. She just wanted to get off the ride.

  The next day Amelia called in sick again for her piano lessons and stayed in bed as long as she could without rousing Marcus’s suspicion. The pregnancy was proving to be a handy excuse for such times. All she had to say was how tired she was when she didn’t feel like getting out of bed, or how her stomach was feeling off when Marcus tried to get her to eat and she had no appetite. When she felt she’d reached her daily limit of justification, she’d relocate to the living room with a book and have some tea and a few crackers to keep Marcus happy.

  That’s what she’d just done, a few minutes before noon. Marcus had stayed h
ome, concerned that she might relapse, and was working at the dining room table on that weekend’s sermon. Supposedly, anyway. She could tell he wasn’t getting anything done. He spent more time staring out the window, or at his laptop screen even though he wasn’t typing or using the trackpad. The look on his face was more foul than she’d ever seen on him before. She wondered what it was that had him so tense.

  He came out of what seemed like a trance and looked around at the books on the table. Out of nowhere he slammed one book shut after another, then his laptop, then made a growl that startled Amelia even though she’d been watching him the whole time. She twitched in her seat with surprise, and Marcus caught the movement and was instantly contrite. “I’m sorry. I’m just … incredibly frustrated right now.”

  “That’s okay.”

  He ground a fist into the palm of his other hand and muttered, “Sometimes I just want to kill myself.”

  Amelia let out a snort. “Whatever you do, don’t try Motrin.”

  The words were out before she could stop them. She tried to play it cool but had no idea if her expression was one of disinterested boredom, as she was aiming for, or of the sheer terror she felt inside.

  Marcus cocked his head and gave her a look that was more penetrating than usual. “Why do you say that?”

  She could see the wheels turning. “I read it, in Cosmo. An article on, um, people who tried to kill themselves. That always stuck in my head because, you know, it seems like something that would work, right? People are always OD’ing on painkillers like that.” Her mouth was moving without much input from her brain, and she didn’t know what would be worse: to keep going, or to stop. Change the subject! “Anyway, you shouldn’t be saying things like that, Marcus.”

  He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. “You’re right. I shouldn’t have said that. I’m just … There’s a lot on my mind.”

  “Like what?” Maybe now she’d get some answers.

  He opened his mouth, then shut it with a shake of his head. “Long story. I don’t want to burden you with it. Just some stuff I have to deal with.” He paused, as though rethinking what he’d said, then gave a slight shake of his head and left for the kitchen. Amelia’s shoulders slumped. She thought she’d finally get some answers. Though the longer he went without telling her, the less she wanted to know. If he’d waited this long, it must be pretty bad, and she had her fill of things to worry about.

  The next day Marcus had a meeting with the elders. As soon as he’d left the house she went to the medicine cabinet to see what else she had to work with.

  It was virtually empty.

  Amelia frowned as she stared at the bottle of mouthwash and the tube of toothpaste, the only two ingestible items in the cabinet. There had been more in here the other day. Nail polish remover. Rubbing alcohol. Hydrogen peroxide. Where had they gone?

  She went to the kitchen and opened the cabinet where they kept their cleaning supplies. She hadn’t tried them first because they usually bought all-natural cleaners and Amelia figured they wouldn’t do much harm. But now, with her other options gone, she was desperate. But the cleaning supplies were missing as well.

  She went back to the bedroom, thinking Marcus had left them all in there after cleaning her mess. But they weren’t there. A thorough and frantic search of the apartment revealed that anything remotely dangerous had been removed. Even the knives were missing.

  Marcus was on to her.

  She was embarrassed. And furious. How dare he treat her like some child who couldn’t be trusted. It was her life, her body—she should be allowed to do whatever she wanted with both.

  She went back to the bathroom and pulled out the mouthwash. It was a large bottle, but less than two-thirds full. She glanced at the ingredients, but they didn’t tell her enough. She took the bottle to the dining room table, opened the Internet browser, and typed “can you overdose on mouthwash” into the search engine. It took longer than she’d expected to find an answer, but once she found a forum where people were trading stories of loved ones who had died using it, she knew she was at least on the right track.

  She looked at the bottle again. Was it enough? She didn’t have the energy—or the time, since Marcus was coming back after the meeting—to go downtown and buy something else. And with Marcus obviously on to her, her opportunities would be few and far between now. And it would take forever to wait for them to finish the mouthwash and buy a new bottle.

  Amelia returned to the bedroom and uncapped the bottle. The minty smell made her eyes water as she brought the bottle closer to her face. She held her nose and began to drink. It took a few minutes to get the entire bottle down, but once she did, the calm she’d felt after downing the Motrin returned, even though her gut was churning. She felt it in her bones—this was going to work.

  The elder meeting was over, and Marcus couldn’t get out of the church fast enough. He’d felt like a fraud giving input to their discussions, but until he had a chance to talk to Ed, he had to keep up the illusion that he still belonged there. He’d almost called the elder a handful of times, but every time he picked up the phone he chickened out. He didn’t know how to talk about his struggles without setting himself up to be fired, and he couldn’t afford to lose his job, not with the baby coming. But it was going to be a long five months playing this game.

  Marcus was almost to his car when he heard Ed call his name. He winced, stopped, and turned to see him crossing the parking lot. This was not good timing. He was anxious to get home, knowing now what Amelia was capable of. The lengths he’d gone to that morning while she slept were probably enough, though he hadn’t had time to double-check his efforts, and he still wasn’t about to leave her alone any longer than he had to. He waited until Ed had caught up with him, then said apologetically, “I can’t really stay, Ed, I need to get home.”

  “I won’t keep you long, Marcus. I just wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

  “Um … make sure I’m okay?”

  Ed gave him a look. “I’m concerned about you.”

  Marcus glanced over his shoulder in the direction of the apartment, then back at Ed, arms crossed. “Oh?”

  “Forgive my boldness, but … you haven’t quite been yourself these last couple weeks. I know I don’t know you well, but I’m usually a pretty good judge of these things.”

  Marcus ran a hand through his hair, torn between spilling his guts before he lost his courage and glossing over things so he could get home. “You’re right,” he said, trying to walk a middle ground. “There’s a lot going on with me right now, I admit that. Right now isn’t the best time to talk about it, though—I need to get home to Amelia.”

  Ed frowned. “Is she all right?”

  “Um … Yes, she’s fine. Just … struggling still, with the adjustment.”

  Ed nodded. “I understand. But listen, Marcus, I hope you know you can talk to me about anything. I’m a good confidant. And just because you’re the senior pastor doesn’t mean you don’t need a listening ear or some guidance now and then.”

  The words gave Marcus hope. He’d feared that admitting he needed help would immediately send the elders into doubt over their decision to hire him. “Thanks, Ed.”

  “You’re welcome. Now, let me pray for you before you go.”

  Marcus hoped his impatience didn’t show on his face. The elder placed a hand on Marcus’s shoulder and began to pray, then stopped midsentence. “Marcus, you need to get home.”

  “What?”

  Ed’s face was troubled. He nodded toward Marcus’s car. “Get home. I feel like God wants you to get home.”

  CHAPTER 11

  Marcus’s stomach leapt into his throat. Without a word he ran to his car. Please don’t take Amelia. Please, God, protect her.

  He sped down the residential streets, berating himself for his stupidity. He should have confronted her when he’d figured out what she’d done. He should have called … someone. Her doctor. Even Ed. But he’d been embarrassed for her, had
n’t wanted to focus any attention on something so desperate as trying to kill herself. She hadn’t seemed so bad off; he’d figured she was over it.

  “Don’t let her die,” he prayed aloud as he rolled through a four-way stop. “Please, God. I’m sorry I didn’t do anything. I can’t believe I was that stupid—how could You let me be that stupid, God?”

  He pulled into the parking lot and into the first spot he saw. He jabbed the elevator button until the doors opened, then did the same to the third-floor button, breathing hard with fear. As he ran down the hall to their door, he pulled his phone from his pocket in case he had to call 911, then let himself in as quickly as he could. “Amelia?”

  There was no answer. He ran for the bedroom.

  An older woman, not wearing scrubs or a doctor’s coat, walked over to Marcus, offered a hand to shake, and introduced herself as the hospital’s social worker. “I’ve spoken with Amelia, and she gave me permission to discuss her situation with you.” She sat beside him and folded her hands over the chart in her lap. “Amelia admitted to having attempted suicide.”

  Despite expecting this, the words were a knife in his heart. He rubbed a hand slowly over his face, not knowing what to say.

  “Based on her personal history and the fact that she’s still feeling suicidal, I’m recommending an inpatient program. We don’t have one here, unfortunately; the nearest hospital I’d recommend is in Omaha.”

  “Omaha?” He groaned. “That’s over an hour away. There isn’t anything here in Wheatridge?”

  “I’m afraid not. She needs to be given a full psychological examination and placed somewhere where she can be monitored 24/7.”

  “I can take off from work—”

  “Mr. Sheffield, I understand how difficult this is. Unfortunately, by law she has to be committed. And given the severity of her depression, she’ll likely require medication, and it will be helpful to have her monitored while that is being adjusted and we wait for her mood to stabilize.”

  “But—she’s been on antidepressants. Are they just not working?”