The Banishing

by Fiona Dodwell

  Maybe I am going mad, she thought, propping herself up and looking over at Mark. He stirred slightly, moaned something under his breath, and then fell silent. Watching him there made her miss him deeply, and she realized that for months now, he had been distancing himself from her. She had been losing him piece by piece, inch by inch. It had been a gradual thing, but it was happening, and she felt powerless to altar the path he was on. It wasn’t just the way he had been recently, with his temper. The way he had struck out at her—although that had dented something in their marriage, destroyed her trust in him, and she wondered if something like that could be repaired—but it was also the way he seemed to be far away.

  So distant.

  The other side of the world.

  Most of the time, unless he was answering her questions or forced to talk about something, he would clam up, appearing lost in his thoughts. Sometimes, she would talk to him and feel as if she had been interrupting something that was going on for him beneath the surface.

  He seemed quiet, withdrawn, and irritable. The hitting was a new thing but it had to stop, because she was not going to become a statistic, and she refused to become victim. She might love him, but she couldn’t let it carry on. Something had to change and soon, or the dents he was driving into their relationship would become permanent scars that no marriage counselor could heal. Permanent damage. So far, he had physically hit her twice. Before that, he had just been irritable, angry, and quick to work himself up into a frenzy. Sometimes, things get too broken, and the pieces can’t be glued together, again. Melissa knew that if Mark carried on, or if he became worse, their lives would shatter before her eyes, and she would walk away. She would have to.

  They weren’t there. They weren’t at that point, yet. Melissa felt hope. Since moving into the new home—it had been a year, but she still referred to it as the “new” home—Mark had changed. Melissa seriously considered that maybe stress was at the heart of his problems. She knew what stress could do to a person. Mood swings. Depression. Heart problems. Some people even became suicidal. She could count on her hands and feet the number of times somebody had come into ICU, because they had attempted suicide as a result of stress at home or work. Mark had been stressed, and he did have a lot going on. They worked so hard to save up the deposit for the house. Mark worked full-time as courier, and he had been taking on more and more jobs. Sometimes, he would be on the road for 15 hours a day. It was too much, and she saw the way it had drained him.

  That was a year ago, but Mark was still putting in long hours. He always spoke of wanting a better life for the both of them, wanting to decorate the house, to create “their little slice of heaven”, as he had once put it. Sometimes, Melissa would tell him to take things easy, and more than once he said, “I need to work. Your wages aren’t nearly enough to get us on track.” He hadn’t meant anything by it, but it had felt like a punch in the stomach when he said it. Melissa loved nursing, and although she was poorly paid, she enjoyed it. Melissa didn’t want to give up a job she enjoyed in favor of money. That’s just the way she was. Money had never driven her; it was just one of life’s necessary evils. Mark had always been more financially motivated, and Melissa was just happy paying the mortgage and bills and saving up for a cheap holiday every year. That just wasn’t enough for him.

  Long hours on the road surely couldn’t be good for his health, Melissa contemplated. She imagined being stuck behind the wheel, driving on busy roads from one place to the next, sometimes without taking a single break.

  There had to be more to it than that, she surmised. He was a courier before they met; he had been relaxed then, had never raised a hand to her. If he had, she was sure she wouldn’t have gone through with marrying him. She would have walked out like any sensible woman, but things were different. They had a relationship, a marriage. They had built a life together—a life that, up until recently, had been everything she wanted. That was hard to give up on, hard to walk away from.

  Whatever the issue was, Melissa felt a quiet certainty that there was something causing it—something real, tangible—and that by standing by him, she could help him through it, help him to get back to the man she married and loved, and help him get back to being himself.

  She reached out and ran her hand along his arm, feeling the warm skin beneath hers and sighed. I will help him, she thought, leaning forward and kissing him lightly on the cheek. She would try. She at least owed him that much.

  * * * *

  After quickly getting dressed and eating breakfast, Melissa left for work, leaving Mark sleeping upstairs. He hadn’t been called in for a delivery yet, and she thought she should let him sleep.

  Outside, the air was bitter cold, and the ground twinkled under a coating of ice. She drove to the hospital in silence and realized when she pulled into the parking lot that she had been on auto-pilot the whole way there, as if her mind had taken an absence. It was most likely due to tiredness, but it always scared Melissa when she snapped out of moments like that, realizing that mentally she had been far away, inaccessible to the world around her.

  She parked and headed to the ICU.

  Sharon was the first person she saw as she entered the ward. “Are you free after work?” Melissa asked, approaching her at the nurse’s station.

  Sharon smiled. “You mean he’s letting you off the leash?”

  Melissa sighed, ignoring the remark. “Do you want to go out for a drink after work?”

  Sharon nodded. “Okay, sure.”

  Melissa smiled and arranged to meet Sharon after her shift was over. She went over to the Patient Board to see who was under her care that day, and her heart sank when she saw that the name of the man who had been admitted yesterday had been wiped off, leaving a trail of faded green ink from the board marker. So many die, she thought, grabbing a pair of gloves from a box. Too many die.

  Her patient’s name was Mrs. Elsie Down. She looked frail, as if she would crumble under the slightest pressure. Her skin looked gray, thin, and taut, stretched over bones that jutted from beneath. Melissa had been assigned to take care of her personal hygiene that morning, and her heart sank when she looked down at the woman; she was barely breathing, her body littered with tubes and wires that seemed to lead to nowhere. Melissa had checked over her file that morning and read that she had had a serious stroke.

  The woman, who according to the file was turning 62 in four days time, groaned every now and then, her eyes twitching and her mouth turning downward, as if something bad was happening beneath the veil of sleep.

  God only knew what nightmare she might be trapped in. Surely that’s what it must be, Melissa thought, staring down at her—a nightmare. To be held prisoner by your own thoughts, your own mind, unable to do anything.

  Pure hell.

  She was unconscious, alive only in her mind.

  Melissa pulled the nursing trolley closer to the side of the bed and soaked a white, flannel washcloth in the hot, soapy water she had poured into the bowl a moment ago. She began wiping the woman’s face and felt a sadness briefly as she wondered what kind of life this woman had had on the outside—who she had loved, what she had done, and where she had been. Those kinds of questions always haunted her when she worked with patients. Other nurses had told her that Melissa’s concern and emotional involvement would pass; if it was true, it didn’t feel that way, yet.

  Melissa leaned forward, wiping down the woman’s arms and hands with the damp cloth.

  The woman’s eyes suddenly snapped open, and one hand reached out, like a gnarled, misshapen claw, grasping at her arm.

  Melissa stumbled backward, dropping the cloth to the floor. It hit the tiles with a wet plop.

  “Mrs. Down, I thought you—”

  The old woman clenched her hand tightly over Melissa’s, and she smiled, revealing a set of yellow, decaying teeth.

  “He will kill yo
u,” she rasped, gasping for breath. “Do you want to die? Do you? Do you want to die?”

  Melissa pushed aside the nursing trolley and ran. As she disappeared down the corridor, she could have sworn she heard the old woman cackling, laughing at the fear she had invoked.

  Chapter Seven

  The bar was crowded. Even though it was a little after 5:00 PM—a time that Melissa guessed would have been quiet—many people filled the stools by the bar, clustered around the tables that lined the walls and chatting together in small groups.

  The smell of cigarettes hung heavily in the air around them. Puffs of gray lingered above people’s heads as they lit up for another smoke. Most of the customers were dressed smartly, obviously coming straight from work for a drink to unwind, to forget the day as each drink melted into their bloodstreams. Relaxing, letting go. An urban ritual of cleansing from their hectic lives.

  Melissa wove her way through the crowded bar, following behind Sharon as she hunted for a free table. She had spotted one at the far end, a little further away from the others. They quickly went over and sat down before anyone else could grab it. Sharon handed Melissa her glass of vodka and cola—Melissa had promised to have just the one, because she would be driving home—and took a big mouthful of her own drink, a gin and tonic.

  “So what happened today?” Sharon asked, raising her voice so Melissa could hear above the noise of chatter around them. “You nearly knocked old Harrow over running down the ward like that. She didn’t look pleased.”

  Melissa rolled her eyes. Rachel Harrow always looked pissed off about something, she thought. Managers always did. “Nothing. I just felt sick, and I needed to get to the toilet.”

  Melissa wanted to change the subject. The old woman scared the hell out of her. Grabbing her like that, and the words she said…Melissa couldn’t deny the way it felt, as if she had known, had understood what was going on between Melissa and Mark…but how could she know that? Mrs. Down was an old woman that Melissa had never set eyes on before.

  “There’s something you’re not telling me,” Sharon said, leaning forward and propping her elbows on the table.

  “What is it with you? Every time I see you, you’re full of questions. Can’t we just enjoy our drinks?”

  Sharon sighed, tucked her almost platinum blonde hair behind her ears, and pushed strands away from her face. “I’m just worried about you, that’s all. Is that such a bad thing? Shit, the way you ran through the ward, Mel. It looked like you’d seen a ghost.”

  Melissa took a sip of her drink. “It was the old woman, that’s all.”

  “Elsie Down? The stroke?”

  Melissa nodded. “Yeah. I was washing her down, and suddenly she just…I don’t know. She grabbed me, and I wasn’t expecting it. Then, she started saying that I was going to die.”

  Melissa stared down at her drink. She didn’t want to know what Sharon thought, didn’t want to read judgment behind her eyes. She already knew Sharon thought she was weak for not leaving Mark, and now she was being rattled by an old pensioner. She suddenly felt like a freak—damaged and strange, somehow.

  Sharon was silent for a moment, then said, “I don’t get it...”

  Melissa drained her glass and pushed it aside. “I should go. I’m tired.”

  Sharon reached over, placing her hand over Melissa’s. “She was never conscious the whole time since her admission.”

  “What are you saying?” Melissa knew exactly what she was saying. That it couldn’t have happened, and she must have been mistaken.

  Sharon shrugged. “It’s weird.”

  “You don’t believe me. I get it,” Melissa said, rubbing her eyes. She felt tired, worn out after lying awake all night.

  “I don‘t know what to think, to be honest.”

  Melissa laughed. “Well, it happened. The old woman took a lunge for me. That’s why I reacted the way I did. That’s the end of it.”

  “What she said—do you think it meant anything?”

  Melissa shrugged. “You tell me.”

  “Mark.”

  “He wouldn’t kill me! For Christ’s sake, Sharon! What are you saying? That this old woman is psychic? That she knows something we don’t? I’ve got an open mind, but that’s taking it a bit too far.” She said the words, but beneath them, she had felt frightened. A sense of foreboding overwhelmed her. It had been too much of a coincidence, but she felt wary of letting Sharon know that. She had already been doubted by Mark about what she had seen in the lounge the night before. It felt ugly to be disbelieved, and she didn’t want to get into a situation like that here.

  “You misunderstand me,” Sharon said, leaning forward. “I…Don’t take this the wrong way, but do you think that maybe on some subconscious level, you’re frightened of Mark and this is somehow your mind’s way of trying to get you to act on what’s been happening?”

  “In other words, you think I imagined what she said,” Melissa retorted. Here we go. Doubted again.

  “Look, you’re going through some serious shit at the moment, and that’s got to be messing with your head. It has to be. You’d have to be superhuman for it not to be.”

  “I know. Things aren’t exactly easy, but I know when a woman wakes up and talks to me. I’m not crazy.”

  “I know.” Sharon seemed defeated as she sank back into the chair and tapped her fingers on the table.

  “I’m sorry,” Melissa said, feeling slightly guilty at the way she had spoken to Sharon. Sharon was a good friend to her; strong, supportive, and a good ally at work. She wanted to help her—what Melissa was perceiving as annoying questions was simply Sharon’s way of trying to help out, of trying to get answers. “I just know what I saw and what I heard. It scared me, and I think if one of our patients said that to you, then you’d feel the same.”

  Sharon nodded. “Do you want another drink?” she asked.

  Melissa shook her head. “I need a clear head for driving,” she reminded her. “Are you okay, Sharon? I am sorry I’ve pissed you off…”

  “I’m just worried. For you.”

  “Don’t be. I’ll worry about me.”

  “I can’t help it.”

  Melissa smiled. “You can take Elsie tomorrow though, yeah? I think it’d be helpful if you took her on as your patient.”

  Sharon’s eyes fell to the floor, and she winced.

  “Sharon?”

  “I won’t need to take her on as a patient, but neither will you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She’s dead,” Sharon said flatly, her eyes still averted from her friend’s gaze.

  “Dead? Shit. When?”

  “That’s the thing,” Sharon said, her voice low and hesitant, “She died earlier today. When you went to clean her, she’d already…”

  Melissa felt sick, knowing what was coming next. “She was dead when I was cleaning her?”

  Sharon nodded. “Nobody told you, but I don’t know how that got missed. The porters hadn‘t collected her for the morgue, yet. I guess no one had gotten around to wrapping the body and—”

  “But…that’s stupid. It’s not possible. She woke up. I saw her breathing.”

  Sharon paused, then looked into her friend’s eyes at last. Melissa saw worry in them, concern. “That’s why what you said didn’t make sense,” she said. “When Elsie grabbed you, told you that you would die or whatever, she had already been dead for fifteen minutes.”

  Chapter Eight

  Am I going crazy? Those four words kept travelling in a loop inside her mind, ingraining themselves so strongly into her thoughts that Melissa couldn’t avoid facing them. Maybe I am going crazy.

  Except, she knew that she wasn’t. She knew she was the same person she always had been—it was everything else, everyone else around her that was changing, making impos
sible things possible. If there was one thing she trusted, it was herself.

  Maybe Sharon had been mistaken, she reasoned as she opened her car door and sank into the driver’s seat. Elsie might have died, but it must have been afterward. It had to have been afterward. Please God, let it have been afterward.

  She inserted her keys into the ignition and noticed for the first time that her hands were shaking. “Shit.” She pulled the car door shut, rested her hands on the steering wheel, and took a deep breath. “Get your head together, Melissa,” she scolded herself, “Keep it together.”

  She had to get home. She needed a bath to wash the day away.

  Melissa pulled out and switched on the radio. She didn’t want to be left to her thoughts. Not now.

  The roads were clearer than she expected; a lot of the rush hour traffic had dissipated, and only a few cars passed alongside her as she drove. By the time she pulled up outside her house, it was getting dark. Splatters of rain spat against the car windows, hammering heavily as if the fluid were made of stone.

  She stepped out of the car and ran to the front door, wincing as the rain plummeted in heavy plumes against her clothes and through to her skin. She opened the door and threw off her coat once she was inside. She dropped her bag and keys onto the bottom stairs as she passed through the hall into the kitchen. It was empty. She backed into the hallway and through to the lounge; it too was empty. The television was on but muted. Mark had to be home, she thought. She was home later than normal, she knew, but he would have called if he was going to be on a late delivery or pickup at work.