by Martha Carr
Just a few months ago, he would look at me with those strong eyes, and he would whisper how much he adored me as he nibbled down my neck. He'd tell me that we would have a strong, beautiful baby and that we would make her the smartest child.
He wrote me even more beautiful words then. I remember there was one card that looked like infant shoes, and on the inside, he wrote:
Baby,
I know we have been trying for this child for a long while, but I had no idea how wonderful it would be. You are gorgeous with your big belly, and I can't believe we heard its tiny heartbeat yesterday. You are my perfect bride, my beautiful wife, and this baby is going to be the luckiest one in the whole world. I'm so happy we are in this together.
John
"In this together," he said. Before he left me to do it alone.
***
I ordered a salad, and Sam looked at me with his big, blue eyes. Sometimes I wonder how it is that he doesn't have someone. Maybe he just doesn't want someone.
He ordered a sandwich, and they brought it out to him with mayonnaise on it. We both hate mayonnaise. I was seven or eight, which meant he was four or five. All there was to eat was mayonnaise and eggs.
I wasn't a very good cook, so I didn't think of making deviled eggs or something that would've been more tolerable. Instead, I made a fried egg, and I just smeared mayonnaise on top. We both ate because we were hungry. It wasn't that bad, for something a kid invented.
But it turned out the mayonnaise had gone bad. Again, I was a kid, and I wasn't a good cook. So we both ended up vomiting for the rest of the day. Then the next day, I made it again. Again. We vomited for three days over spoiled mayonnaise.
It was only on the third day that Mom finally asked us what we had been eating. She smelled the mayonnaise, and she said it smelled absolutely horrific. Those were her words: How could you eat this? It smells absolutely horrific.
Neither Sam nor I have ever eaten mayonnaise since. He sent the sandwich back. I tinkered with a small piece of lettuce before I finally coaxed it into my mouth. It got stuck there in my mouth, my throat closing down and resisting the very idea of swallowing. So I chewed it endlessly, like a cow, wondering if it would ever be able to slide down my tight, useless throat.
"Are you okay?" he said. He always had this way of asking me things with a particular tone. It was like being hugged too hard, and immediately I would burst into tears.
I replied, tears running down my face. "I'm utterly broken."
He nodded. Just like we did when we were kids, we sat in silence.
After he ate his new, mayonnaise-free sandwich, and I had picked at my lettuce, he said, "We could get a milkshake."
I smiled. It was the first time I've smiled since my baby died. Smiling, and then realizing I smiled, turned my stomach so hard and fast that I nearly hurled on the table. Am I allowed to smile?
I don't want to smile. I don't want to recover.
My hands clenched into tight little fists until my nails had dug into my palms with such force that they broke the skin.
"Let's go get one," he said, though surely he saw because my face is so easy to read. My face is easier to read than anyone else's face that I've ever met. I can't play poker – my pain, my happiness; it's right there right on my face. Every nuance, every flicker, every thought; it passed through every single muscle on my face, and every bit of expression in my eyes. Sam used to pretend he could read my mind, and I used to believe him.
He knew, surely he knew.
He proved it. Not fifteen minutes later, we are standing at a little diner, getting a milkshake. He gratefully allowed us to leave that restaurant and walked to the diner. The outside air and sunshine gave us something to do. He ordered my favorite, a hot fudge milkshake. Not chocolate; I don't like chocolate.
He handed it to me, with his big blue eyes staring, he read my face. "It's okay if you're happy, even if it's fleeting. It's okay that happens. You don't have to feel guilty."
The pain was so great and so strong it stole all my words and rattled my lungs. Tears ever-present trickled down my face. I was almost gasping, seconds away from grief-stricken panic. But then he hugged me. "Drink your milkshake. You have to get calories in you one way or another."
I don't know if it was my strong little brother making my world come together. Or if I just love hot fudge milkshakes so much. Or if it's just that he told me that it's okay to feel something different than constant pain.
I don't know which thing worked, but I managed to drink that whole milkshake. It was almost enjoyable. I went home, and instead of taking a bath, I cleaned the kitchen.
I read John's note one more time. And I wondered if maybe I should try to live.
***
When grief turns you into a zombie, and almost a murderer, it's weird when the world starts coming back a little bit. That sick weird feeling of being underwater had started to fade. Not a lot but enough that I could stand up for a few minutes each day. Enough that there were moments where I was bored sitting, instead of just being a zombie. Staring at the wall no longer happened; I had other things to do. Cleaning, mostly. It seemed like I traded one psychotic break for another.
I could eat, small amounts.
I was withering if I'm honest; I was withering away. Sam would stop by with a milkshake at least twice a week. I knew he was terrified that I was skin and bones and blow away in the wind. It wasn't just baby weight. I lost much more than that. I lost, maybe, thirty pounds? Fifty? It's not like I exactly cared.
I'm not anorexic or anything, I just...
It's like all food tasted like sandpaper. That is the problem. I can't eat it. And sometimes I vomit. I think because my stomach is so angry.
I no longer have milk.
I was cleaning my office today, and I found this perfect little pair of baby shoes. I'd forgotten they were in there, and I wept for two hours. I guess it is better than just staring at a wall. Active crying. Active grief.
***
John came home today and we went on a real date. He seemed nervous; he was all dressed up, but I could see him sweating a little bit, that same way he did a million and a half years ago when we were young. I wore a gorgeous dress, just like he asked.
We drove down to the little Italian place we used to eat at all the time. I managed to stuff dinner down my face without even the littlest difficulty swallowing.
And get this – I smiled. I had fun. We laughed, like we used to. He got a bottle of that pink Moscato that I love, and we drank it. His beautiful brown eyes pierced into me like they used to do. Somehow, I could see past the loss and betrayal for just a few hours. Like a minivacation from the pain.
At the end of the date, he kissed me, hard and sweet, before we got in the car. He whispered, "I'm so glad you are back."
Out of the mayonnaise sludge and back into my husband's arms. I guess that's how it goes. That evening, we didn't have sex, but we did kiss. For hours, curled together with a movie playing in the background. The kisses were delicious. They were wordless love and forgiveness.
I'm glad we made it so far. I've waded through the sludge and now I stand safely on the other side. Now I'm safe. We are safe. We can rebuild.
I let my mind loiter for just a moment on my idea of killing myself and blaming his big, beautiful dark brown eyes. God, it's disgusting how dark and nasty I had been. How broken my brain had been. But never again. I won't allow myself to crash and burn like that.
***
It's been three weeks since our date, and it's been a new type of honeymoon. He brought me flowers, and I can feel his eyes linger on me. It makes me feel so special, so his. So very his. The pain is still there, and sometimes it rumbles and roars, and I cry and I still hide from this world in a tub full of hot water and soap. It is part of what I do now.
Everything was back to being on the brink of perfection, until today.
John is going to stay late at work tonight.
I have two choices. I could go and watch him
, be his babysitter. Hi, I'm the wife. I'm just gonna sit here and stare at my husband's dick and make sure it doesn't climb inside anyone.
Or, I could pretend that I trust him. "I'm sure you're just working, darling." But trudge through mayonnaise sludge. It has been so perfect lately, and now I'm fragile.
But he does have a point; he has work to do. His project needs some extra hours. So he says.
I should go with him; that's the smart thing to do. It's too soon. I can't handle the shaking up of our world. She could be there, and they could spend a lovely evening. Eat Italian food. He could stare into her soul with his beautiful dark eyes.
I didn't just stay home; I stayed in the rocking chair in the baby room. I sat there, and I lost myself.
***
He came home extremely late. I was still in the rocking chair. Maybe three in the morning? I'm not sure exactly the hour. He woke me and told me to come to bed. He was freshly showered, already in his pajamas. He had been home for a bit. Cleaning up the evidence. Or he showered at the hotel where he fucked her.
I had tried to call him, once. He did not pick up. In fact, he only called back around an hour later. I did not pick up.
Because it was too late.
Because I am going to kill myself. And he is going to take the fall for it. That is what's going to happen.
And if I thought, even the tiniest bit, that I could trust him, I would change my mind. But he is a monster. And I don't want to live.
So I'm going to do it.
I absolutely am going to do it.
A Note from Mixi…
If you enjoyed this short, check out the novel Run, Girl on Amazon, here is an excerpt:
But I kept thinking about his muscles rippling at me from underneath that thin shirt, and I couldn’t take it another second. I had to see that man.
I whirled into the bar, heels clicking, my hair not curled, just loose and falling around my face. I had to pause and straighten my dress. It was long, and because I didn’t wash anything, I had to decide with way too formal, or not very dressy.
So yes, I was there in my wedding dress.
It was silver, floor length, and nearly too tight. I hoped it screamed “fancy” and not “jilted bride.” But it was too late. It was the choice I had made. And he sat, at our table, and he was grinning like a fool when I walked up.
That dress cost seventy-five dollars, and I found it at a yard sale. It’s the most expensive dress I own. It’s beautiful, but I hate it, and I love it. It fits me so dreamily, though, curving around my ass and wrapping around my arms. I am a goddess. This is the dress that changed my life.
Maybe it will again.
Daniel, the cocky man with a cosmo sitting beside him, looked at me and said, “Damn.”
I looked down at my hands and realized I hadn’t even fixed my manicure. I immediately shoved my hands behind my back and felt terrified. I stepped backward, and he suddenly stood and threw his sturdy self around me. It was the first time his arms would embrace me. He was warm and soft and hard all at the same time, and I couldn’t breathe. I said, “I’m sorry.” And I started to pull away. It was too much. The forest was calling, and I must be a gazelle, for surely I was prey. He was like fire; he burned my soul.
But he didn’t let go. Instead, he smelled my hair very slowly. “Can I have your number now?”
I whispered, “Never.”
And he laughed so brightly that I shivered in his grasp. “What are you so afraid of?” His voice was gruff and deep in my ear, and I melted into him.
“Everything,” I whispered, trembling in his arms.
“I have your drink,” he said, and with one hand pressed against my lower back, he guided me to the table to sit. I was in heaven. This was heaven. I died and I was in a movie. I was in a movie with a strong male lead, and he was special effects.
Annabelle is such a romantic, sweetheart. It’s a shame she goes missing. I hope you enjoy her crazy little story and have a fun time reading about the trouble she gets herself into next. :)
Mixi J Applebottom
Run, Girl
About Mixi Applebottom
Feel free to contact Mixi directly at: [email protected]
or visit her blog at: mixijapplebottom.com
Join my email list: mixijapplebottom.com/mailing-list
Eight
Knucklebones
by David Berens
Prologue
Troy Clint Bodean didn’t know the I.E.D. would go off in exactly fourteen minutes and fifty-nine seconds burying a piece of jagged metal almost two inches deep into his knee and blowing both of Harry Nedman’s legs off at the hip. If he had, he would’ve smoked his last Morven Gold cigarette before stepping down out of the cockpit of the AH-64 they’d dropped in the middle of the road just outside of Kabul. Hell, if he’d known that, he would’ve put the chopper in the air and gotten their asses out of Dodge!
Harry had been his co-pilot for the entire year in Afghanistan and neither he, nor Troy, had taken so much as a scratch… until the bones had started showing up at the safe house. One by one, in a small, blue velvet lined box about the size of a deck of playing cards, the knucklebones were delivered to the house designated as safe for U.S. officials to hide out in when terrorist chatter began to get heavy in their direction.
Without proper lab facilities at their disposal, it was impossible to determine whose fingers these bones might’ve come from American, Afghan, or otherwise. The bones were clean of flesh and blood, but not yet bleached from the sun, meaning they’d come off of the person missing them recently. Relatively intact, they all seem to have been removed with some care… not just butchered or torn off. Someone was sending them a message.
Intel – Three Days Earlier
It all started with the pinky finger delivered lying in the box like an exhibit in the Smithsonian’s Museum of Natural History. All three pieces of the separated digit were laid carefully in a row: proximal phalange, middle phalanx and distal phalanx.
The second day brought the ring finger, the next, the middle finger and so on. By that time, a full on investigation had begun bringing top brass on site and sending non-military personnel into the safe house. Troy’s Apache had escorted the UH-60 Blackhawk carrying General James “Buff” Summerton in to sort out what the hell was going on. The sixth day brought silence, no box, no finger, no nothing. The seventh brought the note.
Special Envoy to Afghanistan, Sid Phillips, had been kidnapped. The note was short and sweet. Deliver 1.5 million U.S. dollars to a specified drop location, Sid would be returned unharmed (except for his right hand.) If the ransom wasn’t paid, they would continue to send bigger pieces of him to the embassy.
“The hell we will!” Buff slammed his fist down on the table, “The United States of goddamn America does NOT negotiate with terrorists!”
“But sir,” Ambassador Williams protested.
“No buts!” the general stood up, “Goddamn Phillips went and got himself kidnapped, so he’s on his own.”
“With all due respect, sir,” the Ambassador remained calm, “not retrieving Mr. Phillips will send the message that we are weak and they will simply escalate their operations to abduct more personnel.”
“Which is precisely why you people shouldn’t be over here in the first place! He was about to be downsized out of a job anyway for Christ’s sake.” General Summerton raised both hands in a gesture of futility, “This is a damn war with an enemy who don’t want your diplomacy.”
“But the people of Afghanistan do.”
A long moment of silence passed before the general asked, “you so sure about that, Ambassador?”
“Yes, I am.”
Summerton inhaled deeply through his nose, his lips pursed together tightly. He drummed his fingers on the table.
“And the president?” the general asked.
“Has been informed and has agreed to the transfer of funds.”
“In cash?”
“In cash.”<
br />
“What in Sam Hell is happening here?” the general growled, “There once was a day not long ago that we woulda told these cut-rate terrorists to kiss our asses. When you come into a war zone, you take on the risk that you might not come back.”
He stared into Ambassador Williams’ eyes, “do you think Sid would want us to come get him? Negotiate with these bastards?”
“General, you’ve got to be kidding me,” it was the ambassador’s turn to put his hands up, “these people are surgically removing his body parts one at a time. I’m pretty sure he’s open to the idea of negotiating with them at this point.”
“Shit,” Summerton exhaled.
No one spoke for a long moment. Outside the office, they could hear the distant rumble of explosions. They weren’t as common now that the enemy had been pushed back, but there were still roadside bombs, car bombs and the occasional RPG fire. Most of that was non-casualty fire though, taking down the odd drone every now and then.
“Are we thinking sting?” the general asked after a time.
“What did you have in mind?”
“Pretty simple,” the general scratched his chin, “tracking device, follow the money, shoot the bad guys?”
“You don’t think they’ll expect this?”
“I don’t think these guys are savvy enough to see this coming,” Summerton stood, “and besides that, I don’t care what they think, once we’ve got Phillips out of harm’s way, we blow these idiots to kingdom come.”
“I don’t know, general…”
“Bill, give me twenty-four hours to get some intel on the situation,” the general headed toward the door, “See if anyone in the office can come up with somethin’ on who’s delivered these packages, where they came from, where they headed when they left. Let me do a little recon and I’ll get these bastards.”
“Okay, but at the end of 24 hours, we ransom Phillips and get him out of there.”