“Yes. As I said, if you opt for surgery you will almost certainly suffer instant brain death.”
“And the alternative?” I asked, as if searching for a miracle.
“The alternative is that you will die from the developing tumor, after a period of time.”
“How long?”
“The growth seems rapid, six months, possibly a year. I’m so sorry.”
I felt the blood drain from my head and I began to faint. When I recovered I was laying on the couch. I sat up, sipped some water and realized that this was my waking nightmare. Before we left the office, we talked through the option of a further opinion, pain management and counseling. Through my fog, I heard the word “hospice” mentioned and it was agreed that my physician would make these arrangements at the necessary time.
Gina drove me home. During the journey we had both been fighting back the tears, but once home, we let rip and the floodgates opened. We cried and cried until we were totally dehydrated. Then we held hands and drank brandy until a sheen misted over our reality. She refused to leave me alone tonight, so we ordered food, played lively music and I tried to live my numbered moments to the full.
The next day I had to address some serious financial matters. I had to contact my medical insurance provider regarding my immediate needs. I had also to allocate some funds for my ultimate care in a hospice. Then there was my cat to think of, the house and all my possessions. So much to do… so little time in which to do it. Gina came to spend the evening with me and we laughed when she mentioned her favor.
“Well I suppose you won’t be needing the favor now or perhaps you will?” she suggested. “You don’t want him to get all your money, do you?”
“No! But I don’t want to spend my last days in jail!” I said. “If I’m leaving anyway, I’d like to go out as an innocent woman.” We both laughed and I continued with this lighter theme: “Even if your cousin did manage to liberate me from my marriage, it could never become a lasting relationship,” I joked. We laughed again, finding some relief in the humorous side of this sorrowful event.
“I’ll break it to him gently,” Gina said. “But he will be sad.” Black humor… they call it. The art of making fun of the macabre. I suppose it’s a survival technique, even if it’s short term.
*
It’s two weeks since my insidious tumor was diagnosed and I’m stunned at my efficiency in settling my affairs. I’m sitting once again in my garden. I look around me and feel a wave of serenity rush through my body. My cat circles my chair, stops and sits upright beside me. She’s alert, watching the undergrowth for any movement. It’s as if she’s guarding me from harm. I pet her reassuringly, releasing her from her duty. Now she wanders off around the garden, turning her head to check me before she seeks out her favorite place to catnap. My head doesn’t ache today and without medication, I have clarity. I collect my thoughts, open my journal and prepare to write today’s entry, recollecting that when I began this daily task, I was an unhappy soul unravelling a marriage wrecked by broken promises, deceit and infidelities. I’ve survived the pain of discovering that my husband is immersed in the world of sex addiction. I’ve learnt to play detective and I’ve unwittingly attracted a potential Mafioso lover. Just look at how far I’ve come! I’ve progressed from acting in a TV drama series, to starring in my own reality show. I’ve recorded my life in these pages, that no one will read. This journal holds a raw and honest account of my daily thoughts, my loves, my pain and soon to be, my death. This journal will end before me, when I can no longer perceive, reason or think. When all cognitive skills have died and I am a vacuous vegetable, the remaining blank pages will stand testimony to my bodily endurance; one for each day that it outlives my mind.
I have no desire to tell my husband that I’m dying. I couldn’t bear to see the look of glee in his eyes and the lack of grace in which he hides his true feelings. His mind would begin calculating his inheritance; my house and all my money, as set out in my will. His excitement would grow with the assumption that he is my prime beneficiary and he wouldn’t have long to wait, before he finds out the truth. So I no longer seek a divorce, as my marriage and everything else will be ended soon enough. I pause and inhale the sweet scent of the flowers, switching my mood to one of gratitude. I continue and think of the days I wished away, assuming that there would be a tomorrow and hoping I would be happier when that next day arrived. Now, I live in the present, for that is all we have as none of us know if we have a tomorrow. The only certainty in life is that we are going to die. I have the knowledge that I will die soon, so I won’t waste a single moment of my remaining time. I’ll sit here, in this peaceful oasis enjoying my garden and my cat. She is my delight, the love of my life, my comforter. I wish I could tell her why I’m leaving, but there’s really no need, as I feel she already senses my disease. She will not leave me until it’s over and as I write now, she is nearby catnapping in the sun on the garden wall. Tomorrow, I’ll return to— Arrrh! Oh my God… my neck… oh the pain… sharp, piercing pain… Help… Help me… Everything’s fading… I can’t—
*
It was well past sundown when the neighbor heard the cat-a-wailing. It was an eerie sound piercing the silence with a metaphysical resonance. The neighbor and his wife followed their flashlight into their yard and onto the source of the noise. They peered over the wall into the next door’s yard and flashed their light in the darkness. Green eyes flashed back at them and the shape of a cat was revealed sitting on something large. The man then directed the light towards the object under the cat and straining their eyes, they saw the shape of a woman on a lounger.
The elderly neighbors were confused, and hand in hand made their way to the house next door. It was in total darkness, but they knocked anyway. Then they bravely entered the side gate into the yard and walked towards the wailing cat. As they approached, the wailing gave way to a soft meow and their eyes fell on the pitiful sight of a cat lying prostrate over a woman’s body. The woman was quite still and her eyes were open, but she saw nothing in the darkness.
After the man called 911 the couple stood and cried for the sweet woman they had known only briefly. They had been instructed by the emergency call center not to touch the body, but the woman extends a shaky hand towards the cat, first stroking her and then gently lifting her from the cold body. The cat responds and surrenders into her warm arms.
Soon the sound of sirens echoed around the cul-de-sac with the arrival of LAPD. They rushed into the dark yard and lit it like a stage production. The medics checked the body for any lingering sign of life. It was not surprising that they concluded that her death was almost instantaneous, due to the knife lodged deep in her neck. The entry wound at the back of the neck was deepened as she fell backwards on the lounger, pushing the knife into a position of certain death. Even if the knife had been retrieved immediately, she would not have survived. Death was inevitable.
The elderly couple were huddled together on a couch inside the house. A blanket surrounded the three of them, the man, his wife and the cat. They were questioned about their discovery. They think they may have seen someone in the shadows, but they’re not sure.
“Yes, there is a husband, but we don’t talk to him much. He’s a surly, bad tempered man.”
“We hear him shouting at her,” the woman chirped in, confirming her dislike of the husband. The detective noted her comment and the husband’s name.
“Do you know where he might be?” the detective asked.
“No idea,” said the man. “But he usually arrives home around this time of night, doesn’t he dear?” The man glanced at his watch and his wife confirmed his observation. “We’re not nosy neighbors, but you see…” the man paused and looked at his wife for support. She nodded and he continued, “His car headlights flash across our bedroom window as he swings into his driveway. It’s a bit irritating as we retire early.” They both nodded in unison. A female officer was summoned to escort the elderly couple back to their home and
without asking permission, the woman stooped to take temporary ownership of the cat, clutched it tightly and stroked the poor traumatized creature. A sense of empathy exuded as they found mutual comfort in their state of mourning.
*
A few streets away, the husband stopped his car to check his face for any traces of make-up. He wiped a smudge of lipstick from the corner of his mouth with the moist make-up removal pack that he kept in his car for these occasions, which were frequent. His new object of desire was more of a convenience than an attraction. She lived close by, her husband was away during the week and she satisfied his craving.
As he approached home, he noticed the glow lighting up the sky. Never for a moment did he consider that it might be his house so brightly lit, until he turned the corner and slammed on the brakes to avoid tailgating the stream of police cars. A police officer ran towards him with a raised hand commanding him to stop.
“This area’s prohibited,” said the officer.
“What the hell’s going on?”
“You can’t enter, sir.”
“But that’s my house!” he said, pointing to the only illuminated property in the cul-de-sac. The officer radioed his superiors and was ordered to escort the husband on foot past the stack of emergency vehicles and into his home. He was met by a swarm of uniformed police and detectives who demanded his ID for verification. He was then asked to sit down before they broke the news that his wife had been the victim of a homicide. He uttered that he was shocked and saddened by this awful news, but his body language didn’t match his words. People react differently to bad news, but to the eye of an experienced detective, who deals regularly with homicides, this man seemed insincere. After a reasonable interval of watchful waiting, he began his questioning.
“For our records sir, we need a detailed account of your movements tonight,” the detective asked.
“Tonight? Sure, I worked late, grabbed a beer and a burger, came home,” he lied.
“What time did you leave your place of work?” said the detective, noting down their conversation.
“Oh, about…” he paused, looked at his watch and said, “Around 7 p.m.”
“Sir, please take me through the details of your evening.”
“I drove from work to a sports bar, stayed about an hour and came home. Look is this really necessary?” he protested.
“Yes sir, a homicide has taken place and we need to eliminate you from our enquiries. Now, how long does it usually take you to drive home from your place of work?”
“About half an hour… look, officer, I get home… my wife’s dead… this is an awful shock and you want to know about my drive home! I mean… what the hell!” There was a pause as he tried to compose himself. “And where is she? Can I see her?”
“Not at this time, I’m afraid. Your neighbor identified the body and she’s been taken to the forensic unit. After the post-mortem is complete, she’ll be released for burial,” the detective explained and continued. “I need further details; the name and address of your place of work and of the sports bar you visited tonight.” There was a moment of hesitation before the husband attempted to answer.
“Here’s my card,” he said, handing over his work details as he sat back on the couch, looking around the room for a distraction.
“And the name of the sports bar, Sir?” the detective prompted.
“Eh… I really can’t remember. It was in some obscure mall. I’ve never tried it before, it wasn’t that good, so probably won’t go back.”
“Do you have a receipt?”
“No, I paid cash.” The detective excused himself to convene with his colleagues. Their assessment of the husband was unanimous. They didn’t believe his story.
“We need you to accompany us to the police station for further questioning.”
“What! Is this some kind of joke? My wife’s just been murdered and you’re treating me like a suspect?” He was genuinely shaken.
“This is not a time to make jokes. We’re taking you into custody for questioning. Please accompany my officer.”
“This is outrageous! I want a lawyer. It’s my right to have a lawyer.” He protested.
“We need you to make a formal statement regarding your activities this evening. You’re not under arrest, just helping us with our enquiries. You can call your lawyer from the police station. Now, if you don’t mind sir.” The detective ushered the husband towards the officers waiting to escort him.
“Yeah… I do fucking mind!” he protested again but he reluctantly walked out and into the waiting police car. There was something in the husband’s behavior that felt intrinsically wrong to these trained officers. Perhaps it was the lack of genuine grief, or maybe it was regarding the prospect of a widower’s inheritance. Whichever it was, it had been too hard to disguise and the detective instinctively recognized the human trait of deceit in this man tonight.
*
LAPD remained in the house for several hours, gathering every possible form of evidence. The yard was cordoned off around the site of the murder, and paint marks outlined the scene, resembling a child’s game of hopscotch. The beautiful garden was trampled on by big boots, searching for clues of an intruder, while the forensic team padded around in cloth shoes and surgical-looking suits, staying well inside the yellow taped area. Her journal, which held the key to all the events leading up to her death, was now safely wrapped in plastic and awaiting scrutiny. Little had she known the value of this irreplaceable book and how it would manifest revenge.
The officers collected all the files from the house, along with the woman’s locked box of personal documents containing her will and accounts of her husband’s sexual adventures. Her list of contacts would give them access to her attorney with whom she made her final financial arrangements and also her doctor, who would confirm her terminal illness. This body of evidence seemed more than enough for most detectives to draw on, but still there was more. The discovery of the porn movies and the collection of salacious CDs, which exposed his sexual addiction, was a bonus in determining the character of the husband. The detective had dealt with many addicts and he knew that the one thing they have in common is that they lie. They become adept in their distortion of the truth, lying skillfully to save their skins. They love no one and nothing but their addiction and they will lie, cheat and sometimes kill to preserve it.
Chapter 6
REVENGE
The husband had made his statement, signed it and contacted his attorney, in that order. Before the next round of interviews, the chief detective and his colleagues had worked around the clock enthusiastically compiling the facts associated with this case. Never before in his career had the detective found sheer delight in discovering such proficiency. Everything was filed in an orderly manner along with a history of factual events. He wondered at the mind of this dead woman, that she should take such pains to simplify his work by her astute recording of every detail, although of course, she did not realize the relevance. He indulged himself in a moment of “what might have been” if the woman in question had lived. He had longed to meet a likeminded person, a soulmate with whom he could share his thoughts, his work, his bed. With this romantic notion lodged solidly in his head, he became more determined to avenge her and give purpose to her life.
*
The detective studied the husband and his attorney from behind the two-way glass. He noted the air of confidence surrounding these two men and listened as the attorney spoke softly, convincing the husband of guaranteed success. Before entering the interview room, the detective picked up his file, scanned the new evidence, smiled and uttered to himself, “I’ll get you… you bastard!” and then opened the door.
The formalities of the interview were recorded and then it proceeded quickly to the new evidence. “We have video surveillance of you leaving your place of work on the eventful afternoon. The time recorded was 4:30 p.m. Can you explain why you stated that you worked late and departed at 7 p.m.?” The defensive attorney tried to
intervene, but he too, was taken by the surprise of this lie. “It seems to me that you lied in your statement, regarding the time you departed from your workplace. So I’ll ask you again, where were you between the hours of 4:30 and 9:30 p.m. on the night your wife was murdered?” The husband looked to his attorney for help, but it was not forthcoming.
“Ok, so I lied,” he conceded. “But it was to protect a friend. You see… I was with a woman. We get together two or three times a week.”
“Ok, let’s have her name and address so we can corroborate your story.”
“Look, she’s married, I don’t want to cause her problems,” he said, looking for some alliance.
“You too!” said the detective bluntly.
“Oh come on. You know how it is.”
“No, I don’t,” said the detective, unsympathetically.
“On behalf of my client, I object to your judgmental remarks,” the attorney intervened, but the detective ignored his comment.
“We require you to make a new statement, including the woman’s name and address, before leaving the station… sir!” The detective turned and walked away. He could no longer tolerate being in the same room as this lowlife.
*
A week passed before the detective and the husband were to meet again. The husband was sitting confidently in the sterile office of his late wife’s attorney. He’d kept a copy of her will that she’d made when they first married, so he expected to inherit their house and her savings. While smugly waiting for the reading, he was surprised by the entrance of the detective, who took a seat across the room. His distraction was fleeting, as the thought of celebrating his inheritance consumed him. The detective had a different agenda.
The attorney began by reading the formal introduction. “This is the Last Will and Testament of Lauren Jane Carter, dated November 26th 2013.”
There Are No Accidents Page 5