by Carolina Mac
I pulled into her driveway. “Call if you need anything. Promise.”
“I promise.” She gave me a little wave as she walked up on her porch.
Driving home from Marcy’s, pressure in my chest made it difficult to breathe and I had the onset of a migraine. Thoughts of Matthew’s reaction to my note were making my stomach turn.
I'd noticed posters on the wall at the Y for women's self-defense classes. I made a mental note to take a couple during the upcoming week and hoped I could convince Marcy to join me.
AS I pulled into the driveway, I gasped. Matthew was sitting on the porch steps with a drink in his hand waiting for me. Never had he done that before. I was shaking as I got out of the car and walked towards him.
He stood up and put his arm around me as we walked through the front door. “So . . . what did you learn to cook tonight, sweetheart?” he glared at me through glazed eyes.
“Apple strudel,” I said, the hair standing up on the back of my neck.
“Make me some now,” he said, grabbing me by the wrist.
“I’m tired, Matthew. I don’t want to make any now.”
“I said, make it now.” With a lot of force, he pushed me into the kitchen. I hit my broken arm on the door frame and screamed.
I ran into the powder room and locked the door. “Come out of there, Portia. I know you weren’t at any cooking class. What’s his name, Portia? Where did you meet him? You’re cheating on me, I can feel it.” He pounded on the door.
Hours later, my arm still throbbing from the bump I had given it, I silently opened the bathroom door, slipped into the living room in the dark and pulled a blanket over me. The pounding of my heart was the only sound I could hear.
CHAPTER SEVEN
I made Matthew’s breakfast in the same rumpled clothes I had slept in, not daring to go up to the bedroom until after he left for work. He never spoke a word to me and averted his eyes whenever I was near him. He read the paper, ate his eggs, drank his coffee and left.
As soon as the Mercedes was out the driveway, I bolted upstairs and ran a hot bath. After dressing and cleaning up the kitchen, I poured myself another coffee and blew out a big breath. Something had to be done about Matthew and time was not on my side. A plan was what I needed, and I needed it immediately.
My phone rang and I didn’t recognize the number. “This is Scarborough General Hospital calling. Your friend, Marcy Winterstein, asked me to call when they brought her up to our floor this morning. Could you possibly come to the hospital? Fourth floor nurses’ station and ask for Nurse Fraser.”
“Oh, my God, is she hurt? How bad is it?” I choked back a sob.
“Mrs. Winterstein was able to dial 911 herself and told the paramedics she fell down the stairs. We can fill you in when you get here, Mrs. Talbot.”
“I’ll be there as soon as I can. Thank you for calling.”
She did NOT fall down the stairs by herself.
My hands shook as I struggled with my sweater. How badly was she beaten this time to have them admit her to the hospital? My stomach roiled.
During the drive to Scarborough General, I tried to calm myself, but failed miserably. This was partly my fault. There must have been something more I could have done to protect her.
As the elevator door opened on the fourth floor, I took a deep breath and braced myself for the worst.
Not even close.
Nurse Fraser escorted me from the nurses’ station to room four eighteen. I gasped for air. My legs dissolved under me. I grabbed onto the bedside table to hold myself upright. Nausea rose in my throat as ringing filled my ears. I dropped into the chair beside the bed and put my head between my knees. After the dizziness passed, rage filled the void and the intensity of my hatred for Bob was overwhelming.
Marcy’s delicate heart-shaped face was not the same one I had said goodbye to the evening before. Now a deep shade of violet radiated over her skin, her mouth swollen with traces of dried blood caked on her lips, her sparkling blue eyes buried in mounds of purple tissue. She lay motionless.
That fucking low life will get his.
I took Marcy’s hand in mine.
Nurse Fraser came into the room and checked the monitor. “She’s been heavily sedated for the pain and won’t be fully aware for a day or two.”
“How serious are her injuries?” I ventured.
“Are you family?”
“I’m her sister,” I said, swallowing.
“She has broken ribs, one rib punctured her right lung, broken wrist and multiple bruises. We won’t know how serious the head injuries are until the swelling subsides. I’m sorry that's all I can tell you right now and you can't stay long. She needs her rest.”
“Could you tell her I’ll be back tomorrow if she wakes up?”
“I will,” Nurse Fraser said.
SHORTLY after one I arrived home and went straight upstairs to have a nap. I needed a clear head. If I didn’t do something, I'd be the next one in the hospital or the morgue—it was that simple.
At four I started preparations for dinner. I set a lovely table with his Matthew’s Mother’s heirloom cloth—he always loved it when I served dinner on it. I arranged a fresh bouquet of lily of the valley on the table and took a few of the leaves and stems into the kitchen for another recipe.
I spread out a sheet of plastic wrap, ground up the lily of the valley until some of the little white bells had become a white liquid and set this aside in a container. Then I made Matthew one of his favorite dinners—meat loaf with mashed potatoes, and cauliflower with cheese sauce—just like his mother used to make him. Almost. For dessert I made crème caramel.
He arrived precisely at six forty-five and sat down at the head of the table. I poured him a glass of wine.
He looked at the table setting and smiled, “Finally, you're shaping up.”
“I’m trying to be what you want me to be, Matthew. I truly am.” I said as sweetly as I could.
“About bloody time.” He smiled as he noticed that I made a lot of his favorites.
We ate dinner in relative silence. He had seconds of everything. I cleared the table and served dessert with coffee and his favorite liqueur.
He wiped his forehead with his napkin. “Holy hell, it’s hot in here. Turn the air on.”
I got up to check the thermostat and hid my smile. “It’s set at seventy. Just like always.”
“Thing must be broken. Call somebody tomorrow.” He pointed a manicured finger at me. “Don't forget.”
I won’t forget, Matthew.
I cleared the dessert dishes. After rinsing his plate and cutlery in the kitchen sink I bent down to load the dishwasher. I was putting away the Clorox when I heard a clatter in the dining room.
Matthew had knocked his wine glass off the table. His face was flushed and blotchy. “Get me some Advil. I have a brute of a headache.”
“Sorry to hear that, darling. I’ll get you some.” I sauntered down the hall to the powder room and found the Advil in the medicine chest.
By the time I returned to the dining room with a glass of water and the capsules in my hand, Matthew was slumped over in his chair. “I feel sick,” he whispered, barely audible.
When I held out the water to him he grabbed my wrist. I pulled back, but he clung tightly to my arm pressing his fingers into my skin.
“What . . . did . . . you . . . do?” he gasped.
His grip relaxed as he grabbed for his chest and groaned. With drool slobbering out the corners of his mouth, he crashed onto the floor upending his chair. He rolled over onto his back, let go a blood curdling howl of pain and fixed his blue-eyed gaze on the Tiffany chandelier.
Don’t worry, Matthew. I’m here for you..
I made my way to the kitchen, picked up the phone and dialed 911.
Less than ten minutes later, eight to be exact, the response team rolled down Hawthorne Lane with sirens wailing. I rushed to the front door in frantic haste and let the paramedics in. They were already scram
bling across the porch with a gurney and all of their equipment.
“It’s my husband, Matthew,” I cried. “He collapsed.” I sat down at the dining room table and laid my head down on my arm.
The paramedics rushed to Matthew’s side to assess him. “Did you start CPR, Ma’am?”
I raised my head and mumbled, “No, I’m so sorry I couldn’t. I have a broken arm.”
While my mind spun, I could hear them talking to each other in subdued voices. The young man, Jake, was tall and blonde. His partner, Chelsea was petite with short dark hair.
“Absence of vital signs. No pulse. No respiration.”
Jake ripped Matthew’s shirt open and the buttons bounced across the hardwood. “Starting CPR.” They worked on Matthew for what seemed like ages, taking turns. He didn’t respond.
“Defibrillator,” Chelsea said.
Jake plugged the pads into the connector. “Clear!”
I peeked out from under my arm and saw Matthew jump.
“No response . . . again,” said Chelsea.
They repeated the process and Matthew refused to breathe. He was always stubborn.
“Ma’am, your husband is not responding. We’re transporting him to the hospital. You can ride in the ambulance or you can follow in your car, if you are up to it.”
“I want to go with Matthew.” I dabbed at my eyes with a napkin.
They strapped Matthew to the stretcher and wheeled him out to the ambulance. I grabbed my purse and followed them out. A couple of the neighbors were standing on their porches craning their necks to see what was going on. Death always attracts a crowd.
Chelsea helped me into the back of the ambulance while Jake jumped into the driver’s seat. “We’re transporting to Scarborough General,” Chelsea said into her radio.
I was in a fog. My mind flooded with endless possibilities for my life without Matthew. I could do anything I wanted to do. Couldn’t I? This would take a bit of getting used to. The wailing of the siren quickly brought me back to reality. I straightened my face before anyone saw anything other than a horror-stricken wife. I played my part.
Jake wove through traffic and ran stop lights all the way to the hospital. He whipped the ambulance into the loop in front of the emergency entrance and screeched to a stop. The siren died, the back door of the vehicle flung open and Matthew was whisked away. I climbed out and followed as quickly as I could.
There was no sign of him when I reached the front desk of the emergency room.
“Can you tell me where they took my husband, Matthew Talbot?”
“Talbot. Exam room six. Straight down the hall,” the receptionist said. “Wait in one of the chairs in the hall until the doctor comes to find you.”
I sat outside room six for what seemed a lifetime, but finally a doctor came out and pulled the curtain closed behind him. “Mrs. Talbot?” he asked. I nodded and he introduced himself, though I didn't hear a word. “Mrs. Talbot. Come this way, please. We can use my office.”
He helped me to my feet and escorted me into a small room down the corridor. He sat me down and then perched himself in front of me on the edge of his desk. He had a kind face, filled with compassion. Considering his age, he probably had years of experience delivering bad news.
“Despite our best efforts, our attempts to revive your husband failed. Even though he was a relatively young man, sometimes the heart just stops. Sometimes there is no apparent reason, nor explanation, but I promise you, his passing was very quick. I’m so sorry, for your loss.”
He sat quietly and I listened to the blood pumping in my head.
“I . . . I can’t believe he's gone,” I sobbed, shaking in earnest. My mind whirled, everything around me muted as if I was trapped in some bizarre, distant dream. “It's over. So fast. That's it?”
The doctor placed a firm hand on my shoulder. “It’s natural to be shaken, Mrs. Talbot. It will take some time for things to sink in. Death comes when we least expect it and is never convenient.”
Sometimes it is.
The doctor helped me call a cab and walked with me to the lobby. As I rode home in the taxi, my hands continued to tremble and my stomach wanted to return my dinner. Somehow I managed to pay the driver and step out of the cab onto legs that would barely hold me. I fought to get control of myself and barely got inside before I fell apart.
WHOW knows how much later, I pulled myself together. My first order of business was to prioritize what needed doing and work my way down the list. While I waited for fresh coffee to brew, I cleaned up the mess in the dining room then made my list for the following day. The appointments could be made in the morning, but tonight I had to find the insurance policy.
Matthew was incredibly organized, and I knew all of his important papers were filed in the study. I had never been welcomed in there, but no one was watching me now.
The wooden filing cabinet stood against the wall opposite the monstrous roll-top desk that had belonged to Mister Talbot Senior. Made of solid oak it must have weighed five hundred pounds. When I pulled open the pencil drawer, a set of keys was the first thing that caught my eye. I jingled through the ring, trying each one. One for the desk, one for the filing cabinet and two more that didn’t fit anything in the room. Those would bear investigation later.
The top drawer of the filing cabinet had neatly labeled folders in alphabetical order. All I had to do was go to ‘I’ and there was insurance information. I glanced over my shoulder as I removed the Manila folder and took it over to the desk. The file contained the usual forms—car insurance for both cars, home owner’s policy and life. I was surprised to see there were two policies on me. The one I knew about for seventy-five thousand that Matthew had bought when we were first married, but why two?
The second one was for three million dollars and had been purchased by my loving husband only a month ago. My stomach turned.
Was he planning to kill me?
A month ago—I tried to think back to see if I could recall anything of consequence that had happened around that time—last week of March. Nothing came to mind.
Matthew’s policy was on the bottom of the pile. He had shown it to me when we were first married, bragging that he would always take care of me. The amount was for a million dollars. I held my breath when I looked at the beneficiary.
Oh, my God . . . Portia Talbot. Somehow in the back of my mind, I'd expected him to change that and give the money to the Masons, Shriners or some other charity, so I would be left penniless. I found the agent’s number on the covering letter and made a note of it for the morning.
After checking the locks on all the doors, I went upstairs to my bathroom. Scented candles came out of hiding and took their rightful places around the tub. I lingered in the bubbles luxuriating in my eerie freedom, half expecting Matthew to come waltzing through the bathroom door and chastise me. No. My husband would never hurt me again. Some of the tension of the past few days dissipated as I readied myself for bed.
Wrapped in my fluffy robe, I crawled under the duvet and slept like the dead.
CHAPTER EIGHT
A ringing on the dresser woke me. Was it morning? The alarm clock said nine a.m. but it wasn’t ringing. Matthew’s phone. Shit. How many other details had I overlooked? A shiver ran down my back. I jumped out of bed and stuck my feet in my slippers. It was Thursday morning. A workday morning for Matthew. What was I thinking? Was I thinking at all?
In the kitchen, I started a pot of coffee then called Matthew’s office back and asked for Bob Winterstein. Bob came on the line sounding like he’d had a rough night.
“Sorry to bother you so early, Bob, but I have to give you some bad news.” I paused. “Last night, Matthew had a heart attack.”
“What? Is he in the hospital? How bad was it?”
“The paramedics took him to the hospital, but he didn’t make it.”
“Oh, Jeeze, Portia, this is terrible. I . . . uh, I can’t believe this. How are you holding up?”
“I’m in sh
ock but trying to cope and get things organized for the funeral. Could you notify the proper people in the office? I would appreciate it.”
“Of course, I will. I’m having a hard time grasping this.”
“Me too. You have no idea.” I paused for effect and sniffed. “I’ll phone with details of the arrangements later.”
Another job done.
I filled my coffee mug, grabbed the Yellow Pages and flipped to the first funeral home listing. Nothing under ‘A.’ Barton and Barton—good enough. A quick call set up an appointment with one of the Mr. Barton’s for ten o'clock and I furnished him with the information on where to claim the body. I grabbed a quick shower, dressed in a black pant suit and arrived at the Barton establishment five minutes late.
Mr. Barton, dressed appropriately in a black suit with a muted tie, greeted me at the door of the converted Victorian mansion. He was a short man with sand colored hair mixed with gray. His skin was pale, but his pallor fit beautifully with his surroundings. I didn’t ask which Barton he was, and I didn’t much care.
New carpet aroma filled the foyer. The waist-high wainscoting looked original and was stained a rich mahogany. Furnishings were antique and luxurious, and the lighting was Tiffany style. Soft music played unobtrusively in the background. Matthew would be comfortable here.
“Please make yourself at home. Mrs. Talbot.” Mr. Barton motioned towards the seating.
I sank into one of the sumptuous tan leather chairs in his office. “Thank you. Lovely artwork,” I said, admiring the Georgia O’Keeffe.
Business must be good.
Mr. Barton rhymed off many choices and all I had to do was point. I guess funeral directors use this method, thinking the bereaved have lost a loved one and their minds as well. After every detail was covered, Mr. Barton assured me he was capable of taking care of everything. He provided me with the death certificate and left me with nothing to do but grieve. I had no idea that arranging a funeral could be so stress free.