Tears on the Stovetop

Story of a couple in tragedy

Remy sighed, pausing in the demanding toil to wipe her brow.  The steam from the pan of vegetables was overwhelming, and Justin looked over, worried for his wife’s strength in the difficult work preparing a dinner that took meticulous work and time.

“How far is she?”  Remy knew she did not have to specify whom she was referring to.  Justin would answer all the same.

“Don’t worry, we still have half an hour.”  He replied in an effort to lighten her stress.  It didn’t work quite to his desired effect.

“Half an hour??” she declared loudly, and gestured uneasily at the pan,  “This should take at least another 15 minutes, and the chicken is far from done!”  She made a noise of anguish, and then, more to herself than anyone, “I knew I should have started this earlier; I knew it!”

Justin got up from the chair he was sitting in and stood, thinking for a moment before offering his help.

“Sweetie, how about I take over for you?”

“No, no it’s fine I’ve got it,” she responded agitatedly, obviously not in control of the preparation or herself.  He tried again, knowing she’d be stubborn.

“Here, really, just let me stir this and you go sit down.”

“I told you, it’s fine.”  Remy continued to stir frantically, not bothering to adjust the speed or direction of the spoon.  Justin paused, and then proceeded to walk tentatively over and put his hand on the counter, next to the stovetop.  Remy resisted the urge to turn towards him, instead taking a box of rice and pouring it hastily into the pan.  Small, white grains fell all around the pan and onto the stove, causing her to swear and bite down hard on her lip.  Justin glanced at the fallen rice, looked at her, and tried a last time.

“Why don’t you give me the spoon.  You’re overheating.  Seriously, I can-“

“NO, Justin, please, just go set the table or something!”  She almost yelled, bringing her hands up into fists and digging them into her palms.  She looked up, as if praying, and bit her lip again.  Justin opened his mouth, and then closed it, trying hard not to get angry, and instead inhaled deeply and paced around so that he was behind Remy.  Carefully, he put his hands to her shoulders and began rubbing them gently.  He felt her tense and grip the spoon, worry and stress fixed in her mind.  But, gradually, she began to relax and stir with greater care and deliberation.  After a few minutes, she stopped altogether and turned around slowly.  Any other day, Justin would have hugged her and kissed her and told her everything was fine; everything was okay because he loved her.  But today was not every day.  Today was a day that happened only once in a life, if at all.

Remy looked up, and their eyes met.  Justin inhaled, looking deep into her face and seeing into her eyes for the first time in a long time.  What he saw should not have surprised him, but it did.  Months upon months of dead-end jobs, lost friends and an unfavorable house had set lines into her once gorgeous, care-free face.  Her young eyes and suffered far too much anxiety, and it had all came crashing down upon her one day almost four weeks prior.  Ever since then, Remy had begun to talk less and less, to ignore the books she used to love to read, and to fall asleep exhausted and awake angry.  Somewhere in his heart, Justin had known this the whole time.  He had known her troubles, had seen her losing touch with reality and society.  But he had ignored it, until now.  He felt an abrupt swelling in his chest, and for a moment felt all the pain and loss that his wife had in the past few weeks.   There was mistrust and manipulation in her uncombed hair, her sweating forehead, her disheartened eyes.  She was too young, too genuine, too incredible for this to all happen to her.  And yet it did, at the age of only 24.  Justin saw pain, and worry; lack of sleep and a steady fall into isolation.  But it was the emotion that worried him the most that caused him to look away in embarrassment and sadness.  Deep down in the heart of Remy’s eyes was a glimmer of something not even Justin would have guessed possible of her:  it was a spark of hopelessness.  Hopelessness in the world, hopelessness in her life, and hopelessness in herself.

Justin stumbled back, suddenly very aware of the sun shining brightly into their meager kitchen, the vegetables and rice left forgotten on the stove, his wife’s weak hands.  How had he not seen all this before?  It had been right there, right there in his life and he had missed it every day.  He felt ignorant, guilty of neglecting her dilemma.  He put his hand to his hair, running his fingers through it in an almost desperate manner.  With a shock, he found himself walking into the very room in which he was now standing.  It was the third of the month, a few days after his 26^th birthday.  They should have been celebrating.  But they were not.  Why were they not happy?  He was stumbling.  He was stumbling into this very room and looking at her.  She was not celebrating.  She was on the phone.  She was on the phone and she was crying.  Real tears, filled with the pain that not only she could comprehend.  He stared at her, stared at her and asked her.  Why?  She gave no answer and he questioned her further, terrified.  What?  She stared back.  She gazed into his eyes and saw him, and he could not see her.  He reached for her, and she grabbed his arms.  She grabbed his arms and buried her head into his chest.  He questioned, he stumbled, he stared.  She gave him no reply, only the tears of pain falling like blood onto his chest.  Behind her there was a pan burning.  Smoke billowed into the air like the tears on his chest.  Smoke filled the air…

“Smoke!” he said in something just short of a yell.  Remy turned around and screamed, staring in horror as ugly grey smoke poured out of the pan.  Justin reached in front of her and grabbed the pan, moving it quickly to the side, and turned off the stove.  Before Remy could do anything else, he spun her around gently and brought her to his chest in a tight hug.  He could feel her half-hearted resistance, but held a firm grip on her back until she relaxed once more.  He kissed her delicately on the forehead and let go, seeing her miserable eyes had glistened over and tears, once again, fell.  This time, they hit the stovetop and sizzled humorlessly as she turned to stare at what was left in the pan.  Faintly, she swore and turned towards the door, deliberately avoiding Justin’s concerned expression.  A few seconds later, he heard the front door open and close.  He made no move to stop her.

Justin stood, in the kitchen.  He gazed aimlessly at the doorway through which the love of his life had just exited.  The last remains of smoke drifted lifelessly through the room and out the open window.  The pan sizzled and blackened rice congealed into the sides and bottom.  The wooden spoon lay beneath the pile of once-edible sustenance, forgotten and alone.  He continued to stare for what could have been hours, and he found himself once again in the kitchen.

It was the ninth of the month.  Justin stood in the kitchen, this time by the table, sifting through letter upon letter of condolence in an attempt to sort his thoughts out.  I’m so sorry to hear the news…  Thank you.  I’m sure you’ll try your best to comprehend what we feel.  But it’s a truly impossible emotion to copy.   Did anyone really know what it felt like?  Was anyone truly sorry?   He had thought he’d known, had taken it for granted, overlooked the possibility before it arose.  But the actual feeling and the imagined one were too different to even compare.  Stay strong… We’ll keep that advice in mind.  If only it was easy.  If only you knew.  If only you had any inkling of what it was like, then you’d know the difference between saying “stay strong” and actually acting upon it.  We’d love for you to come and let us help you out, anytime… That would be wonderful, it sounds.  But what we need is him.  We would like a work-free dinner.  We would like to talk about it.  We would like to see a movie and forget about it.  What we need is to see him one last time.  To tell him we loved him.  To make sure he knows we still do.  To say goodbye.

Justin tossed the letters down, and exhaled a long, deep sigh into the kitchen.  The lights flickered, as they always did with the less-than-quality electricity built into the house.

After a few flickers, they returned, but not without a glow slightly dimmer than previously.  Justin finally took his eyes off the doorway, and looked instead to the pile of letters lying on the table.  They had been there, among unpaid bills and magazines, newspapers and cheap coupons for almost a month.  He walked slowly over and picked up a newspaper, glancing first at the cover, on which was a picture depicting a procession of people, dressed in various colorful outfits and carrying banners.  On the sides of the street were more people: cheering, waving little flags, eating greasy food.  The headline and text described a hugely successful parade throughout the town, complete with marching band, fire trucks and century-old carriages.  Justin turned the pages to see a weather report, business news, advertisements, a set of comics, sports statistics.  Towards the end, there was a thin column in which a store had been robbed and the cashier shot in the arm.  It didn’t go into detail, allowing only the most basic points.  There was an accompanying picture of the thief, shown through the security cameras in the store.  It was blurry and small, and the black and white dots that were the style of the newspaper did not help.

Justin stood, staring at the picture of the criminal.  After a while, he turned to the front page and looked at the article on the parade.  It was filled with joyous, carefree people.  Each face seemed to reflect happiness, no matter which one it was you were looking at.  He turned the pages and found the robbery article again, this time pulling it away from the rest of the paper and placing it next to the front page.  For a moment he looked at them, taking in the complexity, and recreating the thoughts that it took to organize the newspaper.  Where to put this article?  Where to put this one?  How many words should this be?  What size should this picture be?  This was the result.  The paper that Justin stared at on his kitchen table was the result of many minds deciding what should go where.  How the reader should view each bit of information.  Which was the most important, and which was the least.  But why, why is it up to them to decide?  Who put them in control of information involving dozens, maybe even hundreds, of people?  Do they, the people, not have a right to decide for themselves?  Who is to say that anyone has adequate measurements of what is important and what is not?  He stared at the article on the parade.  The date under the headline indicated that it was the eighth.  He turned to the column recounting the robbery: the eighth, also.  How was anyone to know that this was happening when it did?  Why were some people attending the parade, while some feared for their very lives?  Why did this happen on the same day, maybe even at the same time?  He stared at the faces of the parade, trying to see as close as possible into their faces, their eyes.  Somewhere, somewhere around the world, someone was dying right now, breathing a last breath, closing eyes for the final time.  Somewhere, someone was giving birth, experiencing the joy and pain of bringing life into the world.  Somewhere, someone was painting a picture, trying to capture the splendor that nature had to offer.  Someone was debating for the future of a country that was cared so much about.  Someone was buying something expensive that they didn’t really need, only wanted.  Someone was bicycling.  Someone was getting raped.  Someone was arguing the quality of a cell phone brand.  Someone was losing a job.  Someone was acquiring a fatal disease.  Someone was eating sugar-filled ice cream.  And it was all happening at once, all at this very moment, across the world.  Billions of people doing billions of different things.  Who was to say which is the most important, and which is the least?

From the hallway came three strong thuds.  Justin caught his breath, thinking immediately of his wife.  He was worried for how she would handle this, whether or not it was going to work.  He stood up, then, and walked warily towards the front door.  He paused again before opening it, gathering the courage he knew he would need, both for himself and for Remy.  Finally, he opened it.

A woman stood outside.  She was tall and gaunt, and looked very serious.  Perhaps it was just the situation that made it seem so.

“Hello.  Please, come in.”

“Thank you,” she answered briefly, and stepped into the house.  After she had removed her long black coat, she turned to Justin with a new look in her eyes.  He clenched his fists, hoping he had not already made a mistake as a host.

“I’m so very sorry for your loss.  Losing one that young… I can only imagine the pain and grief you and your wife must be feeling.”  She paused to let her sympathy sink in.  He tried to listen to her, tried to feel it.  But it didn’t seem real.  Her pity wasn’t genuine.  It was rehearsed.  Those words had passed through her mouth too many times to mean anything anymore.  It was all an act.  An introduction.  Nonetheless, Justin nodded in response.

“However,” she continued, “since his age was only 5, the proper legal actions must be taken and I am the person to assist you.”  She paused again.  Justin’s eyes flickered, feeling uncomfortable under her gaze, in their unkempt hallway.  She was not even inside yet, but had already begun to talk.  He wanted this to be as painless an experience as it could be for himself and his wife, who was still outside, somewhere.

“Why don’t you come in?  We didn’t have enough time to make dinner, unfortunately, but we have coffee, or tea if you prefer-“

“Thank you.  I don’t need anything.  I just ate.”

“Alright.  Here”

He led her down the hallway and into the living room, where he motioned to a chair and they both sat, facing each other.

“What happened was… so very terrible.  I’m sorry, again.” All of it was rehearsed.  She added little emotion to her voice.  How could she?  She didn’t know what it felt like.  Didn’t know what it felt like to come home and find your 5-year-old son is no longer here.  Has been killed.  Has been hit by a speeding driver and killed.  Killed.

“Okay, let’s start with the situation.  Where was he when-“ Without warning, the front door opened, and in walked Remy.  She stopped abruptly upon seeing the woman, who stood up to introduce herself.  Remy made no move to accept, and they both stood for a moment looking at each other, the woman with confusion, Remy with bitterness and despondency.  Finally, Justin stood up, and looked directly at his wife.

“It’s time to discuss this.  It’s time.”  She opened her mouth to object, but the look Justin gave her made her rethink.

“I love you, Remy.  We’re going to discuss this.”

“Okay,” she responded faintly.  They all sat down.  Justin reached out and took Remy’s hand.  He kissed her lightly on the cheek.

From the kitchen, the faint scent of smoke lingered and gradually dissipated throughout the house.

Author's Note

This may need some edits. It was written a while ago.

Reviews

[Leah]

BEAUTIFUL TALE MICAH.
-lindsey schellard

[Write4theSky]

I'll talk to you in person about this. I love it.