The Note

The Note

As she slowly walks out of the door into the morning light she lifts her thin weak arm to check the time.  She mumbles to herself and her stringy, greasy, brown hair falls over one eye. Her bony fingers shove the hair out of the way revealing her shiny eyes, bluer than the sky.  Christine Portman waits with her shoulders hunched for her husband to arrive.  Her faded, tattered grey sweater hangs like a drape over her bony body.  A rusty pick-up truck sputters to a stop in front of the split, brown wood fence with the gate hanging open.  

“Hello dear,” says Mr. Portman, a smile on his face.

“You’re late.”  Her response is dull and dark, her pale face expressionless.  

“I know, I apologize.  Last night’s meeting ran late and I slept in this morning.”

Christine inhales deeply, her frail ribcage lifting slowly, momentarily straightening her back.  Mark Portman knows she is upset now.  See, the situation between Christine and Mark was complicated.  Mark doesn’t live with Christine anymore.  They got married about 10 years ago and stopped getting along 6 months or so ago.

There was a huge blowout fight that just pushed Christine over the edge.  Mark is still madly in love with her, but her eyes seem to dull whenever she sees him.  The flame of love inside her seems to have extinguished, leaving not even a glint of light.

As she shuffles to the car, Mark rushes to open the dented passenger door.  As he opens it, it moans in tired agony.  

Christine lifts up one foot slowly and places it into the truck, but instead of swinging herself into the seat like she used to, she grunts as she shakily pulls herself into the car.

“All set dear?” Mark asks with sweet concern.  He thinks back to the days when she was healthy and vibrant like a newly bloomed flower, but every day she seems to droop more and more, petals slowly falling off.

“Let’s just get this over with… I’m never going to be ‘set’.”

The truck sputters down the unmaintained road that has been beat up over the years by the wrath of nature.  The two didn’t know how much their life was going to change because they drove away that day.  

       ___   ___   ___   ___   ___   ___   ___   ___

The word keeps on repeating itself in her mind, cancer, cancer, cancer.  It is the word they wanted to avoid but obviously couldn’t, cancer.  The drive back home is silent, it is night time now and the street lights are blurry because of the tears in her eyes.  One lonely drop slides down her cheek.  Mark glances over, his eyes dull and face solemn.  

“She is going to be ok.  Everything is going to be ok,” he is thinking this, but is unable to convince himself that is the truth.

When they arrive back at the old blue house with grey shutters, Mark helps Christine into the house and into her bed.

“I- I’m a bit hungry.”

“I will go and get you some soup, just lay down and I will be back.”

He leans down and kisses her on the cheek, longing for the days when this didn’t bring an awkward pause.

After he left the room, Christine lay staring at the ceiling with her head sunk into the pillow.  Tears start streaming down her cheek.

“Cancer? This isn’t possible!”

“I’m sorry to tell you this news Mrs. Portman.  I know it is going to be a long journey, but we will do every single thing we can to get rid of it.”

“How… how bad is it?”

“Well Mr. Portman, we didn’t catch it as soon as we could have hoped, but it is not nearly as bad as it could have been.”

“Christine… sweetheart… here is your soup. Christine?”

The doctor’s visit stopps replaying in her head and she slowly turns to face her husband.

“Oh, thank you.”

Her weak body sits up in the bed, blankets falling down into a bunch around her waist.  Mark hands her the soup, “It’s a little hot, I left it on the stove for a few seconds too long.”

Still shaking from the shock of the day, Christine sips the soup and swallows slowly.

     ___   ___   ___   ___   ___   ___   ___   ___

The empty bowl sits on the nightstand with the silver spoon resting inside it.  Mark starts to quietly leave the room thinking Christine had fallen asleep.

“Can you stay in here tonight?”

The small quiet words broke the silence.  Mark stops walking and turns around.  He walks to the other side of the bed and slips under the covers, and he lays silently next to his wife in the dark.  

Christine, comforted by his presence, falls asleep in minutes.  Her light breathing is the only sound in the room.  Mark stays lying on his back, eyes open, staring at the ceiling.  Thoughts are speeding through his mind.  “What are we supposed to do now? Is everything just suddenly going to be ok between us? She doesn’t love me anymore.”

Those last five words held the knife that stabbed him in the heart.  As his eyes start stinging, Mark closes them, trying to keep the tears trapped.

                 ___   ___   ___   ___   ___   ___   ___   ___  

It has been a week now.  The shock has lowered but not disappeared.  Every night is the same, Mark cooks dinner, they eat in almost complete silence, and Christine slowly walks to the bed with yellow sheets and a dark navy blue quilt.  The two pillows lay quietly next to each other, awaiting their company that comes every night.  Once again, they went through this routine until they were laying in the dark.

Slowly, Christine pushes the covers away and sits up in the bed.

           “What are you doing?”  There was no response.  Christine continues to get out of bed and walks to her closet.  She laces up her boots, pulls her hair into a ponytail, zips up the loose jacket that used to be too tight, and walks out the bedroom door.

Mark hops out of bed and follows Christine to the front door.

“What in the world are you doing? Where are you going?” Mark has now become worried by her strange actions.  Her reply is simple and short,

“For a walk,” then she walks out the front door into the cold crisp winter air, leaving the door open behind her.

     ___   ___   ___   ___   ___   ___   ___   ___   

Mark wakes up on the couch, scrunched up with his hands under his pillow. The morning sunlight is streaming through the windows.  He rubs his eyes to clear away the blurriness and wipes the sleep out of the corner of them.  He sees Christine calmly wandering around the house, moving some things to different places and every minute or so, walking back into the kitchen.  Then the smell drifts into the room.  He can hear the eggs being tapped against the pan, then the slight cracking of the shell giving in.  He can hear the toaster throwing the crispy bread into the air.

“Look who is finally awake.”

She glances over her shoulder, her brown hair falls onto her back, the sun shining off of it.  

“What time did you get up this morning?”  He knows she must have been up before the sun had even peeked up from behind the mountain.  She had already taken a shower, made breakfast, and the house seemed to be glowing, the furniture was finally able to breathe now that the blanket of dust was gone.

“Oh I don’t know.  I got home from my walk pretty late and I couldn’t have slept more than two hours. Too much on my mind I guess.”  Mark nods his head and continues to look around, astonished by her behavior.  

“Well okay, then do I have time to take a shower before breakfast?”

“Nobody said I was making breakfast for you… but I guess you can have some.”  Christine has a playful tone to her voice. Mark gets up and wanders into the bathroom and closes the door behind him.  Christine hears the small click of the lock, the faint sound of him taking the towel out of the cabinet, then the shower roaring to life.  It was the same routine every time.

“Why is she suddenly acting like this? It’s like the old days.”  It is a sad thought for Mark, thinking it was unusual for her to be acting friendly towards him.

He gets out of the shower and gets dressed in his grey worn out jeans, red plaid fleece shirt, and dries his hair with a towel in a way that when he looks in the mirror, he saw it was ruffled in every direction.  He combs it back, trying to tame his wild hair.

The table is set up with sausage, eggs and toast arranged on the plate so nothing would touch each other.  The glasses are filled with orange juice, with no pulp in it at all, just the way he likes it.

“Well that was fast!” her voice is happy, it had been awhile since he had heard her talk like that.

“I guess I was excited for breakfast… it looks so…perfect!  Are you sure this is real food?”

They both laugh for a minute, and then Christine makes her way to the table and sits down.  Mark stays standing in the doorway, not moving.

“Are you going to eat?”  She sees the strange look on his face.  It is a mixture of confusion, sadness, and emptiness.

“Oh, yeah… I am.”  He walks to the table and sits down.  They eat in silence.  Mark is  confused about what is going on.  Just the other day he was living in an apartment and his wife practically hated him, and now she has cancer, he is sleeping in the same bed as her which hadn’t happened in over six months, and she was acting like nothing in the world is wrong.  The change was becoming too much for him to handle.  He starts to feel light headed.  Mark drops his fork on the plate.  As it hits the plate a loud high pitched clink rings into the silent kitchen.

“Mark?!”

“I’m going to lie down.”

He gets up and starts to walk to the bedroom, every few steps stumbling slightly.  All of this had become too much for him to handle.  He knows he should be worried about how Christine was doing and feeling, but he couldn't just block out his own thoughts and emotions.  He couldn’t just be strong for her.

“You know, I’m not dead yet!” The words echoed down the hallway.  Mark stops in his tracks.

“Come here.”  She walks to him and lets him wrap his arms around her.

“I know you're not, and you're not going to anytime soon.”

“I can’t spend what could be the last day of my life like I’m dying.  That’s not what I want.  That’s not what I need.”

“I know Christine… I know.”

  ___   ___   ___   ___   ___   ___   ___   ___

When he wakes up the next day, she wasn't breathing.  Christine Portman had died in her sleep from an enlarged heart that the doctors hadn't found.  Mark slowly gets out of the bed and walks to the kitchen in a haze, like a fog cloud was in his head instead of a brain.  He sits down and is shaking, face pale.  He thinks of all the memories of her, her laugh, her voice, the way she would tap her foot when she was nervous.  Tears rolled down his face.  After a while of just sitting, hunched over onto the kitchen table, Mark picks up his phone and calls.

                                     ___   ___   ___   ___    ___   ___   ___   ___  

He stands with the note in his hand that the paramedics had found Christine holding.  In her small sweet handwriting it said,

                                  I have always loved you Mark.  Love Christine <3

Reviews

[Turtle :)]

Aaawwwww :) The heartstrings were definitely pulled in this story. You made use of very good descriptors and dialogue throughout the whole story. Though you sometimes repeat words a little too often (bony, slightly, walks, just little things) Though overall it was a great story. I'd love to read more of your work:)
Well done :)
- Turtle :)