![]() IsaacA Chapter by Kristin Lee![]() Isaac faces his demons as Maggie spends time in a coma![]()
Why? She couldn't be serious? He’d watched her walk out on their son’s
funeral. Walk away from their life, away
from him. And now she wanted to know
why? Isaac was stunned. The part of him that always overflowed with
such exhausting love for her from the moment they’d met making him ache for
her, need for her, felt desolate as he gaped at the disintegrating stranger
before him. There had been so many
unspoken accusations that had transpired between them since Ben got sick, and
now that he was faced once more with being an adult, or letting his emotions
rip, Isaac literally felt paralyzed in his response.
He'd barely been
surviving since Ben's funeral. It would
have been one thing if it had been just his son’s funeral. That he could have found a way to survive. But no, Maggie had to go and try to take her
own life. As if to prove her pain was greater than his. He may as well have buried his wife and his
son in the same coffin.
He was the one who found her. He’d stepped outside of the church to get some fresh air. Standing on the stoop watching the snow fall he couldn’t help but think of Maggie. She had always loved the snow. He was so mad at her for her outburst. It was embarrassing being snubbed by your wife in front of family and friends. Weren’t they supposed to be a united front, facing this tragedy together? Who was he kidding. Maggie never did anything with him. She was a force all of her own. She always had been. Just like her mother. It was then, as his bitter thoughts raced around his mind
a scrap of fabric waving in the snow caught his attention. He couldn’t breath, the world
became dark, panic gave his feet wings.
He didn’t remember how he got to her side, or removing her blanket of
snow. He just remembered how cold she
was and how his hands burned.
Since then it had been
like a miniature version of himself had been sitting in some control tower in his
mind behind the remote controls, controlling everything. When he ate and slept. What emotions he felt, or didn’t feel for
that matter. He’d spent the entire time skating
by on autopilot while the real Isaac silently coward behind the shutters of his
soul.
It’s true that every man
has a breaking point. Fortunate or not, Isaac
wasn’t there yet. But he was losing his
grip on faith. Sorrow wrapped around him
like ivy tainting the golden threads that used to buoy his soul to God. With his faith plummeting into darkness the
only thing that gave him any hope was a recurring dream. Since Maggie had been brought to the hospital
he’d seen it every time he closed his eyes.
There he was, standing in
the hospital room. Maggie always
reminded him of an angel. He could watch
her for hours. He never did anything
other than hold her hand, but the touch always felt like magic. She looked peaceful with her blond hair
feathered out over the pillow and warm blankets pulled up all around her. As she slept, he could almost ignore all the
tubes attached to her body and the sound of the heart monitor beeping in the
background. He was always drawn to the
fact that the noise grated on his nerves whenever he was awake. But here, in this dream, it created a haunting
melody. One he felt they should be
dancing to.
He stepped closer,
looking down upon her beautiful face. It
always irked him that she couldn't see how beautiful she really was. Even in hospital green, swathed in the
serenity of a coma, she was still the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen. Even in dreams though, he couldn't escape the
pain. He knew he was here for a reason. If his stubborn wife wouldn't listen while he
was awake maybe she'd listen to him in his dreams. Leaning over the bed rails and pressing his
lips to her ear he whispered, "Maggie, come back to me."
With teary eyes he
dropped his head as if to pray, but found he couldn't find the words. He didn't need them. The sound of his voice had broken her spell. Her face flooded with life. Her eye's fluttered open and her lips spread
into an angelic smile. It was as if
she'd been waiting her whole life for him to speak her name.
But it was always just a
dream. No matter how real it felt. Until now.
"Why?!" She screamed again. The sound laced with even more pain than the
first time she spoke. As distraught as
he'd seen his wife in the past, nothing compared to this moment. Nothing could have prepared him for
this. Seconds out of a coma and she was
coming unhinged. And he knew he was to
blame. Isaac wished God had killed him
instead. Maybe then one of them wouldn't
hurt so much.
Isaac's paper coffee cup
dropped to the reading table like a brick.
It bounced off the edge, milky brown liquid splashing all over the black
and white tiles that made up the hospital floor. He slipped through the mess as he rushed to
her side as if he were skating on wet ice.
As he reached her side he scooped up her hand savoring the warmth of her
flesh and begged her to tell him, "Why, what?"
But her hand quickly
became cold. The heat he felt between
them had simply been stolen from the heated blankets.
As his eyes searched her face words failed her. But, she didn't need words to make it clear, she didn't want Isaac touching her.
Slowly she retracted her hand from his as if he were hot embers. The look of hatred harbored in her eyes tore
a hole in his chest making his heart burn.
Throwing his hands up in
a gesture of surrender he spoke as if he was pleading with a wounded animal,
"Its okay Maggie. It's me
Honey." Since she didn't react he
took a tentative step towards her. But
that wasn't a smart move. She began
screaming wildly at the stop of her lungs thrashing in her bed as if trying to
climb an imaginary ladder. He stood
still. Amazed the bed didn't break. And wondering where this ladder she thought
she was climbing was going. Before anything
had a chance to make sense a throng of nurses and staff burst into the
room. They held her down like an enemy
combatant as she kicked and screamed.
Her eyes filled with mutiny met his as the needle sunk into her delicate
freezer burned skin sedating her.
Splintered fingers like sharp shards of ice grew rapidly under the surface of his skin. The icy burn instantly turned his heart into a frozen wasteland capable of feeling nothing. He watched as Maggie slipped away from him, again. A horrible nagging sensation gnawed at his core pleading with him to accept that she might already be gone. But in his current state of numbness he didn’t care.
#
Using a fat thumb and
long middle and index fingers from his left hand Isaac gingerly rubbed his
temples. Pacing the long, empty corridors
of the hospital ward his head pounded in angry protest as if Maggie's rage had
split it open with an ax. There was no
way to deny that there had been warning signs.
For days, he could do nothing but watch as she slipped further and
further away from him. With each marker
of time in between Ben's death and the funeral it became painfully obvious that
he was losing her. The darkness she had
loved so much when
The anger within him
erupted. Violently twisting towards the
side he drove his fist, with all his fury, into the beige painted dry
wall. His right hand was met with a
satisfying crunch, promptly followed by the cracking of bone and hot searing
pain. The pain radiated up his arm as he
withdrew his dust covered hand from the wall.
Blood dripped to the floor. Shards
of bone stuck awkwardly through freshly broken skin. The only thing he noticed was the pain and he
welcomed it. It was a beautiful
distraction from all the death and destruction that surrounded him. Not to mention all the things he’d done.
Security rushed to the
scene. After sharing a look that said, “Yeah,
I’ve been there.” A tall, burly guard
ushered him into a hospital room for care.
The internal rhythm of this room was so quiet compared to Maggie’s, even
though this room held more people. It
was odd, but peaceful. Despite his pain
Isaac felt himself relax a little for the first time in days.
A red haired nurse was prepping
his hand for its temporary cast. While she worked the nurse attempted to make
idle conversation. He noted this was another
difference between this room and Maggie’s.
He figured it was because in Maggie’s room they knew the coma patients probably
weren’t going to talk back, so why bother.
"Must have been some spider."
His thoughts had been
elsewhere. "I'm sorry?"
"Oh. The wall.
Must have been some spider you were trying to smash. I sure hope you got him." A very wry smile spread across her face. It was obvious she had finesse when it came
to diffusing hostile patients.
He couldn't help but
notice how attractive she was. Her red
hair fell like a wave a fire down her back, and she had piercing blue eyes. But it was something about her smile, tight
lipped but genuine. "Yeah. Some spider.
Probably of the demon variety."
"In that case I hear
Mace or Holy Water works way better than Kung Fu punches." She said it with such a straight face that if
you didn’t share her wry humor you’d never get the joke. "What on earth could posses you to punch
a wall so hard that you would break your own hand?"
"Does it
matter?" Isaac found he was
embarrassed and didn’t want to look at the pretty nurse as he spoke.
She pursed her lips
contemplating how far she should push the issue. "It might matter to security."
Right. He'd almost forgotten about them. "It’s like this. I'm not about to dive into my sob story with
a stranger; as beautiful as you may be.
Suffice it to say, things got out of hand. No pun intended. I will gladly pay for the damages I've caused
to hospital property and I promise that there will not be any more incidents
while I am here."
"And why is a handsome guy like you loafing around this stuffy old place?" She was clearly hoping that he was here waiting for Grandma to come out of day surgery or something like that.
Isaac could barely speak the words without feeling suffocated by hate, "I’m here for my wife."
#
His right hand was heavy
in its temporary cage. And his bones
ached. The doctor had said once the
swelling went down he'd be scheduled for surgery to fix the mangled mess he'd
made. Isaac was just glad he'd hurt
himself instead of Maggie. As angry as
he was with her he would never forgive himself if he ever hurt her.
When Ben died he'd shown
her his typical lenience. If he asked
her for anything she claimed that she couldn't get out of bed. Her heart was simply too broken. She couldn't even help with Ben's funeral
arrangements because it made her too sad.
She'd looked absolutely pathetic strung out on grief like some
junkie. Day in and day out just lying in
bed, eye's half closed, borderline catatonic.
He kept thinking that if she got some sleep it might make her feel
better. So he let her rest. If he hadn't encouraged her seclusion maybe
she would have been strong enough to fight her demons.
What she failed to see
was that while she wallowed in her fat vat of pain he was left to pick up the
pieces. It hardly seemed fair. With the current state of things their
marriage was inside out and upside down.
Life felt coated in a thick layer of wrong. Planning Ben's funeral had taken more than
just getting out of bed, it had taken gumption.
Frankly, there was a part of him that was glad that Maggie had stayed in
bed. He wasn't sure her fragile psyche
could have handled the things he had seen.
Even he'd been completely unprepared for the stifling finality he suffered
through at the funeral home. The
salesman walked him through the showroom.
There were rows and rows of empty coffins. He listened to the pros and cons of how each
one could help preserve the body as it decays in the earth. But everything the man showed him had been
made for adults. Isaac finally had to
ask, "Sir, I'm sorry to interrupt your obviously well rehearsed sales
pitch. But, my son was fifteen days
old. I don't think he needs a coffin big
enough for a six foot tall man. Do you
have anything smaller?"
The man's face reddened
for an instant. "I do apologize
sir. I can only imagine your grief. It is truly my error. When you said 'son,' I assumed he was
older. Please forgive me. Right this way." The man walked to the back of the room and
opened a pair of French doors. Within
them were two rows of miniature caskets.
In a much softer tone the salesman said, "These are our selections
for the younger souls that have passed on.
Same guarantees apply to our products.
I don't think I'm really needed here.
Please take your time choosing the right one. Just holler when you're ready. And sir?
My condolences." With that
he swept from the room quick as a vampire.
Nothing says your son is
truly dead like picking out the box he's going to take an eternal dirt nap
in. Maggie would have never
survived. He barely did.
Isaac had endured the
bright and chipper flower shop on
And then, there'd been
his sessions with the minister. There
were too many words and never enough when preparing for a funeral service. He still wanted to know, how could God
possibly ask him to let go of the miracle that had breathed life into his
soul? No one seemed to be able to give
him an answer. Least of all God. That's what bothered him most. In his time of need his savior was no where
to be found. Maybe Maggie was right, he
was crazy.
What he wouldn't have
given to stop time and grieve with his wife; to share her pain, instead of them
each harboring their own. Ben had been
his world. Everything he'd prayed for,
hoped for, and lived for. When Ben
became sick a part of Isaac couldn't help but wonder if it might be God's
punishment for Maggie's lack of faith.
But he knew better than that. God
wasn't spiteful, at least not a God he believed in. Spite was his own flawed human emotion. Isaac knew if he was honest with himself, he
was the one who was mad at Maggie. He
didn't mind being the one to always rescue her.
That was one of the qualities he actually liked about her - that she let
him rescue her. But it was the fact
that she seemed to always take from him and never give. Ben had been the only one he'd ever seen her
be selfless with. Now that Ben was gone
Isaac was afraid that Maggie would never be the same. All Material Copyrighted by Kristin Lee May 4, 2013 © 2013 Kristin LeeAuthor's Note
Featured Review
Reviews
|
StatsAuthor![]() Kristin LeePortland, ORAboutI write with a no holds barred attitude, wielding my pen like a dagger to carve tales of fiction entwined with hard and bitter truths. My work generates bold, sometimes dark and devious stories that .. more..Writing
|