Suspense Magazine November 2012

She heard him speak, “You seem tired. You don’t have
anything this morning, You should go back to bed. Get some
rest.”
She saw herself getting up. Walking down the hallway.
Saw Ian go to the refrigerator. Take out her insulin. Pouring
the entire amount into her cup. “Here!” He called. “You
forgot your tea. I’ll bring it to you. Have your tea, and then
get some rest.”
His voice seemed totally casual and friendly.
“Mommy! Can you hear me”
Outside the casket, outside the darkness, Jason was
calling to her.
“Jason” Her voice, seeming rusty and long unused,
finally was working. “Jason” She called again. The smell
again filled her nostrils. It seemed even stronger. It was the
Phyfoxia. She remembered the smell of it. She remembered
the conversation. Phyfoxia. Good to chase away bad dreams.
Good for a upset stomach…
Good for the calling forth of the dead…
“Jason!!” she called again. This time, her voice was
stronger. Would he hear her
There was no answer. Her heart began to sink. How long
had she been here How long had she been dead
Who had put her here
She recalled the memory of the kitchen. Ian, unseen by
anyone, pouring insulin in her tea cup. Bringing it to her like
any considerate husband would do.
Or a husband who no longer wanted to have a wife.
It occurred to her then, that the separations had hurt
Ian’s career at the college. They raised eyebrows. The place
was too conservative. People who had been divorced were
shown the door, even if they had tenure. Ian hoped someday
to be president of the university. He could never be divorced.
But…he could be widowed.
As a divorcee, the stench of scandal would attach itself to
him forever. The college would shun him. But as a widower,
they would embrace him. They would enfold him in grace.
Ian killed her.
“God, help me,” she said, as she put her hands to the
rosary that was about her throat. “Help me.”
She was in her kitchen. The light was the most gorgeous
thing she’d ever seen. She had her steaming tea in one of the
matching mugs in front of her. Ian came in, ignoring her at
first. Then, pouring hot water in the other mug. Putting a
tea bag in. Then liberally dosing it with sugar and honey. He
came and sat across from her.
“You seem tired. You don’t have anything this morning,
You should go back to bed. Get some rest,” he was saying.
No! Was it happening again Or this time, could she
change it
She got up, taking her mug with her. Ian stopped her.
“Let me bring it to you. We have some fresh honey. I’ll make
it just the way you like it.”
Rhonda’s blood went cold. He seemed so casual. What
could she do How could she change it
She went down the hall, and then, suddenly turned. She
put her hands in her robe pockets. She was not surprised to
find crinkly dried leaves there.
Phyfoxia.
It hadn’t been a dream. But Jason had the leaves. He
would have put them there. Why Did he sense something
she made herself blind to
She nearly bumped into Ian coming down the hall. He
looked frustrated to see her. Good, be frustrated, she thought.
“I’d rather have my tea at the table, Ian,” she said, as
sweetly as she could without sounding artificial.
“Please yourself.” He said, his voice taking on a grumpy
tone.
She sat down, and he followed her back. But she didn’t
drink. Neither did he.
“It’s going to get cold,” he said, a smile quivering at his
lips.
“You know, I need to do a finger stick, I feel really weak,
and I don’t trust my feet,” she said, suddenly inspired. “Would
you get my testing stuff from the bedroom It’s on the table by
the bed.” She put everything she had into looking innocent as
she said it. She knew her life depended on it.
He shrugged, got up, and went down the hall. Quickly,
she changed the mugs.
He came in, handed her the supplies, watched without
expression as she took her blood reading.
“Just a bit low,” she said.
“Well, the honey in the tea should help you,” he said.
She took a sip. It was too sweet, and was likely to raise her
blood sugar, but at the moment, it seemed very satisfying.
He took a long drink of his own. Looked at her intently,
“You know, it doesn’t have to end this way.”
“Excuse me” She said, allowing some shock to be shown.
“A divorce. We could try again. I really would go to
therapy this time. Maybe both of us could. Maybe we could
work things out.”
He took another deep drink of his tea.
Already, she could see his intense blue eyes growing…a
bit…dull Would it work that quickly
Maybe. Just maybe.
“I’m willing to consider it,” she said, placidly. “I really
don’t want a divorce, either, Ian. Not anymore. I want what
you want.”
“Really” Ian’s eyes briefly lit up. “Then, I think we should
make a toast.” He lifted his mug containing the remainder of
the tea meant for Rhonda in mid-air.
“To us,” he said, his voice dragging a bit.
Rhonda smiled at her sleepy husband and let her mug
tap against his.
“To us,” she said.
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