I
awoke with a start. A glance at the clock on the bedside table confirmed that
it was time to get up, but, as I rolled on my side to begin that process, I
remembered that I had killed again, and that thought momentarily immobilized
me.
Images
of my actions the preceding day clicked through my mind one by one as if
powered by some grisly slide projector, so I lay back and tried formulating a
prayer asking God to rewind time and erase those particular events from the
earth’s history. Just focusing on that task stopped the images, but, try as I
might, I could not bring the elements of the desired prayer together. It, as
happened to most of my complex thoughts, was quickly scattered to the four
winds by the anxiety that had gripped me nearly every waking moment for nearly
a year.
There
was a tentative knock on the door. Paul was there with my morning coffee as he
had been every morning of the previous six months, but I would not accept it,
or his gesture, on this day anymore than I had on preceding ones.
“Sheila?
Are you awake, honey?”
“Go
away, Paul. I don’t want any of your goddamned coffee,” I shouted, then,
regretting my blasphemy, crossed myself and quietly intoned, “Blessed be the
name of God.”
Another
knock and another call followed, but I just lay quietly. Finally, he gave up, and I heard him pad off
down the hallway.
I
waited several minutes then rolled out of bed, put on my robe and slippers and
headed for the kitchen. When I arrived at the door, I peeked around the jamb to
ensure that he had followed the protocol I had established as a result of his
betrayal. He had, so I had the room to myself.
I
poured a cup of coffee, then slid the glass door aside and stepped onto the
patio that stretched along the rear of the house. The dew-coated grass just
beyond the foot-high stucco patio wall sparkled in the morning sun as if a
handful of diamonds had been scattered there. The gardens that stretched for
several yards beyond were so densely packed with flowers that they seemed like
multi-colored bridges leading to the road below. As I continued to the edge of
the patio and looked beyond the meadow on the other side of the road, I could
see the dark blue smear I knew to be the ocean, distant but still visible
through the morning haze.
I
turned away from the disgusting vista and plopped onto the chaise lounge I had
deliberately placed facing the house. There had been too many of these mornings
since we moved in six months ago, I thought. It was as though God were mocking
me. He knew, as did I, that Paul and I did not belong in this place. He should
be helping make that clear to Paul by ensuring that those lies told by the
bitch did not come true! Immediately, I felt the rage stirring once again. Just
the thought of that woman got the juices flowing. Your time is coming, bitch, I
thought.
I
lowered the back of the lounge two notches, settled back, closed my eyes and by
an act of will, emptied my mind. In seconds my breathing slowed, the tension
began to recede and I descended into that state of semi-consciousness a level
or two above sleep.
But
I could not stay at peace. As always seemed to happen when I relaxed, they came
crowding in, those voices that at other times must be lurking somewhere in the
far reaches of my mind. For years I had been able to control them, but of late,
I had been unable to.