The Housewife Assassin's Greatest Hits Page 11

  What?

  No! Hell, no!

  Tears stream down Trisha’s face.

  Mary too is sobbing as she places her arms around her little sister.

  I wave my hand in front of them.

  And then I thrust it through them—

  Nothing.

  Jack turns to Aunt Phyllis as if he’ll find the courage to stay strong for our children within her frail frame.

  I’ve never seen her look this way. The grief in her face deepens her brow and weighs down on her withered cheeks. She lowers her head before murmuring, “I raised her since she was eleven. I never thought I’d outlive my baby.” She shakes from her sobs. “Well, I guess I have.”

  Jack, please, I shout. I’m still here! Please—

  “We’ll give our answer to the doctor tomorrow.” From the haunted look in his eyes, I now know my fate:

  I am doomed.

  “Aunt Phyllis, do you mind taking the kids back to the house? I’m sleeping here tonight.” I hear his prayer: One last night with her, God. Please.

  “A shame,” Death snorts gleefully. “Don’t you wish you could make it worth his while?”

  I whip around. He is no longer an angel, but a hovering skull.

  I put my hands through his eyeholes and fling him toward the fireplace wall.

  When the skull hits the back of the fireplace, it shatters into a million tiny pieces.

  A shower of glittering sparks roar beyond the hearth before dissolving into smoke.

  No one sees it. They’re already out the door.

  “The Afterlife isn’t so bad.”

  My mother’s voice shocks my soul into lifting the veil of dread that I now hover beneath.

  She is standing beside me, gracing me with the gentle smile that always had the effect of the sun’s rays on a lake after a tumultuous storm—

  That the worst is over.

  That life goes on.

  But mine will not. Like hers, it is over.

  She is beautiful. Her makeup is flawless, as is her up-do: a French twist. Her brows, arched over her warm brown eyes, are the perfect complement to her cupid-bow lips. She wears one of her many little black dresses. As always, she’s accessorized it with three tight strings of pearls. The only thing missing is the locket that she always wore.

  I now wear it.

  Yes, there it is: on the shell of the body that was once mine.

  As I stare down at it, I whisper to her: “I’ve missed you.”

  “I know.” Mother lays her hand over mine. It is as soft as silk. “But I’ve always been there, right beside you.”

  “I wish told me about…your cancer.” I’d always wanted to say that to her.

  Mother’s smile goes flat, but the love in her eyes only burns brighter. “I didn’t want to spend my last months watching you sad and angry over something neither of us could stop. I needed to remember you filled with happiness and hope.”

  Lightly, she places her hands on both sides of my face, tickling precious memories of us. She must be reliving them too because her lips lift again in our shared joy:

  She gives in to my plea to push me high enough on my backyard swing so that my foot can touch the tree branch just out of reach, all the while admonishing me to “hold on tight, my little daredevil!” But she laughs just as heartily in fearless glee when my foot taps it;

  She dresses the cut in my finger—an accident from the very first time I pared apples for her pies. “There will be many more of these,” she warned me. “This is part of the spice that makes baking all the sweeter.”

  As we lie outside on a sheet on a warm summer night, as she points out the constellations until I too can see them. “If you learn them, you can always find your way home,” she explains.

  I am no longer sad, just honest when I tell her, “You were my home—and Dad’s.”

  She knows what I want to ask next. Instead, through her eyes, I see him: He sits in a fog.

  “He isn’t with you.” It hurts to realize his eternal limbo.

  “His heart was too heavy. Our lives are too precious to waste,” she explains sadly. “I’m proud of all you’ve done with yours.”

  * * *

  I turn to hug her but I’m too late. She is already fading away.

  Confused, I ask, “But…didn’t you come to take me with you?”

  “Soon,” she whispers. “Dear Donna, don’t worry. When it happens, it’s over in the blink of an eye…”

  She's gone.

  Until then, I’m alone.

  With whatever is left of me.

  12

  Sacrifice

  Recorded by Elton John, a song he wrote with Bernie Taupin. Released October 1989, the song spent fourteen weeks on the greatest hits chart, reaching #3 on U.S. Billboard “Hot Adult Contemporary Tracks” chart. In 1990, it also reached #3 on UK Singles charts.

  There are three big differences between a compromise and a sacrifice:

  Difference #1: In a compromise, you may not have won all the marbles, but you’ll walk away with some of them. In a sacrifice, you lose something you want dearly—and it’s probably worth much more than a few glass marbles.

  Difference #2: In a compromise, you save face. When you sacrifice, you’ve lost your shirt.

  Difference #3: You compromise because you can afford to lose something. In a sacrifice, you’ve just lost everything.

  Should you find yourself outnumbered in a bar fight, don’t even think about compromise. Otherwise, you sacrifice everything.

  Jack can’t hear my screams, even when I stand directly in front of him. I try kissing him, but he swats away my lips as if they are moths. I even try slapping him. Its effect is negligible: he rubs his cheek as if remembering a kiss.

  If only.

  My emotions well up inside my soul: denial, frustration, anger, fear—and become a funnel of energy that whips around the room. In his subconscious state, Jack may not be able to feel it, but it is causing chaos with some inanimate objects. The window’s blinds ripple. His water glass shakes so much that the water within it washes back and forth as if hit by a mini tsunami. The blanket on his prone body falls to the floor.

  And yet, nothing from my sleeping prince.

  Exhausted, I let my feelings of remorse envelop me.

  All movement stops.

  And just in time. The doorknob creaks as it turns ever so slowly. The door opens just enough to allow a sliver of light from the hallway beyond. It falls on my comatose form, allowing my new guest to gaze at my still and bloodless form. The ray grows larger, revealing the machines that now ping and beep listlessly like robots whose batteries are dying.

  Soon, the door opens wide enough to let in my visitor: the nurse, Nancy. Her right hand is in the pocket of the lab coat she wears over her scrubs. Her smile is harder than usual.

  Her eyes scan the room. They pause when she sees Jack. Her grimace drops into an angry frown.

  Still, she enters the room, closing the door behind her.

  By the time she turns around, she’s pulled something from her pocket: a vial and a needled syringe.

  She stabs the vial with the needle and watches as it fills the syringe.

  Satisfied that there is enough in it, she makes her way—

  To Jack.

  Dread darkens my soul. I run to stop her—

  Only to face Carl.

  I stop short. Stuttering, I ask, “Don’t tell me I’m in Hell!”

  “Well, hello to you too.” Carl grins. “You’d think you’d be a little more pleasant, considering all we meant to each other. Honestly, I guess I should say ‘done to each other.’”

  “Hardly,” I snort. “Out of my way! She’s after Jack!”

  “Not to worry. We have a few seconds to catch up.” He steps sideways to make his point.

  For once, he’s not lying. Nancy is now a living statue. Her left leg is suspended in mid-dash. The syringe is grasped in her raised right palm. Her smile is cruel with determination.

&nbs
p; “Did you do that?” I ask cautiously.

  “Sadly, I can’t take credit. The Angel of Death gets the brownie point.”

  “Why did he…Carl, why are you here?”

  His smile wavers. “When the all-points-bulletin went out for those who wanted to put you in your place—that is, in the Afterlife with the rest of us—I thought I’d see if I could make the cut.”

  “So, you’re here to take me out?”

  “Depends.” He moves behind Jack. “Wifey, let’s be honest. What’s he worth to you?”

  “Ex-Wifey,” I remind him, “and he’s worth everything to me.”

  “Even your life?” Carl’s voice tightens as he adds, “Now, be completely honest with me.”

  Can I be anything else? My every thought is exposed.

  Not that it matters. There is only one answer:

  If it came to my life or Jack’s, yes I’d sacrifice myself.

  Since the bullet put me in a coma, I’ve had plenty of time to make my peace with my ultimate fate. I’ve accepted that I will never be able to touch my children; to kiss away their tears; to reward them with my smile.

  I won’t be there to cheer on my friends and celebrate their accomplishments. I won’t be at Aunt Phyllis’s bedside when it is her time to go. Hopefully, though, we will find each other in the Great Beyond.

  And I won’t be here to laugh with Jack; to feel him inside me; to grow old with him.

  But he will be here to comfort those who mourn me. He will share his memories of me with them. He will love them as much as I did.

  So, yes, because I’ll live on in him, I can make the ultimate sacrifice.

  Carl knows this to be the truth. It’s why his mournful sigh is strong enough to shift the window curtain.

  “I was a fool,” he murmurs.

  “For leaving me?” I wonder.

  “Okay, yeah, maybe that too.” He shrugs. “But, more importantly, I made a bet with Death. If he’s right, Jack’s the goner.”

  “And if you’re right?”

  “You live.” He nods toward the human tableau below us. “But either way, Death always wins, right?”

  I nod. “You were a fool to bet against me, Carl.”

  He chuckles. “Who said I did? I know you too well to ever doubt what’s in your heart, Donna Stone.”

  The sound of my old name—his name—no longer shames me because in the end—his end, now—I realize that he has just saved me.

  “I tried to be the best husband to you. You have to believe me,” he pleads.

  “I do now.” How could I not? Like mine, his soul is fully exposed.

  I’m almost afraid to ask, but I must: “You didn’t come here to fight me but to help. I suppose…”

  “That my request to see you once more came at a very steep price?” He nods.

  “What does Death want from you in return?”

  “You had to ask, right?” The edge in Carl’s voice cuts me like a knife. “Despite all my bad deeds, my one redeeming quality kept me in Limbo.”

  “Hell’s first circle,” I murmur.

  “You got it.” He shrugs.

  “What stopped you from going all the way to the basement?”

  “My love for you and the children.” The levity is gone from his voice. “It was my trump card—until now. So it’s the 9th Circle for me, I’m afraid.”

  “Treachery,” I murmur.

  “Appropriate, wouldn’t you say?”

  To be trapped under a frozen bed of ice? My heart swells at the thought of the pain he’ll find there.

  While his earthly body floated through a watery grave, what thoughts went through his mind at his moment of death? I wonder.

  Again, unbidden, he answers. “The letter I left for you—in your recipe book. Did you find it?”

  “What? A letter? No…” A veil of sadness drapes over me, only to be swept away on a forgiving breeze.

  “A shame. It explained why I went deep cover. And how I would never have deserted you”—his whisper rings in my ear—“and how I loved you, always.”

  Tenderly, I reach out for him. I am resigned that I will feel nothing.

  I am wrong. For a moment, he is real.

  My palm lands gently but solidly on the angular plane of his face. He shifts so that his lips can brush against my hand—

  But just for a moment.

  In that one touch, Carl’s emotions smack me like a wave. They are a tumult of grief, regret—

  And yes, love.

  He reads my mind: Too much, too late.

  “Donna, one more very important thing—and please don’t kill the messenger.” He laughs. “Not that you could.”

  Yet one more trial? Ouch! I brace myself and then nod.

  Still, he’s wary enough about my response to take a step back. “When you get back, you, uh…well, you must kill Jack.”

  I shake with anger. “What is this, some kind of game? Really, Carl? You just redeemed yourself!” If he hadn’t already lost his jawbone, I would have pulled it out with my own two hands.

  Nancy’s sneaker gives a faint squeak as it hits the floor.

  Only I can hear Carl’s regretful sigh. “It’s the only way to stop Eric. When the time comes, you’ll feel it in your gut. Trust me, Donna. Please!”

  His soul shimmers for a just moment before fading into the darkness.

  If only I could say the same for Nancy.

  In no time, she is at Jack's side. Her raised arm begins its downward trajectory toward his left bicep.

  With all my might, I shove her aside.

  She falters and then freezes: not because she felt me, but because the machines hooked up to me are chirping so loudly—

  Enough to wake Jack.

  Because Nancy is staring over my still comatose body, she doesn’t notice that Jack’s eyes are now open.

  When he realizes what she’s doing, he tackles her into a wall. She is stunned enough to drop the syringe, but she’s not knocked out. Her kick catches him in the chest, sending him reeling back toward my bed.

  He barely touches it before Unearthly Me shoves him back toward her.

  She has crouched down to pick up the syringe but his kick gets her in the ribs, sending her into the wall again, and knocking her out.

  By now, my bed is surrounded by three other RNs and the doctor on call: McDimple. They came in to attend to me only to find Jack standing over their coworker.

  “I woke before she could stab me with whatever is in that syringe,” he explains. “But I don’t think she knew I was here, so I guess it was for Donna.”

  While two of the nurses check my vital signs, McDimple warily makes his way around Jack to Nancy. “She’s breathing, but unconscious,” he tells the third nurse. He then picks up the vial in one hand and the syringe in the other. He stares down at the vial, reading its label. “It’s aconite.” His eyes shift to the syringe. “And there is enough in here to take down a horse.” McDimple nods to the third nurse. “Call Security.”

  In an instant Jack is at my side. He’s noticed that the monitors’ chirps and clicks are now steady, but to my ear they seem to get increasingly softer until they fade away altogether.

  For that matter, I’m fading away too.

  As I am sucked into a dark tunnel, the med team’s voices become even louder. I do my best to block out the sound so that I’ll remember all that I’ve learned since making my pact with the Reaper:

  That Eric escaped with the help of—wait, give me a moment! It’ll come to me. It has something to do with…

  Gilbert and Sullivan? A football? A dove? None of that makes sense!

  And that his destination is…is…somewhere near water? And he’ll go by boat?

  And that Eric’s goal is to…to…

  What is it again he’s going to do?

  And then there’s that cryptic plea from Carl, telling me that the only way to stop Eric is to…to...

  Do something bad…to Jack.

  I can’t…

  B
ut…I must.

  My medical team’s excited chatter reverberates all around me. Shut up, I want to scream. I need to remember so much…

  But then I hear the one calm voice that beckons me forward. Jack’s gentle but insistent declarations—that I’m alive, that I’m okay, that he loves me—are the breadcrumbs that guide me out of the darkness and back to the world I left.

  I’m back, Jack.

  Thank you.

  13

  Home

  Written and performed by Cheryl Crow. The song became Crow's ninth top-40 hit in both Canada (topping out at #40) and the United Kingdom (hitting #25). It was not initially released in the United States.

  She recorded the music video at a village car-race festival—a perfect example why it pays to go to any event where they serve deep-fried everything on a stick!

  The definition of “home” depends on whom you ask.

  To the lonely, an empty home is the consolation prize awaiting them at the end of a day in search of companionship.

  To a young child, home is the lap of his mother and the reassuring voice of his father.

  To a loving couple, home is the bed they share while in each other’s arms.

  To an unhappy couple, misunderstanding meets them at the door and frustration silences them. They sleep with anger as opposed to each other.

  The perfect home isn’t in any particular neighborhood or filled with designer furnishings. Nor does it boast a specific number of rooms.

  It is not a place; it is a state of mind. Trite but true: home is where the heart is.

  My children won’t stop petting me as if I’m some exotic bird.

  Jack is the same way. Does he notice how I find a reason to let go of his hand within a few minutes? Or that I turn away from his adoring look?

  I can’t help it. Since I’ve awakened, whenever I look at him now, I hear Carl’s voice in my head, urging me to do…

  Something.

  To Jack.

  And it’s not good.