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  Copyright © 2014 Loretta Lost

  Cover design by ThunderWords

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  From my rotting body, flowers shall grow and I am in them and that is eternity.

  - Edvard Munch

  I am not quite sure why my husband decided to hang himself. Aren’t there dozens of more fashionable methods to accomplish the same task? However, as I stand in the foyer and watch his body slowly rotating below the chandelier, I suppose it starts to make sense. There’s something about the way the crystals glisten with the weight of his corpse that is slightly more enchanting than it is grotesque. Slightly.

  Grayson always did have a certain elegance about the way he moved.

  I stare for a moment, spellbound. My hands drift upward to gently encircle the bottom of my protruding belly, as though I am trying to shield the eyes of my unborn child. My wrist connects with the bulge of my cell phone in my sweater pocket, and I am suddenly filled with the sadistic urge to pull it out to snap a photo. There is something artistic about the way the evening light touches the chandelier; a shaft of fading sunbeams is splattered across Grayson’s white shirt.

  My fingers twitch with the desire to capture the moment. I am keenly aware of how strange this must seem. What would I even do with such a picture? Would I put it up on my high-traffic fashion blog with an article about how to hang yourself in style? Or should I post it to my Facebook page with a witty caption? After all, that is the protocol for all of life’s important and interesting moments. Our wedding photos got so many “likes” and lovely comments from people we barely know.

  This photo could be the most impressive one yet.

  Staring at the rope which tethers my husband to the chandelier, I wonder if this could be a trick. Is he going to leap down and call out April Fools’ or something of the sort? Is it even April?

  I swallow, because my mouth has gone very dry. I can’t remember.

  Grayson never had a sense of humor, so it would be unlike him to plan such a complicated ruse. However, on the off chance that he has decided to scare the hell out of me for amusement, I’m glad that I’m reacting with zero emotion. I wouldn’t want to give him the satisfaction of seeing me cry. Or scream. Or whatever the normal reaction might be. But as sick and cruel as Grayson could sometimes be, I know that even he isn’t cruel enough to play around with suicide.

  I take a deep breath. Only a few hours ago, my therapist told me I was making progress. She said that I was going to have a healthy and happy baby. I was feeling great about everything. My pregnancy hasn’t been going quite so smoothly; not since my sister Helen came home and tore through my life like a bull in a China shop. I never realized that my husband had such a dangerous and twisted obsession with her. I hadn’t even realized that the two had met. Once I did learn this, it was too late to make any changes. I was already in too deep with Grayson. I had made promises. I was committed for life.

  I just thought that a lifetime together would last longer than a pair of designer shoes.

  Speaking of shoes, I hear the soft plop of a handful of shopping bags beside me. I turn to my left, and see that my father is standing in the doorway with a horrified look on his face. He has been stunned into silence. Part of me is suddenly confused as I stare at the old man. Why on earth did I decide to drag my father shopping while my husband was obviously in some kind of emotional crisis?

  If only I had been at home…

  Dad presses a feeble, wrinkled hand against his chest, and I suddenly remember. His heart. I took him to the shopping mall with me to trick him into getting some gentle cardio. If I leave him alone, he’ll sit in his office all day and feast on snacks that are filled with cholesterol. Taking him to a nice restaurant to make sure that he has a healthy meal is both necessary and enjoyable. The only exercise or recreation he really gets is walking around the mall with me, but it also makes him feel like he is still needed in my life.

  In trying to keep one man I love alive, have I neglected and killed the other?

  “Sweetheart,” my father says hoarsely. “Don’t look.”

  Even as he says this, I am turning back to stare at Grayson. It’s too late not to look. I’m fairly certain that this image will be seared into my mind for at least a dozen lifetimes.

  “Carmen, I—I just…” My father stammers in an attempt to make sense of the situation. He clears his throat and steps forward, placing his head directly in my line of sight so that he blocks the swaying form of my dead husband. “Honey,” he says firmly, putting his hands on my shoulders. “Go lie down and get some rest. I’ll call 911 and deal with this. Just get some rest, okay?”

  My head nods without my permission.

  “Honey,” my father says again. He hesitates, and I can see the fear dancing in his eyes. “God, Carmen. I just—I don’t know what to say. I’m so sorry, sweetheart.”

  My head nods again, almost mechanically.

  “Don’t despair, darling,” he tells me gently. “Sometimes things happen for a reason. When I lost your mother, I thought that it was the end of everything. Meredith was my whole world. But sometimes, these dark moments that we consider endings are actually our greatest beginnings.”

  I am aware that my father is talking, and I can hear the words filtering through my brain, but all I can see is Grayson’s limp hand, peeking out just under my dad’s ear. I stare at my husband’s lifeless limb, still waiting for him to jump down from the fake noose and shout, “Surprise!” Any moment now. Any moment.

  “Carmen,” my dad says, shaking me gently. “Carmen!”

  I blink to try and draw myself back to reality. “Yes,” I whisper. “I should get some rest.”

  “Everything’s going to be okay,” my dad assures me, reaching out to lay a hand against the side of my head. He gently ruffles my hair. “You’re strong, sweetheart. Now you need to be stronger than ever, for the baby.”

  My head drifts up and down again in that familiar and meaningless motion.

  “I’m going to call the cops,” Dad says quietly. He leans forward to kiss my forehead. “Please go lie down, sweetheart. Don’t think about this now. Just try to relax.” He turns away and moves briskly toward the library, heading for the phone that rests on his mahogany desk.

  As soon as my father is gone, I find myself moving forward until I am standing directly below my husband’s body, and my eyes are at the level with his shoes. They are rather nice shoes; slightly too pointed, in the style of two years ago, but they are freshly polished and he wears them well. I reach out to touch the elegant leather designs that encase his toes. Something that always stunned me about Grayson is the prettiness of his feet. Most of my ex-boyfriends had absolutely hideous feet; hairy, with gnarly toenails that smelled putrid if you accidentally got too close to them. But by some miracle, even though Grayson was a football player when I met him, his feet were never revolting. It might have been due to excellent personal grooming, or perhaps he just won the genetic lottery.

  The sad truth is that in addition to kindness, devotion, and all those various inner qualities, a woman really does choose her husband based on the tiny important physical traits that she admires or despises. I could never have married a man with off-putting feet. I couldn’t stomach the thought that my children might inherit those monstrosities, or bear the thought of having them intertwined with mine every night for hours of cuddling. But Grayson—Grayson’s body was entirely tol
erable and even pleasant to me. I knew that our children would be beautiful.

  I will never meet another man with feet as charming as Grayson’s.

  But upon careful reflection, I probably should have valued strength of character more. At this moment, I’m quite sure that I would rather have come home to a fat, balding, smelly husband who was actually healthy and alive. Grayson’s physical beauty meant nothing if it couldn’t protect him from the powerful mental illnesses that plagued him. Another grim thought seizes me, and my stomach clenches in fear.

  Will my unborn child suffer from the same suicidal tendencies as her father?

  I wrap my hands around my stomach and step away from Grayson’s body hastily, as though whatever emotions led him to doing this might be contagious. As I stare up at him brokenly, the reality starts to hit me.

  I have made a grave mistake.

  There’s no coming back from this. No way to turn back time and save the day. I knew that my husband had a lot of darkness in his past, but I thought I could take care of him and help him feel better. I knew that Grayson was deeply flawed, but he was mine. I was happy with him. I loved him. I was willing to suffer through anything with him. Why couldn’t he suffer through one more day to be with me? Couldn’t he have just waited a few hours to let me see him one last time? To say goodbye? Didn’t he love me? Didn’t he want to spend even a few more minutes with me? I need him now, more than ever. I need him to mend the pain he’s caused. How could he do this to me? The selfish bastard.

  I need him. My baby needs him. My sick and aging father needs him.

  Still, I can’t help thinking how attractive Grayson looks, even as a pallid corpse. I curse myself for my own foolish, fickle mind. I really do need to get some rest. Moving away slightly, I head for the large, winding marble staircase that leads to the second floor.

  These stairs have never seemed steeper than they do in this moment. I feebly grasp the railing, feeling like I am about to scale the side of Olympus Mons. I take a deep breath and cast my eyes downward, trying to focus on taking one step at a time. Something colorful catches my attention on the ivory floor. I move over to stoop and pick up the object—ignoring the shaking of my knees and the heaviness of my stomach and heart—and my fingers close around a photograph.

  It is an old Polaroid picture of me and my sister Helen, from when I was nine and she was five. It was taken at the family winery in Michigan. We used to spend summers there, running around and playing in the sun, without a care in the world. I would give anything to go back to those blissful days of our childhood. My nose wrinkles a little in thought. Grasping the railing of the staircase, I begin to pull my cumbersome pregnant body up the stairs. What was the photograph doing there on the ground? Had Grayson been looking through the photo albums?

  I pause in the middle of the staircase and glance back over my shoulder at him. I know that he had some kind of sick fetish for my sister, but it’s a little disturbing and unlike him to be looking at photos of her as a young girl. His body is still rotating slowly below the chandelier, and it’s kind of creepy how his corpse seems to be turning to face me. I continue moving up the staircase, trying to push this thought from my mind. When I reach the top of the staircase, there is another photo lying there. It depicts our beautiful mother, shortly before she died. My brow creases, as a thought suddenly occurs to me.

  Did Helen visit the house while we were out?

  Although I love my sister, I know how heartless and callous she can sometimes be. If Helen was here, and she had some kind of confrontation with Grayson, she could have easily pushed him over the edge with a few well-crafted insults and some skillful guilt tripping. Helen is a writer, and she can sharpen her words to the point where she is basically throwing emotional knives at your gut when she speaks.

  Is this what happened? Was my sister somehow responsible for my husband’s suicide?

  I lean weakly against the wall as I turn back and stare down at Grayson’s body. I can hear my father’s voice echoing slightly from his office, where he is still talking to the police. If I know my father, he probably poured himself a drink first, to steady his nerves. He’s not healthy enough to be drinking, but I don’t have the energy to climb back down this precipice and yell at him right now.

  All I have left is my father, and I know he won’t be around forever. When he’s gone, I’m going to be all alone. All alone with an infant daughter, in an empty fifteen-room mansion. The logical thing would be to sell it and move somewhere smaller, but I can’t bear to part with the house where I grew up. I wanted to see it filled with family and happiness, and the sounds of children’s laughter. But it looks like that’s not going to happen anymore.

  Everyone is being slowly stolen from me, one person at a time. I have had so many good memories in this house. Until today. My eyes drift down over the sharp edges of the marble staircase, and I momentarily consider what it would feel like if I were to let myself “slip” accidentally. I lift my foot, clad in a classic pump with a low heel, and place it at a lopsided angle on the stair below, as though I am about to trip and fall down the vast tumble to the foyer. I imagine my body rolling rapidly down, bouncing unattractively until it rests, sprawled and broken beneath Grayson’s perfect feet.

  My head tilts to the side slightly as I replay the fantasy over and over in my mind. Grayson has made death look like a seductive and peaceful solution, and perhaps I should join him.

  The sound of my father’s voice filtering up from the office snaps me back to reality. I realize that I don’t have the luxury of thinking about suicide. I have to take care of Dad. He doesn’t have anyone else. He lost mom, my sister Helen abandoned us, and now he’s lost his son-in-law. I know that even though I’m not his favorite daughter, or his smartest daughter, he still needs me to take care of him. He’s still looking forward to meeting his first grandchild—when my body is finally ready to expel her—in less than three months.

  I can’t take that away from him now. I’m just going to have to suffer through this.

  Somehow.

  Grayson’s body has now swiveled until it stares directly at me. Before I can stop myself from doing the unthinkable, my hand reaches into the pocket of my sweater and I am unlocking my phone to use its camera. I angle the lens toward my dead husband, and wait until there is a small white box around his head to indicate that the camera recognizes a person. The technology manages to magically autofocus on his face, but it is not sophisticated enough to determine whether that face belongs to a man or merely to a man’s lifeless shell.

  I snap the photo.

  Feeling very guilty, I hastily shove my camera back into my pocket, along with the two Polaroid photographs, and shuffle into the corridor toward my bedroom. I waste no time in entering the room, removing my shoes, tossing my purse aside, and burying myself beneath my fluffy duvet. I lie there for several minutes, holding my breath as though I have just done something unspeakable, like desecrating a grave. After a moment, I pull the phone out of my pocket and hug it against my chest. This photo is the last thing I have to connect me to him. Soon, his body will be taken away, and all I’ll be left with are memories.

  I can’t believe this is happening.

  A cold shiver runs through me, and I roll onto my left side with a grunt. With shaking hands, I place a small pillow between my legs and another under my large belly in an attempt to get comfortable enough to sleep. It’s so cold in here. I really should have put on a warm pair of pajamas or something, but I don’t seem to have the energy to move.

  This is the part where Grayson’s hands would usually slide around my waist, gently cradling me against him. His large, warm chest pressed against my back would bring me comfort and ease my worries away, until my mind and body were both at peace.

  But now, there is only empty space in the bed beside me. Just cold and vacant air.

  I press my hands against my stomach, trying to remind myself that I’m not alone. Soon, I’ll have another person to love. She will b
e warm, loving, and full of life and joy. She’ll be so wonderful that it will make all this heartache worthwhile.

  It’s just hard to believe anything this moment.

  Where in god’s name are you, Gray? I find myself listening carefully, as though trying to find a whisper of my husband’s spirit in the wind. Instead, there are only police sirens approaching in the distance. Dammit, you can’t leave me like this. You asshole! You promised. You can’t ditch me here to go through this alone! You said vows. Why do you get to jump ship and drown, while I have to keep on steering? It’s not fair. My mind strains itself, as though I might be able to telepathically talk to the dead if I try hard enough. I reach down to finger my wedding ring and twist it around my finger as though it were an inter-dimensional communication device. I must have seen one too many scary movies, because I am nearly convinced that I can feel a bit of his soul lingering around the mansion. Gray? Please, Gray. Don’t leave me here alone. I can’t bear to be alone, you know that. I need you to find a way to be close to me somehow. I don’t care if you don’t have a body. I just need to feel you.

  There is only silence.

  I continue to lie here, with my hands pressed against my baby bump, feeling like a fool. I shut my eyes together tightly, knowing that I will never hear Grayson speak again. I’ll never feel the safety of his warmth and love encircling me. He’s gone. Completely and utterly gone. But it doesn’t make sense! I saw him just this morning. How can he be gone? I can’t seem to stop grasping around mentally, in hopes of finding some residue of his soul.

  A person can’t ever truly be gone, can they? Doesn’t something stay behind?

  Something. Anything.

  Please, I silently beg, if you ever loved me, Gray. Find a way to reach me. Find a way to stay with me. I can’t cope with this. I’m not as strong as you were. I need you.

  I lie motionlessly for several moments, and I try to hold my breath.

  Finally, the words trickle into my mind, like dewdrops sliding off a blade of grass. I don’t know if it’s my husband’s spirit or my own imagination, and frankly, I don’t care.