Ad Nauseam (18 page)

With the hot blade back in his right hand, he probed the empty socket with the tip, trying to determine the best angle for his task. Bracing himself for the force that would be required to breach his skull, Mark halted at the last second, adrenaline making his heart pound in his chest like a tribal drum.

“Oh shit! Oh shit! I almost fucked up bad there.” He said to the voice in his head, which had gone eerily quiet. “You would’ve liked that wouldn’t you? You wanted me to make that mistake. Fuck you, though. I aced anatomy.”

Pulling the tip of the knife out of his ruined eye socket, Mark winced when the blade touched the flesh beneath his right eye. This was going to hurt like hell, but it didn’t matter. He could take it. He could take anything to quiet that voice. He had come close to fucking it all up, but had remembered just in time. That’s right, one Anatomy class fifteen years ago had saved him from disaster. He smiled as he pressed down, ignoring the flaring pain. The left eye is controlled by the
right
brain.

***

“This next case is an unfortunate one of Schizophrenia left undiagnosed.” Dr. Whitehead led a small group of residents down the hall, telling them the details of the patient in each room. As they walked, the men and women scribbled furiously in their notepads, trying to cram in every word the well-known psychiatrist said. “Jonathan, if you would.”

A large orderly stepped forward, produced a ring of keys from his pocket, and unlocked the door. They all took turns peeking into the room, their manners silent and respectful, though one young woman winced when she saw the man.

“Is that self-mutilation?” the lady asked.

“Yes.” Dr. Whitehead nodded. He looked in, seeing the patient had once again removed the dressings from his face, exposing dark, gaping eye sockets and the scarred flesh around them. The patient turned his face toward the sound of the doctor’s voice and smiled, his head lolling slightly from medication.

“His delusions caused him to believe that a ghost had taken up residence in his head. I only had the preliminary visit with him before a neighbor reported screaming from his apartment and called the authorities. By the time the door came down, the patient had already removed both his eyes and pushed a hot knife into the right side of his brain.

“Fascinating. He’s lucky to be alive,” a male student remarked.

“Yes. But there have been a great many people who have survived with only half of their brains. Then again, most of those cases have involved surgery of a more orthodox form than this one.” Dr. Whitehead smiled and the students chuckled politely.

“Does he still hold the delusions that a ghost resides in his head.” The same woman as before spoke, looking up expectantly from her notes.

“That’s hard to tell. Since he regained consciousness, the patient acts as though he can’t understand English.”

As if to prove the point, the patient spoke. “Nipe Msaada.”

“Gibberish?”

“Actually no.” Dr. Whitehead frowned a bit, nodding to Jonathan and watching as the orderly relocked the door before answering. At the sound of the lock turning, the patient began to yell and Dr. Whitehead listened for a moment to the cadence of the speech before speaking. “This patient is speaking Swahili.”

INK

“It’s not fair.”

Andrea spoke a little too loudly, attracting glances from nearby diners. “My brother is dead and they get away scotch free!”

“
Scot-free,”
Stella corrected softly.

“What?”

“It’s scot-free. Not scotch free.”

“Who cares?” She waved a well-manicured hand. “I can’t believe the judge didn’t hold them responsible for Michael’s death.”

Stella pinched the bridge of her nose with her thumb and forefinger, trying in vain to stave off the headache that always seemed to come when she spent any amount of time with her young sister-in-law.

“It was an accident, Andrea. Suing the restaurant isn’t going to bring him back.”

“Maybe not, but it’s not fair. Someone should be punished for this. Someone screwed up and I lost my brother. And it wasn’t an accident. Noel said that someone was directly responsible. It was murder.”

“Who said it was murder?” Stella kept her own voice low, hoping Andrea might follow suit.

“Noel. You know, my psychic. From the psychic advisor forum. I know I’ve mentioned her about a hundred times. Don’t you
ever
listen?” Andrea rolled her eyes.

“Yeah. The psychic. Sorry. So you’re doing all of this because some woman you met online says she knows that someone murdered Michael.” The urge to wring Andrea’s slim neck grew every time the girl opened her mouth. “How much are you paying this woman?”

“Enough. Don’t worry about it. She’s worth every penny. Noel said that Michael was murdered. That’s good enough for me. It never really felt like an accident, anyway. Not really. Deep in my heart it always felt like murder. I can’t believe you aren’t more supportive of this. He was your
husband
after all.”

“Damnit Andrea, it’s been over a year. You think you’re the only one who misses him? At least you still have Rick and the kids. I have nobody anymore. Just the house. I still have to sleep in that big bed alone, knowing that Michael will never be snoring next to me again. Hell, I even miss the snoring.” Stella dabbed at the corners of her eyes with a linen napkin before her mascara could start to run. “He was my whole world, but I accept that he is gone and nothing I could ever do would bring him back. It’s about time that you accept it, too.”

Andrea reached across the table and patted Stella’s hand, her face full of remorse.

She was silly and selfish at times, and extremely stubborn, but she wasn’t a deliberately cruel person. A lifetime of wealth and being pampered by her parents, then by her older brother after their folks were killed in a car accident, had left Andrea with little idea of how things worked in the real world. She was the only link Stella still had to Michael.

“I’m sorry, Stella. I know you’ve suffered, too. And you’re not alone. You are a part of our family, too. Rick and the kids adore you, and you’re like a sister to me. That’s why I’m doing this for the both of us. No matter what you say, I know we will both sleep better once there’s justice for Michael, once the killer pays for taking him from us.”

“What are you talking about? The judge ruled it an accident. The case is closed.” Stella would’ve given anything to be home in bed right then, rather than sitting in a fancy restaurant listening to Andrea’s schemes, but their weekly lunch dates were a tradition her sister-in-law had insisted should continue on.

At first Stella had thought Andrea was doing it for her, to keep her in some sort of routine, but quickly realized the lunches were also Andrea’s much needed diversion from the daily demands of motherhood.

The waiter interrupted then, bringing them the bill for their sandwiches and wine.

Andrea snatched it off the table and produced a platinum card from her small purse with a flourish. She didn’t speak again until after the waiter returned with the receipt, leaving with her signature and a healthy tip.

“It’s not over yet.” Finally, she dropped her voice low, leaning over the table toward Stella, her eyes alight with a cold sparkle.

“What do you mean?” Stella felt herself leaning in as well, against her volition.

“Noel introduced me to someone. A guy that handles these sorts of things, though I’m not allowed to speak his name out loud. He’s going to take care of it for me.” Andrea smiled, though it was a hard expression, with little mirth.

“You’re going to have to be a little more specific, dear.” Stella frowned. “Because I’m not following. How does he
take care
of these things?”

“I’m not sure how it works exactly. Witchcraft, voodoo, hoodoo. All I know is that he has magic. And he promised to make the murderer pay. Like a curse or something.”

Andrea looked so serious.

Stella instantly regretted the laugh that escaped her, knowing the outrage and hurt on the other woman’s face was her fault. Despite the damage to Andrea’s ego, a few more giggles slipped out before a sobering thought occurred to her, erasing the hilarity of the situation instantly.

“Oh God, Andrea! Please tell me you haven’t been meeting with these people.”

“Of course not. I’m not stupid. The whole transaction took place online.” Andrea sniffed, her eyes squinted in offense like she smelled something bad and just realized Stella was the source.

“Transaction? You mean you paid this guy?”

“Of course I paid him. He wasn’t going to do it for free.”

“With a credit card? Oh Christ! These people will clean you out. What if they’re scam artists, Andrea? How could you be so dumb?” Stella regretted the words the moment she spoke, but the damage was already done.

“I won’t talk about this anymore,” Andrea said, her jaw tight and her eyes downcast. “I think I should take you home.”

“Yeah. I think that’s a good idea.”

***

The drive to her house was long and filled with a tense silence while Stella tried a hundred times to form the right words to apologize. In the end, she just blurted it out, not willing to open the car door until things were better between them.

“Look, I’m sorry Andrea. I didn’t mean it the way it came out. You know I love you and I worry, right? It’s okay if you want to believe in that stuff, but when they start taking your money, well, I get defensive of you. I want closure as badly as you do, sweetie. But I don’t think paying some guy to get revenge for an accident is the way.”

Andrea nodded, reaching over to hug her sister-in-law. After the awkward embrace, Stella smiled and pulled away.

“How about we go shoe shopping tomorrow? It’s been a while since I got a new pair of shoes.”

“Yeah. We could do that.” Andrea sniffed a bit, but smiled softly. “I’ll come by tomorrow to get you. Noon? We could do lunch again.”

“Sounds great.” Stella got out of the car and stood in the driveway, waving as Andrea backed out onto the road. When her sister-in-law was gone from sight, she turned back to the house and just stood, staring at it. Her dream house.

She remembered how excited she had been when they first saw it. How her heart had hammered in her chest, and how she refused to look at any other places, begging Michael until he bid on this one. How she made him raise the amount twice when they learned others had shown serious interest. It was still beautiful. It was still everything she had ever wanted in a home, but lately it felt like just a house.

Walking in through the front door, she averted her eyes from the couch by the picture window, but still saw it in her mind. The cop on his knees, retrieving Michael’s Epi-pen from underneath the sofa, not in the breast pocket of his jacket where it belonged. Stella hadn’t sat on that couch for over a year now. Every time she tried, she saw the sad look on the cop’s face, the apologetic shake of his head. His soft words to the grieving widow.

“It wasn’t your fault, ma’am. It must’ve fallen out and rolled under.”

Stella walked through the dining room to the fridge, retrieving a chilled bottle of Moscato and a wine glass from the cupboard. A sweet wine with a dry and bitter aftertaste, like a marriage could be.

Leaning against the counter, she stared at the empty dinette table where they had eaten their last meal, trying hard not to see the panic on his face as he realized some incompetent cook had allowed a single piece of shrimp to contaminate his take-out chicken stir-fry. After a few seconds she closed her eyes, letting the images come, knowing they would prick at her senses until she gave in.

She saw his handsome face turning red, his smooth voice gasping for her to retrieve the rescue syringe, hands digging at the outside of his throat as if this could somehow stop the swelling within. Those hands reaching for her from where he had fallen to the floor when she returned empty handed, his face purple, his eyes bulging and begging for help. She heard her own tearful plea for help from the operator, and the whine of the ambulance in the driveway.

The whoosh of breath from the paramedic performing CPR as he dropped his weight on her husband’s chest, his clenched hands breaking Michael’s ribs. The soft beeping sound of the machines in the hospital, slowing then stopping as they unplugged the life support and let him go. The sound of Andrea wailing that
they couldn’t be sure, he might not be brain dead!

Stella wiped her tears with the back of her hand and finished her wine in one long gulp, before refilling the glass once again. She toasted the empty chair at the head of the table.

“I miss you, Michael. I never knew I could miss you this much.”

The two glasses of Moscato on top of the martinis she drank at lunch, along with the recent onslaught of melancholic memories began to conspire against her. Stella placed her glass gently in the sink before stumbling to the bedroom. Collapsing upon the bed she and Michael had shared for five years, she gave in to the sobs and cried herself to sleep.

***

Stella woke from a nightmare so awful her stomach churned, sending her scrambling to the bathroom in just enough time to see the day’s meal and alcohol reappear into the toilet. When her retching had subsided, she turned the shower on as hot as she could stand it, and stood beneath the scalding stream, the remnants of the dream fading slowly. She knew that in it Michael had been alive again. She could hear the fading echoes of his voice calling her vain. Calling her a whore.

Standing before the full length mirror she ran her hands gently across her bare body, stopping to caress the concave smoothness of her belly before trailing her fingertips over the small tattoo on her right hip. Michael had hated it, saying it looked trashy and marred her otherwise perfect body, but Stella loved that tiny rosebud with its delicate, encircling thorny vine. Leaning her forehead against the cool mirror, she let her hand wander back to her stomach with a heavy sigh and thought about what was really behind the nightmare. The fight. That stupid, wretched fight.

In five years of marriage, Michael and Stella had their share of quarrels like any other couple, but that last one had been different. There had been such a hardness in Michael when he said he would leave her. She’d known he meant it. She couldn’t even blame him for it. Not really. Hadn’t she been the one to lead him on about his desires for a family, only to find every excuse possible to put it off?