An Aspirin for a Heartache
Copyright © 2004 by LF Goodwyn
All Rights Reserved
No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the author
Ch 1 Yellow Grass
Essence
Water settles in my lower eyelids. I hold my head back and the tears create itchy puddles in my eyes—nothing’s clear—the ceiling flows like a rippling stream above my head and wall hangings turn into bold colorful stripes tightly circling around me. I dab the spillage out of the corners of my eyes with the tip of my finger. Her words crashed into my soul like a tsunami wave.
I can admit sometimes I looked for it—searching pockets, wallets, and sniffing shirt collars for unfamiliar perfume and traces of lipstick. But never did I think that what I'd spent so much time trying to find, would come to a gated community where the picket fences hold hands as they climb over rolling green hills, where pine trees soar in imperial clicks into pale blue skies, on a cul-de-sac street, under a raggedy oversized t-shirt to find me.
"Hello," I spoke coolly.
"My name is Candice...and you don't know me," came in a high pitched ran-together whisper. Panic invaded my mind. Sweat gathered in the palms of steady hands and the phone threatened to slip around like a wet fish.
"But me and Michael, we’ve been having an... you see, we've been seeing each other... I'm in love with him," she blurted then began to stumble.
I couldn't get past the first sentence because it was whirling, like a tornado, shredding my foundation, leaving pieces of my life falling like muddy debris. Her words rose in me like stagnant flood waters drowning my ability to speak. I slammed the phone down, yanked the cord from the wall and flailed it, whip, whip, whip, across the bedspread until the flowers that covered it were tattered flapping rags.
I replay the scene in my head as salt-ridden tears roll down my face, like the ones before them and deposit in the corners of my mouth.
I think of him smugly prancing in here asking me:
"Essence, what's for dinner?"
"Essence, did you pick up the dry cleaning?"
"Essence, by the way, I'm fucking cheating!"
That's what he should have said! Had so much to say...all the while he’s been fucking cheating!
A distant haze swells in the center of my brain. I pace, running my hand through curly brown hair that tangles around my wedding ring and tears at the roots as I pull my hand out only to run it through again.
What's my next move?
I slow my pacing to a standstill, massage my chin, and try to focus in on the essentials.
I got it! I snap my fingers. I should just kill him! I should just wait until he gets home and KILL HIS ASS.
I ought to call my best friends, Jakie, Page, and Kyra, on three-way and say, "Let's go get this mutherfucker, then let's go kill his bitch!" Do some OJ Simpson kinda shit!
But, Kyra’s fine Christian upbringing wouldn't allow her to entertain the notion. If I call her she's only gonna tell me to pray about it. And forget about Page. This isn’t the time to talk about who’s wearing what or a designer handbag. I'd have to kill her right after I finished with Michael and Candy or Candice or Candy, yeah, I think Candy, sounds like a stripper name. Probably he's been fucking a stripper.
Anyway, out everybody, Jakie would definitely roll with me, but with her it's all or nothing. She'll be wanting to dump their bodies in acid, or something crazy and off the wall like that. And I'm too pissed for someone not to try and stop me, 'cause I'll go all the way and think about prison later.
Who am I kidding? I don't wanna kill nobody. With my luck, I'll probably get caught.
Get a grip, girl. You need some wine... and a cigarette. Just sit for a minute... calm down!
I fumble through the wine rack for the most expensive bottle of red wine we have, since this is a special occasion and all. I pour a glass and funnel it down my throat in long slow gulps. I don’t even let the glass touch the counter before filling it up again. It spills over and a tiny red stream flows down the contour of my glass and drips, like little blood droplets on the floor behind my every step.
Now, where are my emergency cigarettes? Forget the cigarettes I need some WEED!
I find a half a blunt in my gold lipstick case from what seems like ages ago. Where is my lighter—I don’t have time to find a lighter!
I see the room in quick hot flashes. The dishwasher. The oven. The refrigerator. The stove. The stove! I can light it on the stove. I push the blunt’s tip into the blue flame and I inhale. The harsh bitterness hits my chest like a blowtorch, opens me up. It tickles my throat and I exhale slowly between held back coughs. A tiny prickly sensation flows through me.
I lean back and prop my leg up against the wall. The slit in my shirt exposes an almond-colored thigh that's on the verge of having visible cottage cheese. I squeeze some of my skin, to see just how much cellulite I have, and wonder if Candy has any.
I take another hit.
———
When I would see him the rustle of passersby and their casual conversations would mute. There’d be a steady thump in my ears countered with a fainter rhythmic peck in my fingertips. My windpipe would turn into a tiny straw, which only allowed a teaspoon of breath at a time. Saliva bubbled into foam and gathered in the corners of my mouth—all of this in his presence. Because his eyes were warm and energetic. Because his jokes were well timed. Because his movements were poised and calculated, and because the smell of his clean t-shirt filled my nostrils and went down like warm chicken soup.
Our relationship was as hot and wild as a forest fire that wrapped us up in its flame and carried us on curds of its smoke. This was in high school, before the mortgage payment, credit card debt, and him trying to gain right of passage into whitecollarness. A corporate cupid shot down his sense of humor. His well-timed jokes were stuffed in a briefcase. His silk tie choked off our communication. His leather belt cut off our circulation. Stress settled into the lines of his face and I just plain settled. The forest fire was out and his eyes were like two lumps of coal. When he walked in a room, I could still hear the television. My ears no longer clogged up. My heart beat kept its normal pace. But sometimes after a night of lovemaking that lifted us from our foundation, we’d surf the small current until it wiped out—this would sustain us. I never questioned the love. The love was there; we were just going through what couples go through, I told myself. So when he came to me with his excuses, I gladly believed them. At least he still cared enough to tell a lie. And a lie, I guess, was all I needed to get through. I take another puff and look up to the heavens.
“I wanna stay, I really, really, wanna stay, but if I stay...”
Why do I wanna stay?
Because, I don’t want the flip side, the single side, the lonely side—the divorced side, the grass on that side of the fence always looked yellow to me. Who wants to be divorced?
I walk into the kitchen drop the blunt roach in the garbage disposal and hit the switch.
I grab a handful of off-white china plates trimmed in gold and throw them one at a time. Like ceramic Frisbees they spin before dropping out of mid-air crashing on the terra-cotta floor. Hundreds of little pieces spread over tiles the way grease in dishwater spreads when you add detergent. My head feels loopy, and seems to roll off my shoulders to a dark and miserable place that swallows my rage and burps deep mournful sadness. I refill my glass with wine, and I don't know how many aspirin will cure heartache, but I take two.
It takes another small handful, emptying the bottle, before a certain dreaminess creeps in.
Each inhale is light as feathers, each exhale falls on my eyelids like heavy dust and they slip between open and closed with the balanced pace of a pendulum. My heart beats, bong..........bong.........bong........like a cathedral bell—the service is over.
My arms wobble when I try to raise up. Everything in sight has a fuzzy ring around it. Breakfast feels like it’s running away from the lining of my stomach. The ceiling collides with the floor and they rotate on an axis—my brain clings to my scalp.
I think I'm gonna die!
Except, I don't think I wanna die!
I muster every bit of strength I have to move one inch and fall. I scoot to the phone like an infant child, each thrust draining me, my eyes fight to stay open.
I tug at the loosely spiraled cord until the phone, along with its base, falls and slides just in front of me. In a curled fetal position I press 911.
It's taking them too long to answer. I'm not going to make it. Oh Lord, what have I done? Lord please don't let me die…please!
"911 what's your emergency?"
"H-e-l-l-o."
"Yes ma'am are you okay?"
"No…No…I've o-v-e-r-d…" osed! Overdosed! Over-dosed!
She can't hear me.
