Send Her My Love

I slump on the couch with my head in my hands and decide to give up crying. My eyes burn. My nose is raw. Crumpled tissues lie on the coffee table, soaked. I hear his voice echo in my head: I love you. Holding the last tissue in my hand, I throw the wad at the pile and watch as it topples to the floor.

“I will never leave you and will always be faithful,” his voice says. I glare at nothing. I sink further into the green linen couch and rub my hand over the coffee-stained arm rest.

“I want silence,” I whisper, hoping the house’s ghosts will pity me. Children’s laughs and screams echo in the room. I remain still and wait for the voices to pass. I realize like my husband’s voice, the children are not real �" only a memory.

I try to think of excuses, reasons, and apologies. I want to forgive him. I need him to tell me everything would be okay.

“We are okay?” he responds.

I smack the air in front of me. “You are not real,” I yell. “You shouldn’t have done what you did �"” My voice abandons me. I stare at the wall and remember the roses he gave me once. I reach for my eyes and cover them. “Cry, damn you.”

As a little girl, I made a promise. I watched my mother live an empty life full of pain and regret because of my father’s cheating ways. I refuse to live my mother’s life. No second chances. I look toward the luggage sitting near the doorway. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. Do I really want to do this? I was a child then; I am an adult now. “Why? Why did you change?” I cry, wanting his voice to reply and tell me what I need to hear.

As I knew he would, his voice replies, “I didn’t change. You did.”

“Don’t give me that crap,” I growl. “You changed. I didn’t. I told you that I’d leave if you ever cheated on me.” I grab my keys and stand. I shove them into my back pocket, walk into the kitchen, and look at the time. He will be home soon. I go to the fridge and take out a plate of food that I made earlier. I smell the spicy oregano of the lasagna from last night’s dinner. I resist taking the pan out of the fridge so I can wash it. Instead, I close the door, but the smell lingers. I move his food to the microwave. I leave a note underneath the silverware and napkins on the counter. I spent hours thinking of the four little words written in black ink. He needs to remember my last words.

I leave the kitchen and pace near the front door. “Don’t leave,” his voice echoes. I stop and look back at our small apartment. “Stay with me.” I grab and shake my head.

“No,” I shout. I fall onto my knees. The beige tile is cool against my skin. I turn my head and look down the hallway. Last autumn we painted the walls white together to cover the awful pink color we both hated. “You’ll cheat on me again. I know it.” Silence is my response. I uncurl my body and push myself off the floor. I smooth the wrinkles out of my clothes and then reach for my purse. I stop. The ring is still on my finger. Back in the kitchen, I gaze at the note and slip off my wedding ring.

I hesitate. Will he come after me? I want him to find me. I shake my head and mumble, “My phone is off.” I smile and look up at the ceiling. Maybe I can pretend nothing happened between us. I can stay and live my life with the man I love, even though he betrayed me. I can add to the two years we already shared if I stay. I imagine our unborn children and how they will age.

I lay the ring on top of the note.

He made his choice that night he went to the motel, and now I make mine. Without another backward glance, I walk out into the hall with luggage and purse in hand. I lock the door and before I close it behind me, I whisper, “Goodbye Jason.”

***

I walk in through the door and expect to smell homemade rolls and chicken pot pie. Instead, a faint aroma of last night’s lasagna greets me. Something is wrong �" the lights are off. I slam the door behind me and shout, “Molly?” Nothing. “Answer me.”

I take a few steps into the living room and look around. I notice the scattered tissues all over the table and floor. I pick them up and throw them into the little trash can by the couch. I wonder if she is sick or was crying. I sigh and collapse into the couch. I should probably go look in our bedroom. She’s probably sleeping. I don’t want to get up though. “Molly!” I shout. “Where the hell are you?” I listen for a response. I need to see if she’s all right. My body is heavy and refuses to move. I remain on the couch and groan. My fingers brush the brown-stained arm rest.

“Surprise!” She shouted. “Happy birthday.” I jumped forward and spilled my coffee all over me and the couch.

“Damn it, Molly. Don’t do that,” I shouted as I winced from the hot coffee. “Go get a towel before it stains.”

I loosen my tie and unbutton my shirt as I smile over the memory. Work was getting harder. I work longer hours, and they refuse to pay overtime. As soon as I can prove myself,

they’ll make me manager. Then things will get better. I kick off my shoes, prop up my feet, and close my eyes.

I yawn and stretch. The lights are off, and it is dark now. With my head resting on the cushions, I listen for any noises in the house. A light breeze from the ceiling fan shakes the wind chimes near the window. The clock above me ticks in tune with my wristwatch. I half-expect to hear her footsteps in the hallway. Maybe a sound replayed in my memory, or perhaps I really heard her. I leap off the couch and practically launch myself into the hallway. I switch on the light. Nothing �" just an empty hall with doors and picture frames. I lean against the cool wall and rest my forehead on the plaster. I stand there for a couple moments until I finally walk to our room. I turn on the light and throw my coat and tie onto the bed.

“Jason, I’m waiting for you.” Her voice sang. She lay on the bed with her arms over her head. In lingerie, she grins and motioned me to come closer.

I shake my head and free my mind from the memory. I stare at the bed. She isn’t here. My mind is playing tricks on me. Fear fills me. I ignore it. I am hungry; that is it. She is all right. She has to be. I change my clothes, and after looking around, I start noticing things that are supposed to be here. Her lotions, clothes, and jewelry are the first. Fear overwhelms my body now, and I shake with it. I move faster down the hallway. I call her on my cell, but there is no answer. Maybe I missed her voice mail.

“No new messages. First skipped message.” Molly’s voice fills my ear. “Jason, I’ll be home in a little while. There was a long line at the grocery store. So if I’m not home, don’t panic. I’ll be home in time to make dinner. We’re having lasagna. Love you. Bye.”

“That’s it.” I tell myself. “She’s late. She didn’t leave me.”

I call her five more times. Each time I leave a message. “Molly, where are you? Are you all right? Please answer the phone. Call me. I don’t know where you are. None of your things are here. You’re at the store, right? I bet you’re buying things for our dinner. Call me back, please. I love you, Molly. You didn’t leave me. You’re coming back. I know you are.”

I dial the hospital next. “Excuse me; is there a Mrs. Molly Tyler there? I’m her husband Jason Tyler?”

“No sir, I’m sorry. There isn’t.”

“I haven’t heard from her. And I’m worried she was hurt in an accident or something.”

“I’m sorry sir. She isn’t here. Try calling back again or the police in the next twenty-four hours.”

I hang up, shoving the phone into my back pocket. Her missing things bother me. I want to go look for her, but I am not sure where to start. Doubts fill my head. Every one of them has a voice of its own, whispering its sins to me. I feel sick, and everything is spinning. I love her. I thought she loved me. I thought she was happy. We have just started our lives together. We have plans to have children and grow old together.

I need something to settle my stomach. I want a glass of water. I stumble the rest of the way to the kitchen. I grab a glass and let the faucet run. I watch the water drain. I am wasting water, and somehow in that moment my thoughts drain away with the water. Reality isn’t kind, and I know that. I drink and turn off the faucet. I lean against the counter and stare up at the ceiling. Drops of water fall from the faucet and splatter against the sink �" I listen until I finally ask, “What should I do?”

I rub my eyes and switch on the light. I see the silverware on the counter and move closer. I pick up the thin gold wedding band. My eyes water, and my mouth dry. I clutch the ring and pull the note from underneath the fork and spoon. I read the simple words:

Send Her My Love

Reviews

[Chris]

I admit that I would have written this differently - but that IS what authors do, we write in our own style. I wish the title wasn't the four words because it took away from the end. Using opposing views is a fair line to follow but your "man" didn't reflect guilt (which though it could have easily fallen into cliche could just have well made your effort more compelling).

May I suggest you read this story slowly - both verbatim AND aloud. Let your voice flavor the words with the tone your mind finds inherent with only the words you see. Visualize the descriptions and what your words define - the flaws become apparent and the seeming stumbles can be readily smoothed.

Also, the site software often randomly replaces dashes with quotation marks AFTER you press the Publish Tab. Authors need to revisit their newly posted works to review and correct for this flaw. I have found that once you correct a site-software induced error that it stays corrected. And yes your post has a dash or two that became quote marks.

Again welcome to WC... and I look forward to your thoughts.

Take care,
Chris