Content Warning: Death
My husband is dying. The kettle whistles and I toss the thought aside. It’s not as if anything can be done for him at this point. I just wish things could be different.
With a sigh, I pour myself a cup of tea, watching as the leaves swirl in the steaming water. It’s difficult to tell if my actions signify contentment or apprehension. Maybe both. Although feeling any contentment when my husband is in such pain makes me queasy.
I take a seat by the fire, sinking into the plush leather sofa. The crackling and the hearth serve as the perfect backdrop to the snow falling outside. Holding my tea, watching it all, curled up in a soft cream knit blanket, I can almost ignore the apprehension—almost stop myself from watching the door in fear.
We were supposed to have come here together. A friend of my mother owns the cabin and when she heard that it was our anniversary, she graciously offered to let us stay here for a weekend to celebrate. But now, after his accident, I am here alone. For the time being, at least. Another furtive glance towards the door assures me that nobody is there.
Paranoia has set in. Objectively, I know I’m safe. Nobody is going to venture out here at night in the middle of a winter storm. I need to clear my head—the thoughts of death have been inescapable lately, especially tonight. Here. Alone.
The wind whistles as it gusts against the side of the house, momentarily drowning out the sound of the fire. I can’t stop myself from looking at the door again. No knock, no sign of anybody there. Just a feeling that there must be.
Teacup in hand, I stand up and walk to the cabin’s entrance. Then freeze. What is my plan here? If I am so terrified at the possibility that he might be there, wouldn’t opening the door and knowing he is be worse? Wouldn’t opening the door allow him access inside? I can’t cope with this. I need to know.
Avoiding the little window to the left of the door, I press my ear against it. No good, all I can hear is the howling of the wind. Steeling myself, I take the doorknob in my hand and freeze again. I can’t make myself turn it.
No, no, I can. I can do it. I’ve done so much already, this is nothing in comparison. A deep breath, and I yank the door wide open, looking out to see… nothing. Of course. Nothing is there. He is not here. With a chuckle at myself and my wild imagination, I close the door gently but firmly and then double-check the locks.
Now that the perceived danger has passed, the reality of my situation sets in. I really am here, on my anniversary, alone. I’m so tired. A bone-deep weariness sinks into me, washing out anything else. Even the tea does little to help with my energy. Although my original plan was to stay up tonight, I decide to trudge up the stairs to the loft bedroom instead. I have to change my plans, but I can think of something tomorrow.
Eschewing my normal bedtime routine, I walk directly from the stairs to the bed and get right under the covers. The fire downstairs is keeping the cabin warm enough, but the thick duvet is still a blessing as its gentle weight pushes down on me. Looking over at the empty side of the bed, I can’t help but think of my missing husband with a pang of guilt. A tear wells in my eye and then falls, shortly followed by another. Is he still alive? Will he survive until the morning?
The calmness of sleep takes me before I have much time to contemplate it further.
Morning finds me well-rested and more awake than I’ve felt in a long time. Something about the mountain air, the solitude, must be helping. I reach over to the other side of the bed and feel the cool emptiness, but I am determined not to dwell on that. Today is for finding joy.
I’ve always wanted to try snowshoeing. The snow and wind last night have blanketed the entire landscape in a soft, silent white. I bundle up and find the snowshoes that were left at the cabin—there is a pair that is a perfect fit for me, as I knew there would be.
Outside, the crisp air bites at my nose and the exposed part of my ears. Cold enough to distract. The glittering white snow is blinding as I look out on it—not a single track marring the perfection. It’s as if nobody has been here, not even me; the events of last night completely erased.
I know of a waterfall a short distance from the cabin, and start making my way towards it. The powder crunches underneath my shoes as I float across it. The sound sends shivers down my spine.
Without the snowshoes, it would have taken hours to trudge through the now waist-deep snow. There is a divot of a trail nearby where somebody had done just that before the most recent snowfall. I continuously look for tracks on that trail, but find none.
The snow creates a sense of eerie quiet, as if it is attempting to fabricate a sense of calm, but even the fresh snow cannot silence my pounding heart. In the serenity surrounding me, that thudding becomes all I can hear until finally, finally, I make out the crashing of the waterfall. I will be there soon.
Picking up speed, I use my anxiety to spur myself forward. I am simultaneously excited and terrified by what I might see—by what I might not. The river comes into view. I’m a bit further north than I meant to be, and I follow it downstream, the rushing waters hidden under a layer of ice.
The crashing waterfall is all I can hear now, and ahead I see the cliff where the land falls away. Not giving myself time to think, I push forward right up to the edge. An intrusive thought tells me to jump but I stuff it down, instead peering over the edge.
There it is. A mound, covered in ice from the spray of the waterfall right on the bank of the river. Not far from where I left him sprawled out last night. The snow creeps up, trying to cover, but it cannot hide the red that spreads. It is official then. I am a widow.
I pause to savor the elation that rushes through me. My chest feels light and for the first time in years, I take a deep breath and relax my shoulders. It is done. My marriage is over. Tears of joy spring to my eyes, and I begin to cry in earnest as relief floods every fiber of my being.
But enough of that for now, I can celebrate later. I have to stick to the plan. Still crying, I take off my glove and pull out my phone. Carefully I dial three numbers.
“9-1-1, what’s your emergency?”
Letting my voice catch on a heaving sob, I scream, “Help! There’s been a terrible accident!”
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