The Ties that Wound
an excerpt

The door slams behind her and she flinches. All day she avoided their eyes, their questions. Finally alone. She looks at the wallpaper in the bedroom. It’s a soft yellow with pink pansies strewn across it as though an angry gardener flung a flower bed at the wall. The centers of the pansies are like eyes, watching her every move. She squeezes her eyes shut and still the flowers linger, floating before her like a ghostly shadow, haunting even her secrets.

The house is quiet, but that could change at any moment. She paces the room while the voices squeeze at the edges. She shut them out all day, but they will no longer be silent. “You’re just like her,” one voice whispers, accusing and triumphant.

“No, no, no.” She cries, her voice rising with each repetition. “No!” She drops to her knees and clutches her pounding head between her hands. Her fingertips dig into her scalp as though to plug the holes that let the voices mock. “There’s only one way to stop it…”

She rocks back on her heels, eyes locked on a pansy near the corner. The pattern there looks most like a face. When they first moved into the house, she insisted they put a table in that spot even though it looked out of place. After they kept stubbing their toes, she gave in and moved it. The pansy stares into her secret and she forces her eyes away. They land on the bottle on her night stand.

Before she can give in to its allure, she finds a piece of paper and a pen. She writes several lines, then scratches them out and writes again. Tears drop into the ink and smear it across the paper. She crumples it and pulls out another sheet. But it’s useless. There is no way to explain.

She cries harder. Why did she ever let it get this far? She should never have become a mother. She should never have been born. The pink flowered walls close in. The room feels smaller and the bed looks larger. She’s having trouble breathing. She breathes deep, forcing the air into her lungs. They expand and her head feels light, but the air doesn’t have enough oxygen.

She cocks her head, but the sound is just the house settling. She wonders if the walls are in fact moving. The air is stale and she breathes faster. The voices are more insistent.

She stumbles to the table, eyes riveted on the small orange bottle with a white cap. Her name is on the label. If her doctor had only known the truth.

She picks up the bottle, twists off the cap and stares in. There is peace at the bottom, she’s sure of it. But only if she’s brave. Others won’t think so, they’ll call her a coward. Maybe that’s what she is, but she doesn’t want courage if it means she has to keep on feeling the hot knife in her belly. It’s the only way to remove it.

She slides down the bed to the carpet and leans back against the down comforter. Did it ever comfort her? Her thoughts scatter like the flowers on the walls. The only reality is the solid plastic in her hand. She spills half of the pills into her palm. They look benign. Appearances fool you. She knows all about that. How many people have said what a wonderful mother she is?

She reaches for the glass of water. She drops the pills into her mouth and takes a long drink, swallows and leans her head back into the softness. Soon, soon.

Before she drifts away, she gets into the bed. He’ll be home before long and he’ll find her sleeping peacefully. How deep, he won’t know until morning. When she’s arranged, she finishes what she began. She drops the bottle into her drawer and places the glass on the table. She closes her eyes. Her limbs feel heavy and light at the same time. Soon, soon.

Mother was right. She was right about me.