The Plan

Somewhere a wood stove burned, the sweet smell of the smoke combining with the sharp cool tones of the crisp autumn air. The morning sun rose in its own time over the horizon.

I never really liked mornings before, until I got married that is. Something about being the first to rise in the house offered a kind of… quiet. A quiet I sorely missed. I loved my children, but when the youngest left for university 2 months ago I felt like the most horrible mother in the world to feel a sense of relief that held hands tightly with the grief. Of course I missed them dearly, but finally… finally I could focus on The Plan.

Just then I heard the bedroom door upstairs open followed by foot steps to the bathroom - 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9. Always 9 steps. A symphony of piss, flatulence and mucous followed.

‘Just in time to ruin a lovely morning as always, Rog’ I thought to myself. Wearily, I put the cast iron pan on the stove to preheat, the kettle on to boil, and 2 slices of bread in the toaster. My hands worked automatically as I moved through the kitchen, the muscle memory burned deep into my flesh.

I expertly cracked 2 eggs into the pan as the dread hit an all time low. I inhaled – 1, 2, 3, 4 – and held my breath – 1, 2, 3, 4 – and exhaled – 1, 2, 3, 4. The twitch in my face I wasn’t entirely aware of before faded as my nervous system relaxed.

“Just follow The Plan,” I whispered under my breath.

It’s not that I didn’t love my husband, or even that we had a bad marriage. In fact, all my friends used to tell me how jealous they were of Roger and I. We were living the American dream after all, our little family.

“Bee?”, Roger called down to me as I scooped each egg onto the buttered toast. His croaking morning voice sent chills down my spine like nails on a chalkboard.

“Yes, Rog, breakfast is on the table,” I said flatly. He clumsily lumbered down the stairs – 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10. When he got to the bottom he let out a wet, hacking cough, then pulled out His Chair at the table. As I poured our tea, my mind time traveled to the time our youngest son, Billy, had tried to sit in Roger’s chair at the table. I could still remember the poor boy’s cries as his father-

Quickly I snapped back into the moment as boiling water spilled onto my hand.

“Shit,” I muttered, turning to the sink to run it under cool water.

“Graceful as the elephant you are this morning, huh Bee?”, he let out a cackle, a boyish glimmer in his eye, egg yolk dripping down his chin as he chewed greedily. It was disgusting.

“I suppose so,” I said carefully, “although I see 2 elephants in this room.”

A moment of silence followed by his plate smashing into the wall beside my head, yolk splattering everywhere. Disgusting. My already tense shoulders shuddered as I heard him stand up from the table, and finally relieved when he pulled half a pint from the freezer and sat back down.

‘Follow The Plan,’ I thought to myself.

“I’ll clean that up after breakfast,” I said out loud.

“That’s what I thought you’d say. You know, Bee, you’re so predictable it’s embarrassing,” he sneered.

I focused in on my breath again. 1, 2, 3, 4. 1, 2, 3, 4. 1, 2, 3, 4. My hands steadied enough to pour my own cup of tea.

“Well, you’re right. I sure am predictable, Rog,” I passed Roger his cup as I sat down across from him.

“What can I say? I know my wife quite well after 30 years. Just like I know you’re gonna listen to me a little better now that it’s just you and me. No one’s here to help you now, huh?” He snickered, “No one's here to help you now that Billy’s gone.”

“32 and a half,” I said quietly, studying the table.

“Huh?” Roger replied, pouring some of the black rum into his tea. The smell hit my nose, putrid. Disgusting.

“We’ve been married 32 and a half years now,” I answered.

“I think we both know I lost count after 3,” he said nonchalantly.

“You really think you know me? That I’m that predictable? That I have no secrets left?” I inquired.

“Woman, you’ve lived the same day again and again, every damn day, for over 30 years! What secrets could you have left? Jeez, have a slug of this and loosen up a bit,” he said, gesturing to the bottle sitting between our cups.

“I suppose you’re right, dear,” my tone flattened.

I sipped my tea using both hands to steady my cup. It was hard to tell the difference between a regular day with Roger or just feeling nervous about The Plan, although on this particular morning my tongue tingled. Maybe that was from the nerves. I tried not to show even a hint of anything other than complacency on my face. Roger drank greedily from the half pint bottle, abandoning the cup of tea completely. The sharp aroma of the alcohol turned my stomach and burned my nose, I almost couldn’t stand to breathe.

“Now, how about after breakfast you head into town and get me another couple pint-“ abruptly, he went quiet. A strange look came over his face, as he grabbed at his chest with his right hand.

“Bee,” his voice strained, “call an ambulance. I think I’m having a heart att-“

Before he could finish his sentence he tipped out of his chair landing loudly on the floor. I took another sip of my tea, and another few breaths. 1, 2, 3-

“What are you doing woman?” he managed to say, veins bulging from his forehead.

“Sure dear, let me call them now.” The Plan was working. I was so excited for the taste of freedom, my throat felt tight. I stood up and walked to where our phone hung on the wall next to the notepad I would write my grocery list on. 32 and a half years worth of grocery lists written in that spot. Where had the time gone? In a swift move I tore the phone from the wall, whipping it across the room where it landed beside the shattered breakfast plate.

“You bitch!” he wheezed, “you planned this?!”

With a faint glimmer in my eye, I met his and allowed a soft smile. My lips felt strange and almost numb, perhaps from keeping them pursed to not show any hint of The Plan.

Clutching his chest, he spit “I guess you had more secrets than I thought, huh Bee? Well guess what? I had a secret too.” A wide, evil smile split his face that was now turning a light blue. “I bet your tongue tingles doesn’t it?”

He took 2 more gasping, convulsing breaths as his eyes rolled up in his head. Realizing what I was feeling wasn’t nervousness or excitement, I dashed to the kettle and removed the top. Peanuts.

Quickly, I dashed upstairs to my bedroom. Epinephrine was too expensive and not necessary, according to Roger, but after he told me we didn’t have the money for it my friend Alice had bought me one for my last birthday. Silently I thanked her as I pulled open my top drawer and reached to the back. My hand grasped at the plywood of the drawer and socks with no match.

Panic set in as I began to wheeze. I pulled the drawer out and dumped it on the bed, frantically searching through undergarments and socks. Finally, I grasped the small cylinder in my hand.

‘Alright, orange to the thigh, blue to the sky,’ I thought as I prepared for the jab. My throat tightened harder. I always hated needles. I wished I could breathe. Instead I counted in my head – 1, 2, 3.

I braced on 3 expecting the needle to puncture my skin and drive deep into the muscle, delivering that lifesaving medication that was too expensive and not necessary. Instead I felt nothing.

Bewildered, I looked down at the pen. Written on the orange cap was a sad face.

My vision blurred and narrowed as the oxygen deprivation set in. I threw the spent Epi on the bed, trying to make my way to the phone just as I remembered; I had ripped it out of the wall.

As I collapsed and lost consciousness, an ironic thought entered my mind and left just as quickly, ‘well… this wasn’t part of The Plan.’