Beneath the Surface

Marianne knocked twice.

No one answered. Her frail hand hovered just above the handle. She hesitated for a moment longer, then, taking a deep breath as if bracing for impact, she pushed it open.

“Mom! What do you want from me? I already told you to stop bothering me. I’m playing with my friends.” The boy was furiously fiddling with his console, his eyes glued to a bright screen. He did not lift his gaze to look at her.

“I know, I know. I was thinking we could go out sometime. You and I, like when you were little. We could go have lunch someplace nice.”

“What? I can’t hear. Just go, we’ll talk later.” He nodded towards the door while adjusting the huge headphones framing his teenage face. They were a birthday present from his mother. She’d hoped to receive some affection in exchange for the deeply desired gift.

The woman lingered in the doorway, biting her lip and straining against the pain in her chest. He used to be so small, a bundle of puffy cheeks and stubby fingers, a little baby to snuggle and comfort. He would cling to her leg and refuse to let go, declaring that he would never leave her. When he was still a child, he needed her for every little thing, from cuts and bruises to advice and company. Now he seemed not to need her at all. She exhaled deeply. Perhaps it was for the best. She closed the door quietly.

Her slippers slapped against the wooden floor, echoing against the walls as if she were delving into a forgotten cave. She wondered whether the dark walls would devour her whole. She wondered when.

The floor was dusty and stained with spilled juice, the windows smudged with countless handprints. She would clean later. Now, she wanted to read a little. Reading made her feel light—her mind could travel all the miles her body could not. She used to enjoy writing stories too, reveling in her imagination as characters of all kinds swirled around her. Sometimes she really saw them. She felt their fears and joys, their achievements and failures. They made her feel alive. Yet lately, she was too tired to pick up a pen and write for hours. Besides, her back hurt whenever she sat on the stiff kitchen chairs.

The library was too far away from her house and the sun too bright. She would make do with whatever was already on the little shelf in the living room.

Her steps slowed as she heard her husband’s voice. He was pacing around the kitchen table, clutching a phone to his ear, bellowing something about a deadline and incompetent employees.

They had spent more than twenty years together, but she still admired the sight of him in a suit. He was dressed for work, clean and tidy, his dark hair combed back, a red tie striking against his white shirt. She smiled fondly. He had always been her safe harbor, her lighthouse in moments of darkness.

He threw the phone onto the kitchen table, and she watched silently as it skittered over their pretty tablecloth, white with red poppies. They had chosen it together before buying the house.

“Why is everyone so ignorant these days? Nobody can do their job right.” The table shook as he slammed his fist into it. Stepping into the room, she approached him tentatively. She longed for his warmth. She was so cold lately.

“This project is a wonderful opportunity, but the idiots I employ are sabotaging it.” She smiled, hoping he would interpret it as understanding and not ridicule.

He looked up at her, an expression dangerously close to disgust etched on his features. “What are you smiling about? I’m drowning here, Marianne. Look at this place, look at you. The house is a mess, your clothes are appalling—you’re letting yourself fall apart.” He looked her over, his frown deepening. “Take care of yourself. You look ten years older than you are.”

She looked down at her pink dressing gown. It was torn where it always snagged on her slippers. She hadn’t found the energy to sew it yet.

“I’m sorry,” she mumbled, reaching toward him with a tired hand. He swatted it away, making for the door.

“You know, Marianne. I’m not so sure that this marriage is a good thing.”

She had not been expecting that. She just wanted to be happy with the people she cared about, at least for a couple of days.

The bedroom lights were white and far too bright for her liking. Her head was beginning to pulse.

She stared into the mirror. He was right. Her white hair was embarrassingly visible beneath the black dye. She hadn’t been to the hairdresser in months—there never seemed to be any time between the house, Alex’s soccer games, and sorting the last loose ends at her old job. Her eyes were sunken in, surrounded by rings of dark purple. No matter how long she slept, the eye bags were always there. She looked so old.

She used to be beautiful. She liked to think she still was. There is beauty in aging, in deep lines etched into soft skin, telling the tale of a lived life. There is beauty in the comfort of old eyes, in their depth and understanding, their empathy and bottomless wisdom. She remembered her mother’s eyes. They were blue and bright, so irrepressibly wild she saw the deepest seas and freest skies in them. She missed her mother’s courage.

The following day, she went to the bank. The walk was brief and pleasant, the wind soft and lulling. It seemed to be whispering, attempting to soothe her. She cashed in the last check from her old employer and moved every penny in her name to her son’s account. That made her proud. She had done her best to assure him a wonderful future.

When she returned home, divorce papers were waiting on the table. On the same tablecloth she and her husband had picked out together a lifetime ago. She remembered that day. He had been joyous, laughing and joking and twirling her in the air, not a worry, not a doubt in his head. She, on the other hand, had been hesitant—moving in with him was a huge step, a life choice. Never once had she regretted it. It had been one of the best choices in her life, second only to a yes at the altar.

She tucked the papers away in an old leather bag so her son would not see them. It would all be of no consequence in a few days. Perhaps less.

Somehow his doubts, his loss of faith in their marriage, had arrived just at the right time. Maybe this way it would hurt less. Maybe he would live a long and happy life even without her. Marianne just hoped that her husband would remember her fondly. She had, after all, loved him for the majority of her life.

“Alex!” she called out. Her son was heading towards his room, or the fortress of loneliness it had become. “I love you.”

He smiled. “I love you too, Mom.” His answer surprised her. She had not heard those words in a long while. He must have been in a good mood.

She went up to him and embraced him. He was so big, taller than her by a foot. He resisted a little, but then melted into it.

Marianne beamed as she headed outside again. She wanted to buy some flowers, some color to bring into her life—perhaps marigolds, they were huge and bright, or perhaps poppies, so delicate yet so deeply hued. She was in a wonderful mood. She felt warmer than she had in months. Alex had always been her greatest joy.

Choosing the flowers took ages, they were all so beautiful. They reminded her of summers spent at her parents’ seaside house. The gardens there were magnificent, magical in their wildness and so colorful they put a rainbow to shame. She felt young again as she looked into the bright corollas and saw endless plains and a comforting sun. It made her realize just how wonderful her life had been.

Then, to her surprise, Marianne felt her legs give way. Clutching the poppies close to her chest, she sank to the dirty ground. She was scared. She had run out of time. Where was her husband? A faint image hovered before her eyes. He was young, wearing the blue shirt she had gifted him for their first anniversary, on one knee, asking the question of a lifetime.

She smiled, proud. She had kept her secret safe. She had not tainted the last moments she had with them.