Georgia lies in bed, eyes closed, curled into a ball, listening to the soft tick-tick-tick from the clock in the living room as it counts down the minutes until morning. The minutes tick into hours, and the hours creep past midnight, past one, past three, and still, sleep does not come.
The bed is too big, too empty, the nook behind her knees, too cold. Even though she’s rolled up an extra blanket and tucked it into the empty space—a placebo is what she’d have called it back in her nursing days—it doesn’t help.
It’s only been three days, she tells herself. You’ll get used to it.
Three days since she’d found Boris, her mixed-breed rescue mutt, unresponsive on the kitchen floor. He was fifteen years old; it was just his time to go, Dr. Doherty had told her. Now Boris resides in the small silver box on the mantle, next to the black marble urn that contains Raymond.
You’ll get used to it.
No. She won’t.
The bed is too empty, too big—yet still too full, too small. She lies near the edge of the left side, just as she has for the past forty-three years. The right side - Raymond’s side - is vacant. But still, she reaches for him every night, only to remember, he’s not there.
She would never get used to it.
She kicks off the thick quilt, and lifts herself out of bed, her old bones protesting with the sudden movement, and she wonders why, when everyone she has ever loved is gone, is she still here?
Why? Why? Why?
And then, a thought blooms dark and comforting.
She doesn’t have to be.
Wrapping her robe around herself, she slides on her slippers and shuffles to the kitchen. Through the small window above the sink a slice of moon glints white in the starless sky, and from the clock in the living room the minutes tick on, and on, and on. As Georgia waits for the kettle to boil, she pulls a mug from the cupboard and, after searching through a myriad of prescription bottles, finds the one she’s looking for.
When the kettle sings, she pours a cup of chamomile, and because it is a special night, she adds a tablespoon of honey. Two tablespoons. Then she pulls a white capsule from the bottle and empties the contents of it into her tea. Then another, and another. She knows the exact amount necessary to bring on the sweet nothingness she so desperately desires.
In the living room, she sinks into her favorite chair, reaches up and twists the knob on the lamp, casting a weak glow throughout the darkened room. The dark recess of the fireplace gapes at her like an open mouth, and from the mantle, small silver boxes glint like sparkling eyes—Boris, and Charlie, and Moose and Buckles, and Ginger, and Monty and Cinder. And, in the tall black urn between them, standing like a sentinel at the gate—Raymond.
She cups the hot mug in both hands, and her eyes fall to the side table under the lamp, to the small silver bowl resting on a white doily, the intricate patterned lacework reflected on the shiny surface. A wedding gift from whom she can’t remember. It surprises her that such a fragile thing had lasted so many years without getting broken.
Doris Mulvany, from book club, has a similar bowl. Georgia has seen it at her house and commented on it. Doris’s bowl contained caramels wrapped in cellophane—the grandkids just love ‘em, Doris had said and asked what Georgia kept in hers.
Dog treats, Georgia had told her. I bake them myself.
Oh, I’m sorry, Doris had said, and Georgia had to clarify, as she often did, no apology was necessary. She and Raymond had been childless, and thus grandchild-less by choice. Their fur-babies had been enough.
But now she wonders - had they, really?
Georgia brings the mug to her nose, smelling the bittersweet aroma, and closes her eyes. She thinks of a quote then, something she’d read, but can’t remember where.
The space between life and death is shadowy at best.
Who was it who’d said that?
‘Edgar Allen Poe,’ says a familiar voice, and Georgia jumps, tea sloshing from her mug onto her lap.
There, sitting in his favorite chair, gray-bearded and blue eyes sparkling, is Raymond. And nestled in his lap, tail wagging, is Boris.
Georgia knows they are figments, delusions, a fantasy her feeble mind has concocted to deal with the grief.
And yet, dear god, how she has missed that smile!
‘I see you made yourself a special cup of tea.’ Raymond nods towards the mug. ‘Are you sure?’
Georgia shrugs. ‘Not particularly.’
‘Good, ‘cause neither am I. You know, if you’re thinking there’s no one left for you to love, and no one left to love you, maybe you’re looking in the wrong places.’
Boris barks in agreement, and she gets the gist.
‘Raymond, I need to know. Do you have any regrets?’
‘Not a one,’ Raymond answers. ‘And neither should you.’
‘Not even… well…children?’
‘Nope. We were enough.’
Georgia nods. He’s right, she knows. She guesses she just needed to hear him say it.
‘Your tea’s gone cold,’ Raymond says. ‘I think you should go pour it down the drain and make another.’
‘Yes,’ Georgia agrees. ‘I think I will.’
But she makes no move to rise from the chair, doesn’t want this illusion to end, doesn’t want to lose the moment.
‘Well,’ says Raymond finally, and stands, Boris snuggled in the crook of his arm. ‘I guess we’ll see you when you get there.’ And before she can say anything else, he is fading, a chimera dissolving into mist, and seconds later, they are gone.
Georgia stands, pulls her robe tighter around her shoulders, and shuffles to the kitchen. The shelter opens in two hours. There’s just enough time to do some baking.
About the author
Nikki Blakely lives in the SF Bay Area, and enjoys writing stories that evoke smiles, tears, laughter, the occasional eye roll, and sometimes even a scream. Her work has appeared in Uncharted, Sundial Magazine, Bright Flash Literary, Luna Station Quarterly and others. You can read more at www.nikkiblakely.com
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