The Wave by Kristen Crusoe (smallest ebook reader txt) 📕

then hygiene, then morning group. Clair refused it all. She hadn’t eaten in two days, taking only sips of water. Refusing medications. Speaking in short staccato responses to questions. Yes. No, I don’t know. I don’t care. She had been served with a notice of involuntary commitment. Offered an attorney. A hearing was scheduled, to determine competency to stand trial for the attempted murder of her husband. They said she had to talk, to tell her story. It would help her. Still she remained silent, until now. Something about this woman, Jet, opened her up. Clair thought she knew her from before. But couldn’t remember. That hair, white blonde, wrapping around a heart-shaped face; dark eyebrows and eyes deep blue and discerning. A large yellow dog sat on its haunches in the corner. Jet had introduced her as Maggie, a therapy dog. She locked eyes with the dog, then feeling such unconditional kindness emanating from her, looked away. It was all just too much. This being alive.

Clair’s breath came ragged, remnants of the endotracheal tube causing throat constriction. With gaze cast down at the floor, words trickled out, a whisper on exhalation.

‘I waited for the wave, the one that would take me to Devon, my son. I wanted it to locate me, to find me. I was sending out a GPS signal. I knew from physics that energy is never destroyed, it just changes. Every atom, molecule that made up my boy still exists, right. He’s still out there.’

She looked up at Jet, her eyes glistening, challenging. Dark brown hair, limp and tangled, fell around her angular face. She pushed it back, then let her hands fall back into her lap.

‘Sometimes I can feel him, his hand in mine, his breath, sweet and soft, on my cheek, like when he used to lay his head on my shoulder when we read together.’ Clair leaned forward, wrapping her arms around her body.

‘I had to get rid of the blockage, the barrier to reconnect with my son,’ she said. ‘I watched, waited for that special wave, the seventh one, the biggest one, to take me out. To join him. I remembered reading a book, Papillon, where a man waited for the best wave to help him escape his prison island. That’s what I was doing – but not escaping from, going to. Going to my Devon.’

‘But why kill your husband, Clair?’ Jet asked.

‘I couldn’t live. Couldn’t see a life ahead for me and it was because of him. Adam was the obstacle. I wanted him to see it coming, to feel the fear, to be sorry for once in his wretched life. To feel blame, pain, anything besides his own fucking needs and pleasures.’

She spat the words, gripping the chair arm, pressing back, resisting an explosion of movement. This room was so small and her grief so big, she wondered how she could contain it. Her gaze shifted back to the painting.

‘When I got home from work…’ she stopped, caught her breath, shuddered. Her hands – long slender fingers, chipped nails – gripped her knees, drawing them to her chest. ‘Or what used to be work,’ she went on, bringing her eyes back to Jet. ‘He was on the deck, laughing into his phone. His hair was getting long, curling up at the edge of his collar. I used to love to play with it when it got like that, curling it around my fingers as we sat and talked. Or maybe I just imagined that too. Like I imagined so many other things, like him ever truly loving me or Devon.’

Clair stood up, walked over to the window, looked out onto the third floor parking lot, almost empty at this time of day. Her body, still bruised in places, moved slowly, carefully, like an old person. An ambulance passed by, without lights or sirens. A bad sign, she thought. No life, no need to hurry. She turned back to look at Jet, lifting her head ever so slightly. A sad smile twitching at the corner of her mouth.

‘I really had no choice,’ she said. ‘I knew I had to die, and I couldn’t let him live on, as though nothing had happened. So, yeah, I had some pills left over, from when Devon was, well, from when he disappeared. Lots of them really. I didn’t want to be numb, after. I wanted to feel everything. And then, nothing. But, Adam first. I went into the kitchen; saw he was drinking his good Scotch. She must be special, I remember thinking. I ground up the pills, mixed them in. It wasn’t enough. So, yeah, I crushed some more, made a cheese spread I knew he loved, spread the drugs on some bread. Cheesy bread he called it. Sprinkled it with paprika to cover any white powder or funny taste. I thought about how the food would slow down digestion, take longer. I mixed him another drink. Added some of his blood pressure pills to that. Decided that would be OK, it would give me time, and draw out his suffering, his knowing he was dying.’

Clair stopped talking, walked back to her chair. ‘Well, that didn’t work out for me either,’ she said. ‘I failed at dying. Failed at killing. And failed at saving my son.’

The room held the silence while Clair sat, legs crossed. Tremulous fingers brushed against the chair arm, jagged nails catching in the worn fabric. She looked down at her hands.

‘I used to play cello,’ she said with a short laugh, looking up at Jet. ‘Now look at them.’

‘We can get you an emery board, Clair,’ Jet said. ‘You can tidy up your nails, wash your hair, get freshened up. You’ll feel better. But, let’s continue for a bit longer, if you’re OK? Tell me about your life before.’

Clair nodded, resting her hands in her lap.

‘Once upon a time, I was happy. Or if not happy, content. My life was the way I wanted it, orderly, neat, like an