Matilda

Birdsong pulled her from a restless sleep. Matilda blinked. Her shoulder and neck were wickedly stiff. A thick shaft of sunlight came in the open window, a square spotlight on the wood floor at the foot of the bed. She stared at the dust swirling in the tunnel of light for several long, unmoving moments.

Henry is my husband.

She could hear him breathing steadily on the other side of the bed, but didn’t look over.

Henry is my husband. Lucy was our daughter. And she died. She died!

Matilda remembered it all, every terrible detail. All six years had come back to her as she slept, the worst nightmare of them all.

Somehow I did this to us. I erased those years with the fire of my grief.

She felt the power of the words she’d said in the car. I wish I’d never met you. How could she have such power, to actually make the black wish come true? How did she live with this? How did she face that power and not shrivel away into nothing?

What happens now?

Matilda slipped soundlessly off the bed. She stood for a moment in the warm shaft of sun, her gaze on Henry. She wanted to touch him. She wanted him to wake up and tell her none of it was true. But she knew it was, without a doubt. “I’m sorry,” she whispered as she moved away. Fighting the pain, she left the apartment. It was just past dawn. The streets were still deserted; only the birds greeted the sun. She realized halfway to her house that she’d left her shoes. Her feet were starting to get raw from the rough pavement and asphalt. She sighed with relief when she stepped onto the cool, dew-damp grass of her backyard.

Glancing at the garden, a raw ache in her chest, she went into the house. She lifted the typewriter from the floor and set it on the coffee table. Slowly, she rolled a fresh sheet of paper into the platen. Her hands trembled over the black and silver keys.

Henry, I remember.

I remember Lucy. Do you remember her? We had a child. A beautiful, sweet little girl. She died, and I wished our lives away. The power of my grief somehow answered that sadistic wish, burying our lives. This is my fault. Jetty warned me about grief and I didn’t listen. Now I’ve ruined the beauty of what we had. Lucy is gone, and I destroyed our memories, our love.

I don’t know how to say I’m sorry. It doesn’t matter anyway; there is no forgiveness for this.

Goodbye, Henry.

Matilda left the typewriter, tears rolling down her cheeks. She packed a bag, numb and dazed, thinking only one thought: I ruined everything. She put on fresh clothes, good sneakers, and brushed her hair and teeth. Ready to go.

Stepping out in the backyard, she remembered her car was at Henry’s. I’ll walk. I’ll just walk until there is nothing left of me. She went to the garden, put her duffle on the grass by her feet. Her beautiful, thriving garden. She picked a basil leaf, smelled it. An inexplicable rage burst in her chest, so hot and surprising, she reacted before she understood what was happening. With vicious hands, she ripped off whole chunks of the basil plant. Tore at the tomato and pumpkin vines, cutting the flesh of her palms. Grunting, nearly screaming, she kept going.

Ripping.

Pulling.

Destroying.

Strong hands yanked on her shoulders, pulling her back. “Stop it!”

Henry’s face in her face.

“Tilly! That’s enough.”

“No!” she screamed, beating on his chest. “Go away!”

He didn’t go away; he held her tighter, fighting her rage until she was exhausted. Finally, her eyes focused on her arms and hands pressed against him. Dirt splattered all over her. She saw it on her arms, felt it on her face and clothes, like blood at a murder scene.

“Tilly?” Henry said cautiously.

“I …” She looked from him to the massacred plants to her hands stained brown and green. “Lucy … our sweet Lucy,” she sobbed, collapsing to the ground, kneeling with her face in her hands.

Henry knelt beside her. “Tilly, look at me, please.”

“No, I can’t,” she cried. Matilda felt her chest would cave in, her body would burn to ashes. “I ruined us. I have to leave. I have to go. Leave me alone, Henry. Let me go.”

Henry said nothing, and Matilda knew he blamed her.

As he should.