Fifty-Five

Daniel Addas







How to get away with the second murder, blame it on someone else, someone who doesn't exist, someone the police can't question.
John O'Connor.
"So if your other personality, John committed the murder. How'd you know what happened?"
"John keeps a journal."
Jones opens his mouth and gives a few soundless gulps. Shakes his head, loosen his broad shoulders. "A diary?"
"Well— yes."
He looks at me curiously. "Do you have this...diary."
"Journal. Yes it's right here."
Jones takes it and flips through the pages. He sighs and stops at the only post written in red ink.
It reads as follows:

After I have showered. I lie in bed for a few minutes until I look at the gold clock over my bed and the time reads ten forty-five. I am scheduled to leave in an hour. I dress in dark jeans, grey t-shirt and fleece jacket.
My decision to join the military was based on the promise I made my dying mother. Aunt Dahab and her husband, Ali don't understand why I'm still willing to go even though they're sending me to Afghanistan, a death trap as my Aunt is fond of reminding me.
Through the opened window of my bedroom I watch Wendy Sherman make her way to my house. Dahab, the last time I saw her, was sitting on the chair, a forgotten cup of tea in front of her, eyes brewing with unshed tears. Ali was clenching her shoulder, silently offering his support. I know this is how Wendy will find them.
It takes moments but voices drift from the kitchen into my bedroom.
"Is he ready yet?" Wendy asks Dahab.
Dahab exhales shakily. "He's in his bedroom."
I keep track of Wendy by the click of her heels on the tiles. When she reaches my bedroom door, she doesn't knock but just stands there. She must be composing herself. Terrified. She made it no secret: she doesn't want me to leave.
"Come in, Wendy," I call out to her.
She looks horrible. She's been crying. I'm sitting on the bed, paging through our photo album. I know she's crying because I'm leaving her behind. Her eyes are red. The nose is shining as though she has applied a ridiculous amount of vaseline on it — I conclude she must've run her handkerchief over it more times than her poor button nose could stand.
I barely recognise my room today. The bed has been striped off its navy and green duvet set, the drawers are empty, my bags are all packed by the door.
She swallows. "You ready?"
I swallow as well. Can anyone ever be ready for such uncertainty but I force a smile and say, as enthusiastically as I can muster, "I'm so ready."
She lets out something between a sob and a laugh and the result makes me clench his chest. How can I leave Wendy behind? Who will look after her? What will become of her? Who will she be motivated to get out of bed for if I'm not there?
Before I'm aware of my actions, I fling myself at her and hold her tight. This right here is breaking my heart and I'm fighting off tears. I know I'm making things harder for her, but I don't care. The only thing that matters to me is that she's safe in my arms. She smells good, like raspberries and lemon soap. She smells like home. My comfort. And we just stand there for what seems like hours. The silence doesn't bother me. To me, it's like time has stopped to give me one final moment with the woman that matters more than life to me.
"I'm gonna miss you," I say. "Take care of yourself."
"I will."
I pull back from the hug and hold her shoulders really tight in my inflamed fingers. I've never had much tolerance for the cold.
"No, Wendy, I want you to promise me."
"Hey," she wipes away the tears in my eyes. I clench my jaw and avoid her gaze. "I wouldn't miss seeing my boyfriend jump off the plane a year from now for anything. Okay? Plus we'll have a baby boy by then."
"Oh." I take a breath, and the silence is heavy on my chest, suffocating me. "I almost forgot. You're really excited about this, sweetheart."
"I'm sure Mama will want to take over the arrangements for the nursery ," she says, trying to cheer me up. She smiles, but it's all wrong. It doesn't reach her eyes. "I'll make sure she doesn't spoil our child."
She touches the side of my face and smiles a little. Again the sadness overcomes me, and I feel everything unravelling. I kiss her then until my head starts to spin. Wendy's arms envelope me, tightening around me with each tick of the clock. Her hands tangle in the knots in my hair. I don't mind the pain. The only thing that matters is that I file this moment in my memories. It's impossible to tell how much time passes until I break the silence.
"We can go," I sigh against her hair, tightening my hold on her for a second and finally pull away. "Wait for me."
It is hard for me to let go. I miss her warmth. I miss the feel of her arms around me. Part of me was hoping this day would never come and now that it's here my stomach is hollow, the air is toxic. I can't seem to draw in a big enough breath to sustain my lungs.
This is the end of me, but I force myself to smile.
"Hey, I'm pregnant, ain't I?" She snorts. "It's not like any guy would want to be a step dad. I'm not looking anyway."
I look into her eyes and clutch my heart again. She flashes me her breath taking smile and for a second it does reach her eyes. It is in this short second that I catch the look only reserved for me. It's a look that says; I could never want any man but you.
"I love you, sweetheart," I remind her because it's true.
"I love you, too."
I take her hand tightly in mine as I shake my head. I say, "No, I'm not saying it like we usually say it. I mean I love you."
She looks at a complete loss of words.
She helps me take my bags to the car. I don't allow her to carry anything heavy. We're in the sitting room with love seats vacated at the windows. The room, now that the door is closed seems to be glowing in its blue light. There's a big TV that sits over a fireplace, one that would help keep the cold from my hands.
Wendy. I don't want to leave her. I want this moment to pause. My heart twists for a second before I remove the thought from my mind.
Sitting around the family room, waiting to bid me goodbye, are my parents of sorts, and Wendy's mother, Brooklyn and sister, Sue.
"Aunt Dahab, Brooklyn," I say. I take Wendy's hand in mine and watch our hands intertwined in what could be the last time. My throat closes. I have to clear it before I'm able to speak. "There's something Wendy and I would like to share with you."
It is quiet. The silence is worse than the unbearable pain weighing in my chest, heavy enough to crush me. I breath in slowly and let it out. This doesn't help.
Dahab looks at Wendy. The waist in particular. Her head cocked to the side, distress creeping into her face. Then she blinks and narrows her eyes at us.
"Please don't tell me you're pregnant," she says, her eyes wide and alarmed.
"No but... Er—" I cut off suddenly. My throat closing, my heart is heavy. Dahab relaxes.
"We're engaged," Wendy says. "And pregnant. Three months."
My Aunt doesn't look pleased, she eyes the ring on Wendy's finger with overwhelming sadness but she doesn't voice her thoughts or doubts (I know she has those. I know this woman as well as she knows me. The bond we share allows me this luxury).
"Congratulations," Sue says.
Ali scowls but offers no negative opinions about our engagement. Brooklyn does congratulate us and she means it but I catch a distinctive look in her eyes, she's scared somehow and I can't comprehend why. It's not like her daughter and I will elope. She touches Wendy's cheek and tries to smile. She comments on the ring: loves it. She grasps my shoulder and gives it a squeeze.
"Honey?" Dahab says anxiously from the doorway. Her hands are trembling and her voice shakes. I frown. She is a cold woman, so it doesn't make sense for her to be showing this much emotion. I study her. I notice there is no falter to her steps. Dahab is sober. The first in ten years. And that's why she's trembling and sweating. "You're coming home, right?"