Sometimes, when I’m in a blue mood, I listen to it and imagine he wrote it for me. Now and again it helps me to climb out of the darkness and gives me hope. Hope that maybe someday somebody cares enough about me to do something so special for me; like writing a song. Perhaps Beethoven would have? Who knows?
I must have done something wrong at the funeral. But what? Helen was furious afterward. She always finds something. No matter how hard I try, I never get it right for her. The things she’s accused me of having done, or not done, would fill a book. I am just too forgetful and too featherbrained. She says I’m a disappointment.
She’s probably right. I’m disappointed in myself, too.
When I recall the events of the funeral, they are fuzzy. It’s as if I’m hiding behind a curtain of dense steam rising from a witch’s cauldron. I half-listen to speeches, half-watch people file by and half-shake countless hands. I’m not really there, but people don’t know that. They don’t know they can’t reach me, and I can’t reach them. Not that I mind much.
People scare me. Horace used to chide me about it and called me his “silly little wifey.” Perhaps he was right? It’s stupid to be afraid of people if everyone is nothing but nice.
The pounding in my head turns into monsters clawing at my head with talons sharp like razors.
Painkillers. I need painkillers.
I get up from my bed to find my pills. As soon as I turn on the wall lights, the scary shadows that lurk in the darkness give way to my warm, cozy room. I can’t find my pills anywhere. It’s probably a good idea to have something to eat first but my stomach rebels and roils at the mere thought of food.
Horace is dead. I still can’t fully grasp it. Even the funeral hasn’t made it more real for me. Ever since I remember, he’s been looking after me. How many years have I existed next to him like a family heirloom, too precious to throw away, but too damaged to love?
With him gone, I have no sense of where my future is taking me, no roadmap to follow. I must be sensible. But how can I be sensible when my mind is either numb from drugs or chaotic and noisy like a battlefield?
I still can’t find my pills and step into the half-light of the hallway. At the top of the stairs, I stop and listen to the angry voices coming from the downstairs living room. Yes, angry voices frighten me too.
“I want Elizabeth gone. We should’ve taken care of her ages ago, but Horace thought he could control her. I expect you to help me. The van from the clinic arrives tomorrow morning.”
“I don’t know if that’s wise, Helen.”
“Leave the thinking to me. All you have to do is prepare the paperwork for that crazy woman.”
Nailed to the spot, I’m listening to my sister-in-law planning my death. Cause that’s what it’ll be. Death. Locking me up in a clinic? Soon nothing would be left of me. I might as well be dead. A tidal wave of fear rises inside me and sweeps me away until I’m just a floating bit of debris among the screaming voices in my head.
I’m fumbling for the handrail to hold on.
Don’t lock me up again.
With all this shouting, crying, and lamenting in my head, thinking becomes impossible. It’s like having a large choir in my head where everyone shouts from a different sheet. They gave me pills to get rid of the voices and make the chaos in my head go away. When did I last take them? I forgot.
Helen spoke of my future as if it meant nothing. She showed no compassion as if I am a tiresome chore that one must do, like cleaning the bathroom or putting out the trash. Perhaps that’s what I am, trash that needs to be gotten rid of. Weren’t there times when we got along or did, I get it all wrong? Didn’t I do all I could to be the person she wanted me to be?
I’ve been Elizabeth, the friend when she needed to rant about Horace. I’ve been Elizabeth, the maid when she needed help with the wardrobe, and I’ve been Elizabeth, the charwoman when her cleaner didn’t show up.
My future might not mean much to her, but it does to me. When Horace died, a door to freedom opened. I glimpsed possibilities I never dreamed of.
Horace always treated me as the ten-year-old orphan he took into his care. Our relationship never advanced from the guardian and ward mode to that of husband and wife. Now he’s dead and for the first time in my life, I’m free to make my own decisions.
I’m not fooling myself pretending it isn’t scary. It is. But, it’s also exciting.
Sounds from downstairs make me listen up. What are they talking about? I strain to listen but the more I hear, the more I’m getting mixed up.
“This might be the most dangerous thing you’ve done. Send her away? Have her locked up? The instructions were always to keep an eye on her. Have you already forgotten? What if…”
I recognize the voice. It screeches like fingernails on a blackboard. Without any melody, hollow, and barren of any emotions, it fills me with fear. I’ve seen the man a few times in our house. His pale, gray eyes look cold and hard, even if he puts on a smile. It’s Dr. Malcolm Storm.
“She’ll go to a place where we can trust the staff.”
“You are the boss.”
What are they talking about? I am confused. It doesn’t make sense. I know Helen often fought with Horace demanding better treatment for me—or was it a different treatment? Is that what she’s talking about? She always said she
