Like Cassandra, or Sisyphus, or Bill Murray

It was a sweltering summer evening, the air thick with humidity and the buzzing of insects. There'd be a storm tonight, no doubt about it. Lying in the grass Josie closed her eyes and pictured it. First the distant rumble and a slow darkening of the sky. The insects falling quiet and all forest creatures making their way into their dens. Humans would be the last ones out in the open, breaking into a mad scramble to get the laundry of the line, putting toys and barbecues inside as the first fat raindrops began falling on them. The clasp of thunder, suddenly nearby, and a flash of lightning, scaring the last stragglers back into their homes as a few raindrops suddenly became a flood. She'd be able to see it all from the bay windows. The great spectacle of thunder and lightning, chasing each other through the great dark clouds. The world holding its breath, hoping not be struck down by them.

And then, a minute, or fifteen, or an hour later it would be over. The skies clear again and the heat finally broken. The air would taste fresh and clean, all the dust beaten down by the storm. The world born anew.

Josie opened her eyes again, staring up into the sky. Not a cloud to be seen and though she strained her ears, not the faintest hint of a rumble. No one around but her and the insects, and whatever animals might be hiding in the woods.

A perfect summer day.

Josie got up and went into the kitchen. It was far too hot to cook, really, but she needed the distraction. She couldn't bear to stay outside any longer, waiting for something which wouldn't come.

She'd just finished setting the table when the bell rang. Just as she'd been expecting. She slowly walked to the door, hoping still that this time would be different. That it would be Derrick who'd forgotten his keys, or a friend dropping by unexpectedly, perhaps a neighbour needing a cup of sugar. Hope is the hardest thing to kill.

Instead it was officers Bates and Velt, their sombre faces telling her all she needed to know. Once again she'd been waiting for someone who wasn't coming home.

Past, present, future. It's hard to say. All Josie's evenings had looked the same for a long time now.

*************************

At night she dreams of Derrick. In her dream he's lying next to her in the bed, both of them awake and silent. She fiddles with the necklace around her wrist. Derrick had given it to her on their first anniversary. It had been too long for her tastes, but she could wind it around her wrists 5 times and it'd fit perfectly as a bracelet.

She sits up and unwinds it. Slowly, giving him every opportunity to pull away, she reaches for his hand and pulls it in her lap. She grasps it in her own and starts winding the necklace around again, tying their hands together. It's a bit awkward, doing it one handed, but she's done it often enough that it goes smoothly. She can feel his eyes on her the whole time, but he doesn't stop her. He never does.

It's only when she's done that he speaks up.

'We can't do this forever, Josie. You have to let me go.'

'I know,' she lies 'Just one more day.'

She lost count of how many times they've had this conversation. Derrick smiles sadly and takes her into his arms.

When she wakes up in the morning, he's sitting on the edge of the bed, rummaging through his duffel bag. She takes a moment to study his profile. The strong nose and jaw. The salt and pepper in his hair and the crow feet at his eyes. The slight belly and strong arms. The years they've been together have left their mark, but they haven't detracted from his charms.

He catches her staring and grins at her.

'Up and at 'em Josie love, first day of a holiday is always the best.'

If he remembers the dream he doesn't show it. Josie looks at the clock on the night stand. It's 8:07, same time as always. In exactly 10 hours and 30 minutes Derrick will be dead.

****************************

She hadn't realised what was going on at first. They'd driven up to the lake house straight after work, keen to start their summer holiday. By the time they'd gotten to the house the moon had long since risen. Exhausted, they'd brought their bags in before collapsing straight into bed. Neither of them was 20 anymore.

The late drive had been worth it the next morning, when they'd woken up to bird song and sunlight, the rest of August stretching out seemingly endlessly in front of them. Derrick had made eggs and she made coffee, and they'd toasted their cups to summer.

The day had been perfect. Hot and bright, the rising humidity in the evening promising a spectacular summer storm. Josie'd always loved a good storm. She and Derrick would sit inside sharing a bottle of wine, watching nature's grandest spectacle. Except they'd forgotten to bring a bottle. When Derrick drove down to the local shop to pick one up, it had been officers Bates and Velt who'd come back in his stead. Derrick had been hit by drunk driver and died on impact.

That night she dreamt of him for the first time. Lying in their bed, he told her he'd come to say goodbye. She cried and begged him to stay.

'I need you.'

'I can't go on without you.'

'If you love me you'll stay.'

Lies of course. Husbands die all the time and their widows manage to pick themselves back up again and go on. She can live without him, she doesn't want to. There's a difference.

And if she loved him, she'd let him go. The dead aren't supposed to linger.

Instead, she took the necklace of her wrist and tied them together. She told him that if he goes, she goes with him. And when she woke up, the day had been reset. Like it had all been nothing but a bad dream.

********************

By the time she comes down, Derrick is scrambling eggs in the pan, whistling. He's rarely still or silent. Always puttering about, whistling or humming. It had driven her mad when they'd just started living together, but as time went on she found that she missed him most when it was quiet.

It's a stark contrast to their nights. In her dreams, Derrick rarely speaks. He doesn't hum, doesn't whistle. She can barely hear his breath at night. He simply holds her, a silent comfort.

She walks into the kitchen and turns on the coffee machine. Together they prepare breakfast, sharing the kitchen with the ease of long cohabitation. One of a thousand small routines built around each other. Like her fishing behind the laundry basket for the socks he always drops there absentmindedly, or him gathering her forgotten coffee mugs from all around the house before he turns on the dish washer.

'Are you ok, Josie?' Derrick asks her over breakfast. 'You look tired.'

She looks up from her eggs and gives him a small smile. 'Just didn't sleep well.'

'Lucky we're here then,' he says cheerfully 'naps are a fundamental aspect of any good holiday.'

He toasts her with his coffee mug before opening the news paper. It's the pink mug with 'careful, hot stuff' on it. She got it at a garage sale ages ago and gave it to him as a gag gift. It should be a little ridiculous, a greying middle aged man with a coffee mug that belongs in a sorority. Somehow it's endearing instead. Like the whistling and humming.

She stares out of the window, lost in thoughts again. Later, he'll go swimming and try to cajole her into joining him. He'll tell her 'nothing wakes you up like cold lake water'. Sometimes she'll join him, sometimes he goes alone. Then they'll have lunch, a turkey sandwich for him, whatever she can stand to eat for her. Derrick will take a nap after lunch and then read a bit. Josie's finished every book in the house three times over. He'll take a walk in the forest and then he'll go to the store to pick up a bottle of wine. And he'll never come back.

The only changes to the routine are the ones she makes, and those are never enough. In spite of her best efforts Josie feels the distance growing between her and Derrick, day by day. He stuck in the same routine, and she stuck in her thoughts.

Sometimes Josie wonders which version of Derrick she's most trying to hold onto. Her cheerful waking husband who understands her less and less or the silent sad one who knows exactly what's going on and holds her through her grief.

************************

She'd tried to change things of course. Who wouldn't? It shouldn't be hard really, to save Derrick's life. By the third time around she'd known exactly where, when, and how he'll die. She's tried coming along to the shop, dawdling a little so they'd miss the drunk driver. When they walked out, the same driver had swerved onto the sidewalk instead, hitting Derrick dead on.

She's gone to the shop herself, asking him to make dinner. She came home to find him dead in the kitchen. He'd tripped and broken his neck. She's stayed at the lake house with him. He'd choked on a peanut. Died of an electric shock. Heart failure. She's convinced him to cut the holiday short and drive back home. A deer had jumped in front of the car. Derrick had died on impact and she'd walked away with bruises.

She'd gone a little mad and a lot desperate. She'd tried convincing him of what was going on, scaring him instead. Even when he'd believed, nothing changed except the details. Derrick Whitfall dies on August 9th at 18:37 and nothing Josie does can stop this from happening.

In the end she decided it was better to let him go to the shop. At least she didn't have to see it happen and until Bates and Velt knocked on the door, she could hope that this time he'd come back home.

She tried to end the cycle the other way. To let him go. She'd thrown the necklace out of the window to stop herself binding them together, and then spent 30 minutes looking for it in the dark. She's started putting one of his sleeping pills on her bedside table, determined to take it so she wouldn't dream. And yet, every night she ended up winding the necklace around her wrist again instead of taking the pill.

Over and over, the truth was she couldn't bear to let him go. She'd long lost count of how many times she'd lived through August 9th. Hundreds of times. She'd lived this day for years by now, decades perhaps.

And still it wasn't enough. She's not sure which thought scares her more. The thought that it'll never be enough or that one day it will be.

**************************

Tonight, Derrick talks to her.

'I think you're getting closer.' he tells her.

They're lying on their sides, him wrapped around her, their hands once more tied together. She'd been dozing a bit, surrounded by his comforting weight at her back, his smell in her nose. She'd stopped expecting him to speak; it happened so rarely at night.

'You've stopped setting the table for two for dinner.'

She doesn't reply, terrified that he's right.

*******************

On August 10th at 4:09 AM Josie will wake up alone in a bed meant for two, a storm raging outside. Her first day as a widow rather than a wife. But today is August 9th and she wakes up at 8:07 AM instead, Derrick sitting on the edge of the bed, rummaging through his duffel bag. It's the first day of their holiday.