Portraits of Death

My life was supposed to be boring--scripted, unremarkable—a life mirroring the existence of countless other beings just as ordinary as I am. Every day we wake up to go to our insurance sales jobs or some other abomination we chose to pay the bills. The same job that allows us to put food on the table and makes you drink that extra whiskey (or two) on the weekends. Complete with a mortgage, leftover college tuition loans, two kids, and a loving wife. I'm living the American dream. Though technically, nightmares are also considered dreams. 

I had just landed at the airport, coming home from a conference in Phoenix. We were ahead of schedule which was great for me. If I rush home, I’ll have an hour or so to myself before my wife, Annie, returns home with the kids from soccer practice. It’s not that I didn’t love my family, as any average husband and father would say "I love them more than anything," but having an empty home is something that is so rare and precious that it must be savored, not taken for granted. It deserves your full attention. I deplane and zip through the airport with my carry-on trailing behind me to the rideshare pickup zone, hop in my Uber, and watch traffic blur by from the HOV lane with a self-satisfied smirk.

I thank my driver for the conversationless ride and hurry into the one-story bungalow we call home to gleefully begin my one hour of peace. First order of business was getting out of my work clothes and into my signature gym shorts and ratty t-shirt that had become a summer staple. Annie said I was like a cartoon character how I always wore the same thing, but who was I trying to impress? When I decide I am adequately robed for my relaxation time, I slide in middle-school excitement on the hardwood floors to the back office and plop on my gaming chair that groans in protest that it still has to fulfill its duties of holding my weight. I rummage through the storage bin stowed beneath my desk for my gaming controller and awaken my comatose PlayStation. I look at my watch and rub my hands together. 45 minutes of uninterrupted gaming is about to commence.

The TV displays its royal blue loading screen as I wait for the familiar home screen to load. I wait. And I wait some more. Any minute now. I tap my finger incessantly against the remote at the waste of precious seconds ticking by. Patience was never my strong suit, so I restart both the PlayStation and the TV, only to be met by the same blue screen mocking me with the colors of my archrival. I try again, and one more time to no avail.

“God damnit,” I swear, louder than a grown man should over video games, and helicopter my controller under the desk. It spins through the air over the bin and smacks the wall with a hollow thud.

Wait. Why did that sound hollow?

I look at the wall and like the idea of ignoring the sound. The house is old, and this might uncover yet another issue, which would mean I would have to deal with it. I've already fixed too many things with this house and the thought of sinking more money into our overpriced living quarters makes my head throb. I move to leave but the responsible angel on my shoulder jaws in my ear until I get on my hands and knees to inspect the looming problem. I turn on my phone flashlight to get a better look and my attention is instantly grabbed by something unexpected. Carved into the wall are 3 lines forming a perfectly symmetrical rectangle. The lines are flawlessly straight, not a job done haphazardly, but meticulously crafted. Thin enough to be invisible unless you knew they were there. ‘On second thought, I think we’re all good here,' the responsible angel decided, but the curious bastard on my other shoulder had other plans.

I move my storage bin aside to get a full view of the wall. Tracing one of the vertical lines with my fingertips down to the floor, I notice a tiny notch protruding from the wall between two slits. It’s a handle. This is a drawer.

My eyes grow wide and sweat forms in the armpits of my stained shirt. I feel like a treasure hunter on the verge of uncovering a lost artifact. I tug gently on the handle and the rectangle slides smoothly toward me. The drawer shows no signs of age, the bottom gliding out without any resistance, the inside wafting a smell of new wood, and the paint pristine. Leaning in closer, the thrill of the unknown surges through me, reminiscent of unwrapping a Christmas present at eight years old hoping for a Nintendo 64. My phone illuminates the depths of the drawer and I gaze in bewilderment at its contents.

Inside lies my old baseball card binder. I haven't seen this in years and forgot it even existed, assuming Annie threw it away with all the other relics of my childhood. I grab the binder by its brown leather shell and pull it from the drawer. Confusion takes a back seat to my nostalgia as I rub my hands along the binder’s cover. There could be some gems in here, cards worth some real money! I flip open the book like I’m thirteen again only to be greeted by an unfamiliar face.

Instead of baseball cards, the first laminated page features a single photograph of a man I’ve never seen before. He is standing on a boat, proudly grinning against a backdrop of blue waters, holding up a fish for the camera. Huh, that's weird.

I quickly turn the page and again I’m disappointed by the lack of baseball cards. The second page is like the first, displaying a picture of a man I’ve never seen before leaning against an old muscle car, arms crossed casually while smiling at the camera. I turn to the next page and the next. Each page a picture of some random guy, all accompanied by names scrawled in Annie’s handwriting at the top right corner. I turn the page again only to find it blank, as are the rest of the pages in the binder as if their sprawling white canvas waits for something to consume.

My thoughts spiral into chaos, a thousand different possibilities flood my brain and overload my reasoning. Who are they? Past lovers? Present lovers? Random dudes she finds hot? We never talked about hour romantic histories, mostly because I didn’t want to know. I didn’t care. I love this woman and don’t want to imagine her with anyone else, is that so wrong? But here in front of me, that seemed to be the most logical explanation. Everyone she’s been with is right here, in this book. She kept mementos of all of them. Why?

I’m hurt. Betrayed. It’s odd and I know it doesn’t make sense, but the jealousy is taking over. I’m gonna lose it.

Just calm down, Connor. There's got a reasonable explanation for all of this. Maybe they're potential setups for friends? Or old classmates? As much as I want to believe that and give her the benefit of the doubt, I can't. Annie wouldn’t hide something like this if it were so trivial. I fight the urge to lash out, to rip the pages out and splay them across our house in a fit. I can’t make a scene, not just yet. I have to get more information.

Suddenly, a thunderous stampede of feet and the sound of soccer balls bouncing off the floor jolts me, causing me to bump my head against the computer desk. I grit my teeth, holding back a string of curses, and rub my head. I fumble with the book and hastily toss it back into the drawer, closing it quickly and quietly before someone catches me in my snooping state and this whole thing blows up before I’m ready to confront its true purpose. 

I put on my best ‘I haven’t seen anything’ smile and saunter out of the office.

“Daddy!” My youngest rushes over to greet me, swimming in her oversized soccer jersey.

“Hi, Princess!” I pick her up and twirl her around, causing her to giggle. "I missed you!"

“I missed you too! I scored a goal today!” she exclaims as she grabs both of my ears. I've convinced myself this is how she hugs.

“That’s my girl!” I reply proudly, planting a kiss on her cheek before setting her down “Where’s my boy?”

I glance over at my son, who is slumped on the couch, his sandy hair falling over his downcast eyes. He’s pouting again. I turn to Annie, “Now what?” Dark circles have dug themselves a crescent under her eyes, her shoulders droop, and she moves lethargically into the living room. A pang of guilt hits me. Between her job as a nurse, where she works nights so she can get the kids to school in the morning and running them all over creation while I’m away takes a toll.

“Someone threw a fit when he was the first to miss his penalty kick in practice today," Annie tells me. “Jackson, what did I say? To your room. Your father will talk to you in a minute,” she asserts with such authority I almost join him. Jackson mopes to his room and I give him a shake on the head as he passes. Annie’s eyes meet mine, flick to the hallway behind me, and meet mine again. “Welcome back hon, whatcha doing back there?” Something unfamiliar crosses in her eyes, something I’ve never seen before. A darkness seeping to the surface to examine if it needs to be unleashed.

Sweat drips down my side. Jesus, she knows. What? No, she doesn’t. You’re being paranoid; get it together. Just act normal.

Have you ever noticed that when you tell yourself to act normal, you pretty much do the opposite? “I was…uh…looking…uh…for…some…m-mold.” Mold? Even I'm surprised at my excuse.

“Mold?” her eyes narrow, and her mouth hangs slightly open, not quite able to comprehend my stupidity.

“Yeah,” I cough. “Johnson at work said he had mold, so I uh…thought I would check things out.”

She sighs, too exhausted to deal with me. She steps toward me, and I instinctively flinch.

“Jesus, Connor. What is wrong with you? Are you on drugs?”

“What?” I reply incredulously, like I’ve never done drugs before. “Of course not. I’m just… tired.”

“You’re tired,” she gives me the look. The look all wives reserve for occasions of supreme oratory stupidity by their husbands.

“Yeah. Right. Sorry.” My eyes dart to the ground. “I’m uh…gonna jump in the shower.

“Don’t forget to talk to Jackson,” Annie says kissing me on the cheek. My face grows warm and flushed. The light brush of Annie’s warm lips against my skin still gives me goosebumps.

I toss and turn all night. When I close my eyes, what is normally darkness filled with random squiggly lines has been replaced by the binder and its inner contents. I should let it go and forget it exists. What I saw in Annie’s eyes when she looked past me to the binder’s location is haunting me. I wrestle with my memories trying to figure out if I’ve seen that darkness before. There was never a time she looked at me that way, I always got the annoyed look. She never looked at the kids with anything more than the deep affection only a mother can have.

A memory pops into my mind like an old movie. We were trying to find street parking in downtown Norfolk before dinner. I don’t remember the details, but Annie got into with another driver like I’ve never seen before. In her defense, the man was extremely rude, a huge asshole, and deserved whatever was coming to him. I remember now I saw that darkness. Like it wanted to leap out and strangle the man right there on the sidewalk. She was distraught for days after that encounter while I just brushed it aside.

I had to know. I won’t be able to let it go, and it’ll consume me. The magma of doubt will continue to build and build until one day it erupts causing irreparable damage. Besides, I’m being irrational and childish. I’ll look these guys up, figure out who they are, realize it’s nothing, and move on.

I roll back and forth a few times to ensure Annie is in her deep sleep stage, wait a few seconds, and when she doesn’t stir, I slip out from under the covers and tiptoe out of the room. I imagine myself as a ninja as I float past the kids’ room and into the back office. Turning on my phone's light I pull the drawer and retrieve the binder. I wake up my laptop, shield my eyes from its blinding light, and open the binder to the first page.

“Alright, Micheal Buchanan,” I whisper the name of the first intruder and type it into a Google search. I’m immediately annoyed by myself. There are thousands of Micheal Buchanan’s in the world, have to be more specific. I add Norfolk, Virginia to my search and press enter. The first result is from Ancestory.com. It’s an obituary.

Oh no. Maybe these are all patients Annie has lost. She works in the Emergency Department in one of the largest hospitals in Virginia. She’s no stranger to death. This could be how she deals with it. I click the link and find out Micheal Buchanan died in his home of a drug overdose. My heart sinks. Poor guy. He was so young, only 32.

I hesitate for a moment, considering stopping, but I tell myself that one more name won’t make a difference, and I plug the next name in. Daniel Westerman Norfolk, Virginia. I’m met another obituary. Jesus, this book really is filled with dead guys. I don’t know whether to be horrified, relieved, or saddened. My job is so insignificant compared to hers. Just as I’m about to close my laptop, ready to set aside Annie’s secret, when I notice a series of articles linked below the obituary. Each has a similar title. NIGHTSHADE KILLER STRIKES AGAIN and NIGHTSHADE KILLER VICTIM FOUND. I click the link for the Virginian-Pilot article and read how Mr. Westerman was found in his home with a single puncture mark on his neck, similar to three other males found in nearby areas. Each had lethal amounts of opioids in their system. The media dubbed the killer the Nightshade Killer due to the toxic plant Nightshade, or Atropa Bellodona, that has been used to poison enemies since ancient Rome and medieval times.

Holy shit. No. This can’t be right. I shake my head. There has to be another explanation.

Desperate to prove myself wrong I move onto the next page in the binder and frantically type the name in. I grow stiff as the search yields the same results. The victim was murdered in his residence with a single puncture mark on his neck. Cause of death: opioid overdose. I search again and again; my worst fears being realized.

My wife is a serial killer.

What do I do? Every ounce of me wants to run out of the house screaming. Do I drive straight to the police station with the binder and spill everything? It’s what I have to do, right? What about the kids. What would they think? How can they possibly grow up normal when they inevitably find out what their mother is? They won’t stand a chance, they’ll never be able to recover, any chance of happiness will be shattered.

I bury my head in my hands and stifle the scream that’s been building inside. Just breathe, relax. Nothing is certain, this could be a huge misunderstanding. God let this be a misunderstanding. Please. It can’t be true.

My chair creaks as I slump down overwhelmed. I wipe away the tears blurring my vision and drop my head. Why couldn’t I just let it go? Why did I have to open the drawer? Why? I tilt my head and my eyes fixate on the storage bin filled with my gaming equipment.

Oh God.

 My PlayStation controller is stacked neatly on top. Did I do that? I don’t remember putting it back, but I was in such a hurry. Think, stupid, think! I squeeze my eyes closed and try to remember putting the controller back, but for the life of me, I can’t. I don’t even remember seeing it again after I found the drawer. I never put it back, I’m sure of it. That means she knows…

I’m going to throw up. I need to grab the kids and get out of here. I’ll figure the rest out later, just get the kids and get the hell out of…

I yelp and reach my hand up to feel my neck. Everything begins to slow. My arm grows heavy and bounces off the armrest as it loses its battle against gravity. I feel so warm. So…happy. Nothing matters, all my problems gently unlatch from my thoughts and float away. I slide down the chair as my eyelids grow heavy. Sleep. All I want to do is sleep. My breaths grow long and deep. Slower…and slower. I feel the warmth of my wife’s lips on my cheek and darkness consumes me.