Swan Song

I do not awaken so much as arrive abruptly in an awake state. It is as though I drifted off mid sentence and my eyes open again a moment later. I discern only the deepest black. I am in a dark room—the attic? I know I’m at home—it smells like home. But why I slept up here. . .

Cobwebs cover my arms and I shudder as earwigs slither beneath me. My neck aches and I wince, loath to touch it. My arms are stiff and I each breath feels like it is drawn through cotton. 

Caldwell and I must have had a fight, although I cannot remember the specifics. In the beginning we never used to fight. Never. When we disagreed I simply pressed the part of myself that wanted to scream and gnash my teeth down into a corner in my brain, trapping it with no light, no oxygen until it died or withered away. I counted to ten or twenty or one thousand and then I forced out a tight smile, tongue tucked between my teeth until it bled. I swallowed back the bile of my anger and moved forward. 

That was in the early days, though.

Now Caldwell is a scab I have to pick. I tug at the ragged edges of us until we split open and drip blood. We have a spat once per day. I can remember the moment the fights began. We were at my mother’s clearing out her things and I had placed the box of tarnished silverware next to the door. Caldwell picked it up and tossed it into the back of his truck, rubbing his hands over his thighs with a grimace. 

“Do you really want to keep each and every one of her trinkets?” He had scolded me. I tried counting and got to six. I had not intended to keep all of my mother’s trinkets—the silverware would have served a better purpose at a consignment shop. But Caldwell didn’t even ask he just assumed. At four I exploded on him.

“I have kept every single faux treasure that your mother has dumped on me—every single one. The tarnished necklaces, the random bars of soap. If I want to keep my mother’s silver it is my right!” It was such a stupid fight. So stupid. But Caldwell’s eyes widened and then narrowed imperceptibly and he stalked off, leaving me to pack my mother’s life away on my own.

It is strange that I can remember that so clearly but cannot for the life of me remember what we fought about that led to me sleeping here in the dingy attic. Perhaps the garbage or an errant expense or—shoot. I step one blind foot in front of another and trip almost immediately over a soggy box.

Perhaps the most recent fight was about the boxes that have continued to pile up in the attic. I’ve asked Caldwell to get rid of them. Not to make a big deal out of it but this is my childhood home. It’s been with me for twenty-six years. He has only been here for three.

After the fight about the silverware—which I kept out of spite and which have since occupied pride of place in the formal dining room—Caldwell kept every single thing he could think of to drive me mad. Boxes for cell phones and computers and shoes and packages of pens. Everything. When I ask about them he quirks his eyebrow as if to say “it’s my right.” 

My eyes have adjusted to the dim of the attic, but only just. Beams of light pierce the dark oddly and I’m a child again, creeped out by creatures in the dark.

I move to leave the attic, limbs stiff, movements jerky. Jesus—how long was I asleep up here? 

I curse the fact that Caldwell and I have never made installing lighting in every room a priority now that I’m fumbling up here. 

The dim sliver of light bounces from something shiny on the floor—our wedding album. It is here in the box I kicked over. I didn’t even notice Caldwell had moved it. I reach out to open the book but stop myself with a scoff. Caldwell is clearly making some sort of statement.

He can be a bit of an asshole; Caldwell means war when he’s angry. 

I descend the stairs ready to fight. I am unsure about the previous one but this fight will definitely involve Caldwell attempting to move my things like a petulant child. 

These are the stairs I have taken almost every day for the past twenty-six years—yet I stop short. Right beneath the attic is the room that was my childhood bedroom, which Caldwell and I converted to a guest bedroom two Christmases ago. Adjacent to that the bedroom that had belonged to my older brother, Merrick. Round the corner the guest bathroom, end of the hall a guest bedroom. Master on main.

I shake my head, disoriented. Instead of two bedrooms there is one large open room. Gone is the carpet we have for years sworn to replace. I jerk back as though burned, noticing at last the attic stairs. The bannister is metal and gauche, not at all what it was yesterday.

“Caldwell,” I call, my voice raspy, my heart hammering wildly. Pressure builds behind my eyes, exactly what happens when I’m about to succumb to a nasty migraine.

I take the stairs to the first floor two at a time, stumbling to a halt. Everything is changed but somehow the same.

How long was I asleep? How in Gods name did Caldwell finish all of this in a few hours?

The walls are stripped and painted a deep green. Gorgeous gold accents are everywhere. The floors have all come up, replaced by rich dark oak. The old dining room table is gone, replaced by a rickety antique with deep grooves. The walls are covered with minimalist art, each with rich splashes of paint. There is no way Caldwell designed this on his own.

“Caldwell,” I scream. He can’t have gone into work. He’s avoiding me.

I walk to the front door, ready to track down Caldwell—but I stop short. Through the glass I see Caldwell, his arms around a woman. For a brief moment I think he may be comforting her, but that isn’t Caldwell’s way. Perhaps she’s lost?

I am immediately disavowed of this notion. This blonde thing—a smaller version of myself—puts her arms around his shoulders and pulls him in for a kiss. He doesn’t resist. He kisses her back. On our porch. In our yard. In front of our home.

I back away from the door, horrified. 

Our life has not been perfect, but we’ve been married for two and a half years. We have built something together and one day maybe we’ll have children. I will not. . .I will not be the marionette that was my mother. Always smiling, tucking the lipstick stained collars into the laundry while humming a tune, pretending not to notice. I swallow back bile, stunned. I don’t know what else to do but wait.

I sit on the couch, frozen. My heart aches, my mouth drier than it was this morning. Fuming, I take in the living room, which Caldwell has changed while I was sleeping. While I was in the attic likely waiting for him to come and talk to me he was making changes to our home and apparently inviting the mistress I had no clue he had into our space. The front door opens and Caldwell and his mistress enter the room.

The blood drains from Caldwell’s face when he sees me. His mistress screams, horrified.

Good. She should be afraid.

“Meredith?” Caldwell says my name as though surprised. I roll my eyes. What must he have told her about me? Where did he think this was going to end up when I awakened?

“How could you?” I whisper. 

Caldwell recoils, reaching out to grip his mistress’s arm. His mistress whimpers, hiding her face in the crook of his arm. 

I suppress my laughter.

“It’s alright, Darcy. It’s okay.” he comforts her, kissing her head lightly. I could strangle him.

“Seriously? I’m right here!” I shout at him. My throat aches, and it feels as though my mouth is again filled with cotton.

Caldwell shakes his head. I would have expected him to apologize or at least send her away. Instead he sighs mournfully and says,

“I thought we got rid of you.” 

My heart drops. My mouth moves but I can’t speak.

“What?” 

Caldwell stares at me strangely. He moves to the mantle and pulls down a frame. He places it before me careful not to touch my hand.

“Is this a sick joke?” 

Inside the frame—an obituary. 

Meredith Ophelia Monroe 1988-2014. 

It is mine. My name. My birthdate. And. . .

“Caldwell this is disgusting. You’re. . .are you threatening me?”

Caldwell shakes his head sadly.

“Meredith this is real. This is yours. It has been yours.”

My own face smiles up at me strangely and I’m going to be sick. Except now I can’t feel my throat. Or my stomach. Or even the pounding of my heart.

I scramble to my feet, the feeling of cotton threatening to choke me. Images flash in my mind. 

I remember. I was in the attic. Installing a damn light. Caldwell and I had argued about hiring someone to install lights so we could see. He claimed there was no money or no time. I stalked up the stairs myself. I tripped over a box and landed backwards. A blinding pain shot through my whole body. And my neck. . .

“You come back every single year,” Caldwell murmurs. “The day after. . .it happened. For the past six years.”

“Six?” I whisper. “I’ve been gone for six years?” 

Caldwell nods. 

“Meredith you have to let me go. You have to rest. Be at peace.” 

I shake my head, refusing to believe. 

“No. No. No nononononononono. I won’t. I can’t be dead. We have our lives to build together!” 

I shake my head over and again until everything is a blur.

I must fall asleep at some point because I do not awaken so much as arrive abruptly in an awake state. I feel as though I drifted off mid sentence and my eyes open again a moment later. I discern only the deepest black. I am in a dark room—the attic? I know I’m at home—it smells like home. But why I slept up here. . .