What Earth Called Erebus

Margaret had a secret, and there was no better time to tell it. Once Erebus was as big as the moon, they only had about thirty minutes until impact—that’s what the experts said, anyway—and thirty minutes was just enough time for her confessions. And some tea, of course.

She stared out the kitchen window of their quaint, coastal cottage where the moon was full and glassy. Erebus was putting on a show, saying, I’m almost bigger than you, Moon!, and debris was burning up in the atmosphere, streaking the sky with vibrant rapture colours. One will be taken, the moon was saying, and the other left.

Margaret’s eyes fell in and out of focus—first the moon, then the asteroid, then the dusty seashells on the window sill, then her wrinkled reflection on the glass, then back to the moon, asteroid, shells, wrinkles—as she thought about her life, and God, and her kids who were far away but also looking up, and finally Pete.

Pete was pouring tea and humming a song—the last song he would ever hum. She wondered if he realized that as he dunked the tea bags and reached for the honey. He squeezed a dollop into her cup and stirred. Two sugars in his. Stirred. His hands were shaking more than usual. 

“And the cherry on top,” he said, dropping one ice cube in each mug so the tea would be cool enough to drink right away. “If this is my last tea, I want to finish it,” he told her as they shuffled outside. She thought about the days before they had to shuffle everywhere. Maybe that’s why they called it shuffleboard; it’s a game for old people, and old people shuffle. 

“That was the last time we’ll ever sit down,” Margaret said as they got comfortable on their porch swing and draped an old quilt over their laps. There had been a lot of lasts that day. Last morning. Last shower. Last supper. Last tea. And soon, last confession.

“Indeed,” Pete said, craning his neck up at the sky.

After some time and some tea, Margaret smiled. “It’s prettier than I thought the end would be.”

“Mhm,” replied Pete. “It’s bigger than the moon now.”

Her smile faded, and she sighed. “I have to tell you something, Pete. Something you’re not going to like.”

He kept his eyes on the sky. “Why? Why now?”

“Because I can’t die with lies on my conscience.”

Silence from Pete.

“Do you remember when we broke up?”

He saw where this was going and didn’t want to hear it. Why, in their final moments of life, was Margaret choosing to taint his mind with images he didn’t want to see? It wasn’t fair. 

“I was waiting tables at the time, if you remember, and I was really upset. And Brian ... he was comforting me.”

“Brian.” Pete stiffened. The hunched back he’d been living with for the better part of a decade was suddenly gone, his spine taut with attention. “What are you telling me right now, Margaret?”

She sighed. “We had a fling, as the kids say. For a week. While we were broken up, of course. There was no overlap.”

“A week?”

“Yes, a week.”

“No overlap?”

“No overlap.”

“Okay.”

Pete paused, his hunch returning. Maybe this wasn’t such a bad idea after all. He remembered Brian. He had a feeling something had happened between them, but after he and Margaret got back together, Pete never asked about their time apart. He never asked because he was afraid of the answer—but now he wasn’t afraid. Not at all. 

“Remember when I went to Tijuana for work? In the nineties, I’m pretty sure. Could’ve been early two thousands.”

“Yes.” 

“Well,” Pete continued, “I went to one of those massage places. You know, with a happy ending. They should really call it a guilty ending.”

“Mmm. I see.”

“Yes. It was not my intention going in there, but when she asked …”

“You couldn’t resist.”

“Yes.”

“I see, I see.” She reached out and grabbed his hand. He squeezed in reply. “I have more, Pete.”

“Okay.”

“ … One week while you were away for work, I had the kids stay with Aunt Shelly.”

“Mhm.”

“And I went to the movies with a coworker.”

“A coworker.”

“Mike.”

“Hmm. Yes, I believe I remember Mike. Tall guy?”

“Yes. Very tall.”

“Right. What happened?”

“Nothing. I swear. He took me out, and he took me home. I don’t even remember what we saw. I was just … lonely.”

“Lonely.”

“Yes, but that doesn’t excuse what I did. And Pete?”

“Yes?”

“I was mostly happy with you. Only blips of sadness here and there. Stupid blips. But I was mostly happy.”

“I was mostly happy with you too.” He paused, feeling the hot sting starting behind his eyes as he stared at what Earth called Erebus. “I can’t think of anything else I want to tell you,” he said. “I didn’t keep much from you.”

“I didn’t either.”

“Good.”

“But there’s more, Pete. Just one more.”

“I’m not sure I want to hear more.”

“Then plug your ears, but this is the rapture, and I must confess before, well, you know.”

Pete wasn’t going to plug his ears. She knew that. He nodded for her to continue.

“Do you remember when we found out I was pregnant?”

Pete broke eyes with the sky. “The first time?”

“Yes. The very first time.”

He nodded.

“I cried all night.” Margaret laid a hand on his cheek and then looked up. “It sounds awful, but I didn’t think you were ready to be a dad. You were still going out every other night, and we were so young. I was so scared for us. Scared for the baby. But mostly scared you would fail.”

“Oh.”

“Of course, you proved me wrong eventually. But our parents, our financial situation, and the fact that we’d only been seeing each other for a few months was a recipe for disaster. We weren’t ready for a baby, Pete. And when we lost her, I told you I miscarried. I told you I woke up in red sheets.”

“Yes. I remember.”

“Well, I didn’t miscarry. I went to a clinic, and … I sinned.”

Pete let the silence hang for a long time. Margaret let her husband of fifty-one years absorb the news, hoping he would reply soon because Erebus had enveloped the moon now. Five minutes. Maybe less.

“I don’t even believe in God,” Pete finally said. “I went along with it because I know He is important to you. And there is no way your father would have given me his blessing if I wasn’t God-fearing. So, I baptized our kids, I went with you to Riverstone on Sundays, and I prayed with you before dinner, all because I love you, not God. I don’t think what you did is a sin, Margaret, but even if it was, I don’t think either of us is going to Hell, or even Heaven for that matter. I think in a minute or two, Erebus will wipe our memories, and we’ll never even know we existed. This is the end. The start of nothing. Just like before we were born. There. I said it.”

“… Pete. What are you saying?”

“Our life really was good, wasn’t it?”

“What do you mean you don’t believe in God?”

“Beautiful kids. Beautiful house.”

“Pete, please.” 

“We tried our best, and it was a good life. A beautiful life. We did everything we set out to do. We had it all. Isn’t it beautiful?” He made a grand gesture toward the sky and his hands were no longer shaking.

Margaret put her head in her hands. There was no time. She wouldn’t spend her last moments in a panic, trying to convince her husband of something he didn’t believe. The rapture was here. It was too late. 

She took a deep breath, looked up, and felt as light as the moon. As light as Erebus. “We will not all sleep, but we will all be changed — in a flash, in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trumpet.” 

“Beautiful.”

“Yes, beautiful. Very beautiful.”

Pete looked at his wife. The big, glassy globes in her eyes broke and ran down her cheeks. His would come soon. 

And then he kissed her. He kissed her for a long time, and when their lips parted, he kissed her again. Last kiss.

They stared at the sky together, but there was nothing to see now. Only shadow. She squeezed his hand. Her grip was tight and full of fear. 

One will be taken, and the other left. Last thought.