At the Seams

Chapter 30: Day 28 - 11:57 pm

Chapter 30: Day 28 - 11:57 pm

In the past weeks, Sam believed himself unable to touch his wife, unable to conceive of her as human. In his mind, Mary transformed from a beloved partner to a cause for which he must fight passionately, not from desire but from the need for survival. One should not touch a cause, for fear the softness will lessen one’s strength. However, as Sam gazes at his wife’s shriveled, gray, silent form on the massive hospital bed, disconcertingly empty after Jay’s murder, he realizes he has an opportunity with Mary he never had with his mother.

“Sam, it’s time,” Simon says in a monotone.

Sam holds up his hand. He only needs another moment. He sits on the edge of the bed, shifting Mary’s frame slightly to make room. His heart quails at her lack of substance. He lays next to her, smelling the dirt and oil from her hair in the fibers of the pillow. His throat constricts sharply, but no tears prickle his eyes. He touches Mary’s cheek, watching the dumbly blinking cocoa-colored eyes. Those lovely orbs, within which Sam has lost himself repeatedly, do not move. Sam lifts onto his elbow and kisses Mary on the mouth. Her lips no longer resemble warm, inviting marshmallows, as they did; they are cool and rough and unresponsive. Sam kisses her again. “I love you so much, Ree. I’m sorry I could not do better by you.” Ginger sobs behind him, and Sam lifts himself from Mary’s side.

Once on his feet, he turns to comfort the mother who gave amazing Mary to the world. The last weeks have been awful between she and Sam, and he wants to build a bridge. He wants to honor Mary by honoring Ginger, by helping her carry the grieving mother’s burden. Before Sam can speak, Ginger reaches back to Oklahoma and smacks Sam’s cheek. Her face is purple with fury. “How can you do this, Sam?” Sam bears the punishment silently. Ginger’s anger blinds her to the deep hurt and disappointment churning in Sam’s young, blue eyes.

“Sam,” Simon says again, “if you’re going to do this, now is the time.”

Sam looks at Simon, whose serene face harbors ice-cold eyes. Sam cannot tell them how relieved he is Mary will never know how they hate her husband, for no more than respecting her orders. Sam says nothing. He turns to the bed and gazes at Mary. He brushes the clumps of filthy hair back from her face and kisses her again. She would want him to, and she would want him to speak, so he does. “Goodbye, Ree, my hero and savior.” He peels back the tape securing the feeding tube to her cheek, as Simon previously instructed him. Sam slides the tube gently from Mary’s nostril, again overcome by the length of the thing—it just keeps coming out of her. Finally, the tapered tip of the tube pulls free with a loud pop that makes Sam’s skin crawl. He drops the tube to the floor and leaves the room without a word.

“Ginger, it’s over,” Simon says softly. Ginger crumbles into a moaning heap upon the floor, and Simon goes to hold her. Together, they watch Mary die.

In a sprawling universe of hallways, rooms, and doors, Mary finally finds the door for which she seeks. By the time she discovers it, her hair hangs to her ass. Her eyes, soul, and mind are empty with comprehension. There is no good and evil; only reality’s nature to tear itself asunder and build itself anew. Mary turns the old-fashioned brass knob set in the rose-colored wood and pushes. The door slides open. Mary expects darkness and encounters brilliant, flashing, pink light. An undeniable force yanks her through the wondrous hole. The last sound Mary ever hears is the door to her mind, clapping shut.

Mary’s body relinquishes its tenuous grasp on life after only sixteen hours, far less time than a human body requires to die of thirst or starvation. Simon calls the time of death at 4:12 pm of the frequently discussed 29th day. “It’s as if she was ready to go,” Simon says to Ginger, trying to give her comfort, only provoking her ire.

Simon recommends to Sam that they avoid autopsy, due to the spontaneous injuries Mary suffered. “Those would be very difficult to explain to an actual medical professional. Not the same as an overworked cop, I’m afraid.”

They would never learn whether or not Mary was conscious.

Two days later, Sam has Mary’s body incinerated, per her final request. The public funeral service displays only an empty casket.

Sam dreams.

The dream is fuzzy and dark, like underexposed film, but throbbing with fervent pink impressions. Sam falls or drifts—he can’t tell which—endlessly through the swirling confusion. He is unafraid. The space feels warm and vaguely familiar.

Sam’s shifting environment suddenly solidifies into a long, twisting tunnel. The walls and floor are a rich, labial pink. He moves with purpose, but cannot feel the sway of his stride. In fact, he can’t feel himself. His body is gone. He just isn’t.

But he is, just the same, only not himself. He is something powerful and purposeful, something with a mission at hand. He travels down the tunnel, which rhythmically flashes and constricts, as if a great fist were squeezing it from the outside.

Sam senses Mary everywhere, all around him. Her insubstantial somethings, with which he has always been in love, flood this place. The smooth, contented tone of her voice just after sex thrums wordlessly through his head. The sweet, smoky smell of her hair plays in every breath of air. The clever, playful flash of Mary’s eye winks in every throb of each fiber comprising the pink tunnel. Sam swims in Mary, revels in her. He feels full for the first time since he discovered his beautiful bride, motionless and trapped inside. He feels an odd but lovely stitch deep within him, or what should be him, and laughs, or doesn’t but feels the flowing joy of laughter.

In the wall of the tunnel, Sam spies a deep crevice, the edges raised like welts. He stops, nests with his nothingness into the crack, and feels strong. Energy washes over and through him, pulses into and out of the tunnel walls. The flashes grow closer together, and Sam feels himself clench, as a muscle clenches when it is most needed. Sam hears a cry, and the crack pops him free into the tunnel. The cries—young, issuing from small lungs and undeveloped vocal chords—continue. Sam flies down the tunnel, now, and a door opens in the pink before him. He rushes toward it, joy exploding his heart as the cries ring through the pink. He reaches the threshold of the door and flies through. As the door begins to swing closed behind him, a wind rushes past toward the pink tunnel. A warbling, whispering voice murmurs, “My turn,” and chuckles deeply.

As the door swings shut, a great sigh issues from the pink tunnel. The light begins to fade, the pink browning like a petal on a thirsty rose. The soft, pink surface of the tunnel rends into gaping crevasses, and then the door closes.

Sam turns in the darkness to see Mary’s smiling face. Her eyes dance and spark and she holds out an infant. Sam reaches to touch the tiny, blood-streaked head, and the dream dissolves into swirling darkness.

Sam dreams no more.