After Life-Prologue
PROLOGUE
The taste isn’t the same. Nothing is really the same anymore. Gone are the days of that spectacularly dry but soothing burn of a cigarette, the way it coats your insides like a warm blanket as you breathe in the heavy, poisonous, wondrous smoke. It’s different since they’ve banned the good stuff. It’s just vapor now. No smell, only the artificial taste of whatever it is you crave, the nicotine wrapped up in a nice little bow. Bubble gum flavor. Chocolate cake. French toast. Bacon. It’s all there for the taking. Diane Black takes a drag from her e-cigarette. So much has changed since he left her. She grabs a beer from the refrigerator. When her husband was alive she didn’t touch the stuff. She always hated the taste. But now that he’s gone she’s learned to appreciate a nice beer buzz. That first night alone, his six pack sitting there on the bottom shelf of the fridge taunting her, laughing at her. She drank herself to sleep that night.
Loss is an acquired taste.
Now she keeps the fridge stocked with beer for moments just like this, when the loneliness is too much to bare. Simon, the man she had tried to love after Michael, had done the trick for awhile, but even he turned out to be a poor substitute for a cold sip of imported ale. She glances over at the counter at the half eaten birthday cake her daughter bought for her. She takes a swipe at the white icing with her finger and tastes it. Her own daughter still can’t remember she prefers chocolate over vanilla. She walks into the living room and sits on the couch. “On,” she says. The television pops to life. A man and woman argue on the screen, actors playing out the drama of life. She has trouble caring about the shows anymore. All that fake emotion is a stinging slap to the face now. She rests her head on the back of the couch and stares at the television but sees nothing; listens to it, but hears nothing. A loud man trying to sell the best mattresses in town breaks her from her trance. A sudden cold chill courses through her entire body, bringing her back to life. Something’s changed. She mutes the television and listens to the silence. She looks to her right, the weird sensation that someone is there is unmistakeable. She takes a very deep breath and closes her eyes. “I miss them so much,” she whispers to herself. “Off,” she says, opening her eyes, the silent television blinking to darkness. The silence only lasts for a moment, though, as the television chirps back to life with a repeating beep. “Answer,” she says. A little box pops up on the screen that contains her daughter’s name. “Were you not planning on calling me?” the voice calls out from the television. “I was,” Diane replies. “Been busy, that’s all.” “Busy,” the voice replies. “Yeah.” “I cut my hair,” says the television. “Wanna see?” “Sure,” Diane replies. “On screen.” Her daughter’s visage appears where her name once was. The dark circles under her eyes are accentuated by the fact that she has yet to put on any makeup. Her rounded cheeks and big eyes used to make her look young for her age. Now she looks sad, like the first blemish on a perfect rose before it starts to wither. “What do you think?” her daughter asks.
“You look tired, Elizabeth,” Diane replies. “The hair, mom.” “I hate it. It’s too short.”
“I can always count on your honesty.”
“You asked,” Diane replies. “Fullscreen,” she says, Elizabeth’s face now taking up the entire screen. The television shows the freckles resting on the rounds of her cheeks; subtle freckles just like her father. “Well, I like it,” Elizabeth replies. “That’s all that matters.” “It’ll take some getting used to,” Diane replies. “And it’ll grow back.” “Who am I trying to impress anyway?” “What about Henry?” “Gone with the wind.” “And Derek?” “C’mon, mom. Really? Besides, I’ve got other things on my mind. I’m almost done with my first session.” “I don’t understand why you have to go to classes for that.” “There’s a difference between being a good cook and being a chef, mom.”
“Yeah, a few thousand dollars.” “It’ll be worth it. And I’ll pay you back. I promise.” “I know that,” Diane replies. “And even if you don’t, it’s okay. What do I need it for?” “How are you doing, mom?” “Fine.” “No, really. How are you doing?” “Good days and bad. It never stops hurting. Even after all this time.” “Well, next time I come over I’m cooking this great new chicken dish that will blow you away.” “You really love it, don’t you?” asks Diane. “Yeah, mom. I do. And it helps to focus on something. I’m doing better now. I really am. I wish I could get you out of this funk.” “You know how it is this time of year,” says Diane. “Birthdays were his thing.” “I know,” Elizabeth replies. “Looking forward to tasting that new dish,” says Diane. “Your dad used to always say that good food and family were the keys to life. Your grandmother was a magician in the kitchen. You must get it from her. I know pasta, and that’s about it. And I still burn toast.” “I have to go, mom. I love you.” “I love you too, Elizabeth.” Elizabeth’s face disappears. Diane gets up from the couch and walks up to the television and stares at it for a moment. She shakes her head when she notices the line that has been drawn into the thin layer of dust that covers the entire screen.
“I really need to dust,” she says.
She walks over to the table next to the couch and picks up a bottle of pills, peering inside with some hope that a pill might be hiding at the bottom. She throws the empty bottle at the wall. There’s still another week until she’s eligible for a refill.
She stands in the silence. The loneliness is too much to bare. She wishes she could cry, but all she feels is anger. Anger at herself for not being able to move on. Anger at her dead husband. The lingering taste of beer harkens her back to the kitchen, the call of a potential buzz too much to ignore. After a trip to the bathroom she returns to the kitchen. She reaches out to open the refrigerator door. An icon that she has never seen before is flashing on the digital screen on the closed refrigerator door.
She presses the touchscreen.The words pop onto the screen.It’s hard to breathe. Her heart begins to pound out of her chest. She’s dizzy. She squints at the words to make sure they are actually there. She focuses just enough to confirm the words on the screen, her stomach now uneasy.
I’m sorry. Love, Momo.
The words that could have only been penned by her dead husband are most certainly there. She manages the hint of a smile before she faints.
