everyadventure
02-18-2011, 02:21 PM
Suicide is considerably more difficult when you're a mother, thought Elizabeth.
When she was younger, she'd fantasize her death with great flair, an epic event accompanied by a soundtrack of lonesome bagpipes, followed by a lavish funeral, complete with a procession of wailing mourners, and a luncheon wherein the grievers were too distraught to touch the strawberry shortcake.
By now, she'd died a thousand times over. At first she'd imagined her wrists sliced with dramatic abandon, the blood startling against the virgin white of her Victorian-style dress. She would be found lying in a field of wildflowers, her alabaster skin pale amongst the phlox and Queen Anne's Lace.
She'd come to realize, however, that she was rather adverse to pain, and would prefer instead to slip easily into the darkness. Pills, then. She searched her grandmother's medicine cabinet and studiously examined the labels. The selection was dismal. How many laxatives, she wondered, would induce a coma?
When she came across the painting Ophelia, she was nearly undone with jealousy. Ophelia's hair, spread in a lovely halo, and that dress, floating richly-- that should have been her! Elizabeth's death ought to be painted, her fingers curled upward in divine supplication!
But Elizabeth lived on. She felt dreadfully immortal. And now, with four children, things had become much more complicated. She loved her children, certainly, but she also savored her fantasies. It did put a damper on things, imagining their tear-stained faces, their mismatched socks, and their hair, matted and cowlicked. But she couldn't--wouldn't-- give it up.
The key, she decided, was to leave her death open to interpretation. Cutting her wrists, overdosing on pills, drowning-- too obvious, all, and think of the damage a mother's suicide would do to a child's psyche! It seemed to her that the best method would be a car accident. Her husband would suspect (ironically, she always wore her seatbelt, and would note that she hadn't on this occasion), but her children need never know. She imagined the steaming casseroles, the crumb-topped strudels, the latticed fruit pies the church ladies would bring, and felt much better.
Responsibly, she called her insurance company, and asked (discreetly, she hoped) whether a death that was ruled a suicide was covered under her policy. There was a one year waiting period from the time the policy was signed, but yes, it was covered…was there anything else he could do? Was she all right? Yes, she was fine, wonderful, thank you very much!
She waited until her husband came home from work, and served his favorite supper of pot roast and steamed new potatoes. She sent the children off to bed with stories and kisses (she did not lose her temper when her daughter squeezed the toothpaste too hard, and it jetted in a blue stream across the counter), and was collecting her hat and keys when the thought occurred to her that she ought to make love to her husband. Not that she was in the mood, far from it, but wouldn't it be nice if that was his last memory of her? It was true she'd been cold at times past, had gone to bed with a cool washcloth covering her eyes, had turned her back and feigned sleep when he entered the room. But surely he would remember her as generous, loving, if she gave him this night.
She found her satin rose nightie (after a bit of a search, it was crumpled in the furthest corner of the bureau), and turned on the bedside lamp. She called to her husband, who was greatly surprised to find her thus, but was not about to ask any questions.
After the perfunctory act, she rose and dressed, telling her husband she was going to her knitting club. She did not belong to a knitting club, in fact did not know how to knit, but did not expect that her husband would notice this. If he had, if he had said "Really, darling, knitting? When did you pick that up? Will you show me something you've made?" would it have made a difference?
Likely not, she decided, and she left the house.
When she was younger, she'd fantasize her death with great flair, an epic event accompanied by a soundtrack of lonesome bagpipes, followed by a lavish funeral, complete with a procession of wailing mourners, and a luncheon wherein the grievers were too distraught to touch the strawberry shortcake.
By now, she'd died a thousand times over. At first she'd imagined her wrists sliced with dramatic abandon, the blood startling against the virgin white of her Victorian-style dress. She would be found lying in a field of wildflowers, her alabaster skin pale amongst the phlox and Queen Anne's Lace.
She'd come to realize, however, that she was rather adverse to pain, and would prefer instead to slip easily into the darkness. Pills, then. She searched her grandmother's medicine cabinet and studiously examined the labels. The selection was dismal. How many laxatives, she wondered, would induce a coma?
When she came across the painting Ophelia, she was nearly undone with jealousy. Ophelia's hair, spread in a lovely halo, and that dress, floating richly-- that should have been her! Elizabeth's death ought to be painted, her fingers curled upward in divine supplication!
But Elizabeth lived on. She felt dreadfully immortal. And now, with four children, things had become much more complicated. She loved her children, certainly, but she also savored her fantasies. It did put a damper on things, imagining their tear-stained faces, their mismatched socks, and their hair, matted and cowlicked. But she couldn't--wouldn't-- give it up.
The key, she decided, was to leave her death open to interpretation. Cutting her wrists, overdosing on pills, drowning-- too obvious, all, and think of the damage a mother's suicide would do to a child's psyche! It seemed to her that the best method would be a car accident. Her husband would suspect (ironically, she always wore her seatbelt, and would note that she hadn't on this occasion), but her children need never know. She imagined the steaming casseroles, the crumb-topped strudels, the latticed fruit pies the church ladies would bring, and felt much better.
Responsibly, she called her insurance company, and asked (discreetly, she hoped) whether a death that was ruled a suicide was covered under her policy. There was a one year waiting period from the time the policy was signed, but yes, it was covered…was there anything else he could do? Was she all right? Yes, she was fine, wonderful, thank you very much!
She waited until her husband came home from work, and served his favorite supper of pot roast and steamed new potatoes. She sent the children off to bed with stories and kisses (she did not lose her temper when her daughter squeezed the toothpaste too hard, and it jetted in a blue stream across the counter), and was collecting her hat and keys when the thought occurred to her that she ought to make love to her husband. Not that she was in the mood, far from it, but wouldn't it be nice if that was his last memory of her? It was true she'd been cold at times past, had gone to bed with a cool washcloth covering her eyes, had turned her back and feigned sleep when he entered the room. But surely he would remember her as generous, loving, if she gave him this night.
She found her satin rose nightie (after a bit of a search, it was crumpled in the furthest corner of the bureau), and turned on the bedside lamp. She called to her husband, who was greatly surprised to find her thus, but was not about to ask any questions.
After the perfunctory act, she rose and dressed, telling her husband she was going to her knitting club. She did not belong to a knitting club, in fact did not know how to knit, but did not expect that her husband would notice this. If he had, if he had said "Really, darling, knitting? When did you pick that up? Will you show me something you've made?" would it have made a difference?
Likely not, she decided, and she left the house.