A great, hot tongue swept through the valley on the television screen. The flat panel reflected the plate glass window opposite the plush leather couches, and in it the slightly pretentious orchids dangling lazily over the lip of a vase on the table. What was she thinking? The day had ended like any other: a stop at the grocery, she picked up the kids. Brian would be home soon. And yet, she lay draped on the couch while her children mocked one another in a far room. She heard them through a food binge induced haze.
The flames on the screen lapped massive chunks of vegetation, and sizzling spittle dropped like hellish dandelion fluff igniting eager infants. She watched it cloning its image in the window, superimposed upon the city beyond. There was fire everywhere, but she lay cold and was nothing. In fact, as she listened to Kevin call Allie a cry-baby, and heard Allie’s whiney screech in retaliation, she thought that her blood might have actually stopped in her veins as she blanketed the cool leather.
On the table lay a container of Hagaan Daz, a bag of Red Hot and Blue Chips, an orange, and a plate that had, until five minutes ago, contained leftover chicken cordon blue. She let her eyes roll over the empty packages as the fire raged behind an anchorman who was reporting from the shell of his burned out home. She should get up and throw away the evidence, before Brian got home, before the kids came out into the room. She should get up and move like a torch through the house, cleansing it of rubbish. She should.
Many days had passed since her blood had boiled over. Her anguish had seared her fellow mourners at the funeral parlor. It had been Brian’s idea. For over a year, she’d been trying to spark her creativity and move her life in the direction she’d originally planned. She fought ennui every step of the way. Brian had suggested a funeral to put to rest her old life.
They had rented out a funeral parlor in town. The funeral director balked at the idea of holding a fake funeral. He’d told Brian that it would give clients the wrong idea, that they’d think the morticians didn’t take their jobs seriously. However, when Brian offered to pay dearly and had promised to recommend their services to his own clients, the funeral director agreed on the condition that he would not play any of the traditional roles that he usually held within the funerals at his discretion. Brian explained that he would not be needed, that he and their family and friends would take care of everything.
Brian had branded the funeral into her mind. He’d prodded her to write down all the details of her old life that she wanted to change. She repeatedly told him that she didn’t want to let go of everything in her old life. There were things that she wanted to remember and reflect upon. Once Brian caught hold of an idea though, he ran with it until it was fired on the very fabric of their lives. Down to the last detail, Brian peppered her with questions. Exhausted, she answered each one. Answering was easier than arguing.
Two weekends ago, in the small front parlor of the funeral space, she and twenty five of their closest friends had joined in the strangest ceremony she’d ever attended. There in the oaken coffin in the front of the parlor lay a myriad of photographs from her life up to that point. Mixed with the photos were note cards listing her various accomplishments and foibles, written by friends and family and a few by her own hand. She watched and listened as people she’d known for years went to the podium to talk about experiences they’d had together. After each person spoke, Brian extinguished one of the candles that lined the perimeter of the coffin. When everyone in the room had spoken their peace, she rose like a slow flame and trudged to the podium. Brian took her arm and looked at her expectantly. The room was an airless tomb as the audience held their breath as one.
Weightless and dancing in their sparkling eyes, she spoke about her life. She told of the early years in Wisconsin, the memories of skating on frozen lakes and an uncle who’d made her feel filthy simply by looking at her with possession in his eyes.
She explained how she’d been named the salutatorian of her high school class, but had developed an addiction to pharmaceutical grade opiates during her summer stint at the local pharmacy before leaving for college. It had been hard to procure the pharmaceuticals on campus, so she had switched to street grade heroin and the occasional tablet of oxycontin when she could get it.
She spoke of her passion for textiles and design, how she felt like a failure for not pursuing her dreams, and how her family was both the most important and the most stressful part of her existence. She related how Brian buried her with his smothering, unremitting air of professional authority that translated to their lives at home, their sex life, their friends; they were all his.
She looked out at the crowd, breathing her smoke, brushed with the ashes of her life. What had they expected? Had they wanted her to simply breeze through her stories and leave out the scorching details? Her finishing words were cataclysmic, clearing the room of all but Brian, a petrified form on the chair directly in front of her.
“You didn’t even ask me if I wanted this,” she had said, exhausting the last flickering light in the row of candles.
Now, soaking in the guilt and rage that consumed her, she pointed the remote at the television and extinguished the bright fires that lay bare the land’s bones.
“Enough,” she said.