A Bubble of Time

Chapter 4: Exhausted

It was nearly eight when I got home and I was tired. No, I was exhausted. My phone rang just as I settled down in my armchair to watch a little television.

"Hello."

"Hi, Mama."

My heart leaped to life. It was Julian. "Hi, baby. How are you?"

"I'm good. How are you, Mama?"

"I'm okay. I just got back from visiting grandma."

"Oh? Is she okay?"

"She says she is, but her arm is still doing bad."

"Oh, yeah," he said in a distracted voice. "Mama, I was wondering if you had a few dollars that I could borrow." He added quickly, "I know I still owe you from the last time, but my car stopped and I got a line on a new job. It's not on the bus line, and if I miss even one day they won't keep me. I hate to ask, but…"

Julian continued talking, rapidly explaining his need. But I knew the truth. My son had never admitted to robbing me, but the robber had found my secret hiding places only my children knew about. It had hurt me, but I never accused him of the theft and yet we both knew who was actually responsible. It stood between us so that I rarely saw my son. He couldn't face me—unless it was to ask for financial help.

I had bills that had to be paid and my budget was fairly tight, but I didn't tell him no. He drove the car that he said was broken down in order to get the one hundred dollars that I told him I had for him. When he left, I think I cried more because he didn't care enough to even tell me a good lie than because I knew my child was in some type of trouble that I couldn't get him out of.

After a while I pulled myself out of my armchair and took my daily dose of old people meds, which covered the old-age-trifecta: diabetes, blood pressure, and high cholesterol. I rubbed my belly where I had pierced myself with the needle to dispense the insulin and then came to a realization.

I am tired. There was really no reason for me to continue. I decided right then and there that I would kill myself.

It is surreal to think in terms of how to leave it all behind. I didn't exactly have a plan. I wasn't thinking about a gun, poison, or the exhaust fumes from my running car. I just knew that I had given up on my desire to live and that my fear of death had disappeared. That night I lay in bed and fantasized about the aftermath--Cassie being called to task for not handling her reports before taking off for a long weekend, my life insurance policy, and how the sale of this house would make my children and my mom's life better.

I am much more useful dead than alive.

When I woke up Thursday morning, I lingered in bed contemplating the throbbing in my back that eerily matched the thrump thrump thrump of my heartbeat.

With a sense of shame I remembered the night before and my pity party. I had thought about the "S-word." How could I have thought about doing something like that? I knew people who had survived the suicide of family or friends, and what was left behind was devastating. I might not care about my own life any more, but I still loved my family enough not to do something like that.

I sat on the edge of my bed for a while before pulling myself up with a grunt. I didn't want to do this for twenty-five more years. I couldn't.

I got to work, and since Cassie was off for a long weekend, I didn't have to slink past Cassie's office—maybe it was a good trade-off doing her work if it meant that I didn't have to see her for four days.

There was an envelope propped on my keyboard, and I wondered who was handing out invitations. It was too cold for an outdoor barbecue and too soon for holiday celebrations. Curious, I plopped down into my chair and opened the stiff gray envelope. I noticed that it shimmered so someone had not cut corners with the stationary.

There was a folded note inside. It was very nice paper only cream color. I unfolded it and read the brief message.

September 7, 1982

I turned the paper over, but there was nothing on the other side. I peeked inside the envelope but it was empty. I looked around.

"Hey Lilly," I called over the partition that separated my cubicle from hers.

"Yep?" she answered.

"What's with this envelope?"

"What?" Lilly asked.

"Didn't you get an envelope on your desk with a date written inside?"

"No. Let me see." She came over and looked at the note and then the envelope. "September seventh, 1982? What does that mean?"

"I don't know." I shrugged. I asked several other people, but when no else had one I decided that it had been placed on my desk in error. My name wasn't on it so it was probably meant for someone else. I placed the letter back into the envelope and set it to the side. I'd figure it out later. I had a ton of work to get to—Cassie's and my own.

Before I left that night I remembered the envelope. I picked it up and looked at it again. I ran my finger over the embossed writing. It was in simple block letters but still very elegant, and I wondered who had the money for something like this.

I slipped the envelope in my purse and then hurried out of the office long after the last person had already left.

I was cursing under my breath because I'd taken so long at the office. I needed to get Mom something to eat that she wouldn't find too salty. I just didn't have time or energy to cook her something healthy.

By the time that I got home it was nearly nine p.m. I climbed into bed happy that tomorrow was Friday. Mama used to say, "Don't wish your life away."

I was too tired to even laugh at that one.