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Wilted flower petals lined the dining table. Their once-linen surface had long shriveled up, old pastels now dirt colored and flaking into dust. The last flowers she had ever received, that disappeared little by little every single time Jack accidentally jostled the table. Jack erased her; Jack continued to erase her. She continued to disappear.
Four days after the funeral (and after one heart to heart with a certain Michael Robinavitch, who was about as emotionally available as a can of peas on any other day) he opened the calendar by the front door. Jack flipped past the appointments he had yet to cancel, ignored the stars on their birthdays, and landed on November 3rd. He remembered the moment clear as day now that it was, in fact, November 3rd; he recalled the haste with which he triple circled that day and made a solemn promise to himself:
“If it still feels like this,” He choked out to himself, glancing up at the sky. If she could hear, Jack still wasn’t sure he wanted her to. “Then I’m going to-”
He paused. Let a sob send him to the ground, on his knees, then back up three minutes later to finish his morbid proclamation.
“Then I have to.”
November 3rd had arrived. Today, Jack Abbot was going to end his life.
With the date there had been a list of chores. First he had to change his will, since the person who was supposed to get his entire estate had died. That also meant he had to absorb her estate. At times, the paperwork drove him madder than the fact that his wife was dead in the first place. He had a list of movies to watch and rewatch, albums to listen and re-listen to, and foods to try. There was clothing that needed to be donated, a house that needed to be de-cluttered so Robby would have an easier time getting it ready to sell. There was an endless list of to-do that kept Jack busy, and Jack quite liked being busy.
Jack once imagined that knowing when and how he would die would be a curse: in fact, it was a blessing. Talking to people, really talking to them became easier. With nothing to lose, he and Robby spent most of the summer ending their nights with hours long conversation over multiple cans of beer. He even returned to work without fuss after a three month long break, all smiles and sly remarks. Knowing these were his last months, Jack was intent on going out on a pleasant note as far as work was concerned. He certainly didn’t want to berate them and leave behind a slew of depressed doctor-to-bes.
What happened after death was still a mystery to Jack. She’d been Catholic as a kid, and he grew up Christian, knew about Heaven and Hell. He didn’t spend too much time wondering if it was real. If Heaven was real, she was there waiting. If Hell was real, he’d already lived it. Either Jack died and went to her, or he died, finally ending the life he was living without her. There was no conceivable life after death that was worse than waking up to a world rid of her.
In June he visited her family for the last time. He bought one first class ticket instead of two and broke the news to the language designated flight attendant who had come to know his wife from their many treks. From touchdown in the city to reaching her home village in the highlands, he checked off every experience he wanted one last time and savored the beauty. He accepted the mostly-Catholic comforts offered by her parents, filtered through his English-speaking in laws.
“We say the future is behind and the past is in front,” Her brother told Jack. His wife had explained it to him many times before, but it didn’t click until her brother went on. “So, life with her is all the memories we have. Her death is behind us. Her entire life is in front of us, because we see it.”
“Yeah, but she’s not here,” Jack grumbled, stuffing another large corn kernel into his mouth. There was no hunger in his body these days. Food was boring and useless and he would’ve eaten sludge without knowing it to be any different than a filet mignon. All he hungered for anymore was her. “She should be here.”
“Jack,” another brother piped up. He cast a look to his wife- who was alive, Jack thought bitterly- and then back to Jack. “You… are okay, right?”
Jack didn’t want to cry in front of her family, especially not when it was the last time they would ever see him. However, he made the mistake of finding her mother and father’s eyes. She had her mother’s eyes. He stared into them and grew blurry eyed against all effort.
“Maybe you could tell me some stories about her? Just- wanna hear about her again,” He asked, voice cracking. Tears shimmered on their way down her mother’s wrinkled cheekbones and chin.
The final night in the highlands, Jack woke up to her mother stroking his hair. She stared down at him with a motherly love he had never known, and spoke exactly as much of her native tongue as she knew Jack could translate:
“You are my son. Come back soon. I love you. Be safe.”
July and August passed in a symphony of cicada chirps and marching band parades. New med students and doctors arrived and, like he had after her death, gradually tried their hand at night shift. They were bright eyed and bushy tailed. Jack occasionally zoned out staring at them; Jameson, Ellis, Simon, Mohan, Shen, Hernandez. Did they know suffering? Would they be smiling if they knew that the reason they were created could be ripped from them, while they were at work, no less? Did they know the pain it required to crumble onto the floor of a trauma room, praying to a God you didn’t talk to for decades while you held onto a gurney with a lifeless pile of guts and bone on top?
Another reason November 3rd was a great pick? September in the midwest was worth staying alive for. The foliage turned orange and for a brief, magical period of time, the weather was warm enough to walk outside in a short sleeve to watch the leaves fall to the ground, all without catching a chill. October was a necessary time to keep living: it was busy in the emergency room, candy was eventually discounted (damn Peeps for being the only sweet that Jack Abbot couldn’t resist), and he had to prepare for the first day of the dead with his wife on the side of the dead.
Jack Abbot took off November 1st and 2nd. He spent hours on the phone with her family and sent countless photos of his less-than-stellar tribute to the late family members. In the middle was a brand new addition, a stethoscope and package of chocolate covered shortbread positioned against its frame.
She was here, he told himself. But she should be here.
There came a moment where Jack paused the music and ended the last phone call of the night. He took a different photo off the wall and laid in bed and curled up with a sweater that was freshly spritzed with her favorite perfume.
“If you’re here,” He whispered, chest beginning to rapidly rise and fall, “I’m sorry. I- I miss you. Soon, okay? I’m not like you. I couldn’t- I can’t do this without you. Soon. I’m sorry it’s been so long. I love you. I love-”
The sentence never finished. Its punctuation was a guttural cry. The bed remained half empty.
November 3rd arrived.
It was a beautiful morning. Crisp, and just cool enough for his breath to cloud out in front of him. He wished for her to be alive and for her to breathe. He wished he could witness her breath the way he currently played witness to his own. Jack wanted to see her glasses fog up from the chill and wanted to watch her exaggeratedly shiver as she pulled her puffer coat close and wrapped a scarf over her mouth. Jack wanted her to take in the brisk weather and turn to him and say, “Bikini weather!” like it wasn’t a joke she made a million times per year.
Jack said his goodbyes. Nothing was out of the ordinary. He left a pile of addressed envelopes in his locker and closed it and left. Nothing was out of the ordinary. He drove on the same roads to his same haunted house and sat on the same couch cushion. Still, nothing was out of the ordinary.
A note was taped to the front door. Another was on the dining table next to a stack of deeds and life insurance files. A blanket worthy of collecting blood spatter sat next to a pistol on the coffee table, dusted in the flakes of flower petals past. On the television screen was one last movie, one he had watched two decades prior with the woman he could not forget. The remote sat on his right thigh for five minutes before he could stomach pressing play.
JOEL
I need it to stop. Before I wake up and I don’t know you anymore.
JOEL
I can’t remember anything without you.
JOEL
I still thought you were gonna save my life. It would be different, if we could just give it another go around.
CLEMENTINE
Remember me. Give it your best. Maybe we can.
CLEMENTINE
This is it, Joel. It’s gonna be gone soon.
JOEL
I know.
CLEMENTINE
What do we do?
JOEL
Enjoy it.
CLEMENTINE
I wish you stayed.
JOEL
I wish I stayed, too. Now I wish I had stayed. I wish I had done a lot of things. I wish I had… I wish I had stayed. I do.
CLEMENTINE
Well, I came back downstairs and you were gone!
JOEL
I walked out. I walked out the door.
CLEMENTINE
Why?!
JOEL
I don’t know! I felt like a scared little kid, I was like… above my head, I don’t know.
CLEMENTINE
You were scared?
JOEL
Yeah. I thought you knew that about me.
CLEMENTINE
What if you stayed this time?
JOEL
I walked out the door. There’s no memory left.
CLEMENTINE
Come back and make up a goodbye at least. Just pretend we had one. Bye, Joel.
JOEL
I love you.
CLEMENTINE
Meet me in Montauk.
The movie ended and faded to white. Jack thought it would have been extra beautiful had he not spent the final forty minute crying past the point of being able to see it.
Jack picked up the pistol and turned it over in his hand. A tear stained the sleek weapon; he yanked the blanket off the armchair and dabbed it off, the need to maintain a pristine gun far too embedded in him to ever deny it. He set the gun on the coffee table and pulled the blanket over his shoulder and head, but kept his face unobscured in order to pull up his phone. Jack used his free hand to pick the weapon back up, hands rising and falling as he tested the weight of it.
When tonight rolls around and he doesn’t go into work, Jack knows Robby, Dana, and Bridget will call for a wellness check, assuming Robby doesn’t take it upon himself to do it. In case he does, he will see the note on the door about the state his friend is in. If he still makes the boneheaded decision to proceed, the thick blanket around his torso should contain most of the viscera.
The will had been signed. The closets and drawers were packed into boxes for donation. The notes were ready to be found. The blanket now surrounded his face and torso.
The gun was loaded.
He lifted the barrel to his chin. The chill of the barrel sent goosebumps rising on his freckled skin, digging deeper with each gut wrenching sob. His hold on the gun was steady; his hold on his phone was not.
Jack wanted to hear her when he died. She tried to record her voicemail for fifteen minutes, but Jack kept distracting her. She laughed while telling the caller to leave a message after the beep, then added, “My husband’s being horrible in the background. Just, uh, yeah- leave a message,” Through fits of girlish giggling.
There were tears on his phone screen as it trembled in his grasp. He found ‘M’ and began to type out her name by memory. The phone rang. It rang again. He waited for the voicemail message, had been paying her phone bill all these months just so he doesn’t lose it, and the safety trigger was off and one twitch and his head would be gone and he would be with her again instead of calling a dead woman and spraying perfume on pillows and sweaters and-
“Dr. Abbot?”
The phone fell from his hands and clattered to the ground alongside something much more lethal. He jumped as the gun dropped, cussing and bracing for cover out of instinct. When seconds passed and nothing happened, an incredibly disoriented Jack shed the blanket and tried (and failed) to take a solid breath.
“Hello? Dr. Abbot? You there?”
He stared at the screen. Slowly, Jack reached down and picked up the phone. He turned it on speaker and set it on the coffee table in order to turn the safety back on the gun.
“Mohan? Dr. Mohan,” He corrected, voice cracking. Jack shook his head. Get a hold of yourself. “Yeah, sorry, I didn’t mean-”
“No! Wait, it’s- it’s actually perfect. I don’t mean to be a bother, but I have a paper I’m submitting soon and Dr. Robby hasn’t had time to look it over. I was wondering if- well, I just really want someone to read it that I know is good, and of course you don’t have to, I know you’re super busy, but next time you-”
“Dr. Mohan, please. I’ll read the paper. Send it over. Or- Or, I’d prefer the paper, with my eyes.”
“I have it on me! I can pass it to you at the shift handoff tonight? You’re- I mean, you’re really helping me out so much, Dr. Abbot, thank you.”
The gun now sat beside the phone. Jack scoffed; him, helping her? Right.
“Please. You’re actually smart, more than the average med student. More than the average doctor. Gives me something to look forward to.”
One more day. Robby will never get around to reading it otherwise.
It’s probably a long paper. Two days, max. I’m not unpacking any clothes.
“You’re a lifesaver, Dr. Abbot,” Samira sighed. Jack heard a yell in the background, the oh-so-familiar backing track of the PTMC. She dismissed herself with a hasty goodbye and hung up without waiting for a response.
As he stared at the dark screen of his phone, Jack took his first full breath since he’d arrived home.
“You have no idea, Dr. Mohan.”