Published 2002 by Pikes Peak Publishing. 192 pages.
SAMPLE CHAPTER
GRANDMA
1926-
Visitacion Valley, San Francisco
“Putana,”
he screamed. “Putana! Capisce?”
Not
again. Elizabeth’s thoughts percolated to consciousness from deep inside her
head. Not another meaningless argument. Why did he do this to her? She fulfilled
his every desire and fantasy. She left her babies for him. She still loved him.
Why did he despise her?
The
door slammed. Elizabeth forced her eyes open. The pounding headache made her
vision blur. Again, for the millionth time, she saw her home: tattered curtains,
soiled throw rug near the door, worn furniture in the kitchen. Everything worn
down. Eyes heavy, her gaze wandered over her domain, from vegetable garden in
the back yard to small lawn of green grass in the front, beyond the porch.
Perhaps she’d sit on the front porch later and cool off. Anything to escape
the unbearable headache.
His
constant screaming made her shake. They didn’t fight. That takes two. When
Frank flew into a rage, calling her horrible things, threatening her, he tore
her heart. She didn’t understand why. Like a good Italian woman, she obeyed.
His authority remained unquestioned. It made her weak with fear just to think
about his screaming.
She
sat in her favorite living room chair. The shaking wouldn’t stop. It was a
long time since she felt anything. Now, today, only numbness, an abyss. She
didn’t feel human any more. A person shouldn’t have to suffer like this. A
person has dignity, a soul, and an angel to watch over her. She had only pain.
How
long since she’d been happy? She couldn’t remember.
Coughing
racked her thin body. The influenza terrorized San Francisco. The doctor said
she was run down, suffering from nervous exhaustion. A long string of minor
illnesses, the doctor repeated. Elizabeth felt like a boulder sat on her chest.
She lost weight, couldn’t eat. Sleep wouldn’t come. Fear overwhelmed her.
She
prayed.
She
cried bitter tears. What became of her didn’t matter. What about the children?
What about those left behind? Would Frank care for them? Or would they be
discarded on the trash heap of life to fend for themselves?
Elizabeth
grew too tired to think. She needed relief. Sleep didn’t restore her. Food had
no taste. Even the air she breathed failed to sustain her spirit. She felt like
a candle put under a glass. Burning brightly, it slowly, ever so slowly lost its
light. Finally, with a puff of energy, it burned out, lost in blackness, never
to shine again. Only a pitiful trail of smoke, curling upwards, marked its very
essence. Extinguished.
She
could not bear another fight with Frank. Arms clenched, fists waving, he called
her names, shouted obscene words, degraded her. Tears came as she remembered the
worst part- the children heard every word. At least the three who were here.
What of the others? Did they too hear? All her babies gone, how very sad. Her
children hearing the verbal abuse worsened the degradation.
Relief.
The
thought skittered along the margins of her distressed brain. She walked to the
tiny kitchen. Spying a stain on the sink, Elizabeth mechanically opened the
cupboard and grasped the Lysol. Spilling a drop on the stain, she rubbed and
rubbed till it was no more. Just what I need, she thought, to rub my sins away
till they are no more. She murmured an Ave Maria.
She
looked away to no avail. Her hand worked on its own, separated from her mind. It
grasped the Lysol bottle. Her mouth opened and she drank deeply. Searing pain in
her throat registered on one hidden level of her mottled psyche, not rising to
consciousness. Drinking again, it coursed down her gullet, burning everything in
its path. A third time she drank, till the bottle emptied and it fell from the
robotic hand.
Frank
will be coming home soon, she thought, why don’t I sit on the front porch and
wait for him.
Then
came darkness.
-
The
neighbors noticed her passed out on the porch at 5:30 PM on this sunny Tuesday.
She did not have a drinking habit. Her behavior drew a crowd of concerned
friends. As they approached, Frank walked down Cora Street, wondering out loud
what happened. He remained the master of his universe, expecting his dinner on
the table. As he watched, her tiny body writhed, contracted with the fierce
electrical discharges of her dying brain, then relaxed into abnormal repose.
Frank held her head. He and the neighbor called the ambulance. Her pale skin
blanched, then a semblance of color returned.
They
discovered the empty bottle.
Ambulance
lights and cacophony of sound alerted those not already in attendance. The
ambulance crew, wiser than their age suggested, bundled her onto the stretcher
and allowed Frank to travel with them. They arrived at Mission Emergency
Hospital within minutes. They shook their heads to the chief nurse. Not much
hope for this one.
Wild
swings of metabolism caused her heart to speed and slow. The corrosive Lysol
poisoned her kidneys, affected the lung’s ability to bring air and oxygen to
her exhausted tissues. She repeated the spasms, now longer and forceful, pulling
her away from her pain, pulling her towards the relief of eternity.
The
doctor did the best she could. Placing the tube down the throat, it slid through
the burn in the stomach, along with the Lysol. Nothing returned as she applied
suction. Nothing to pump out. In five minutes, her heart slowed. Breath came in
wisps. Finally, her heart stopped.
Death,
at last.
Frank
hung his head in shame. How could she do this to him?
The
inquest report became a matter of public record: Cardiac arrest due to Lysol
poisoning. A suicide. Age 35. Left behind three children and a husband.
Life
goes on. How very sad.