This Might be the Day: Short Story

Today might be the day. Outside her bedroom the trees on the far side of the garden were only dim shapes in the mist. The amber numbers on her clock said that it was 5 a.m., again. Ida sighed and lay quietly trying to return to sleep, and a half remembered dream. For half an hour her mind kept her from sleep, just like most mornings these days. Ida swung her feet to the thick carpet and slid her feet into furry slippers. Ida's feet were always cold.

Ida pulled on her dressing gown, turned up the thermostat and went into her kitchen. Once this kitchen was her pride, and she had used it well. There were dinner parties where the guests dined better than in some fashionable restaurants. Ida graduated from L'Escoffier while George represented the firm in Paris, but now she cooked only for herself. A cup of coffee brewed from imported beans was about the most sophisticated cooking done in her designer kitchen.

Ida had once struggled to remain thin, but now her niece constantly urged her to eat just another bite. I'm not hungry. Half a sandwich fills me up. It's wonderful stew dear, but I can't eat another bite. Norma was a good girl, but her maternal instincts were tiring. Ida drank her cup of coffee sitting at the kitchen island, and wondered what the point was in going on. The minute hands of the clock seemed frozen, and the coffee became cool. Today might be the day.

Outside the mist was turning into rain. I remember the rain on Hong Kong's Star Ferry, and the dinner when I told George I was pregnant. George was never happier than when he was decorating the Nursery. Ida poured another cup of coffee, got up and went into the living room where pictures of George and little Alex covered the tabletops in silver frames. She felt the bottle of pills in the pocket of her gown. She had been carrying the bottle around for days. She put on an old Edith Piaff record, and Paris came flooding back. She idly wondered if the Café Brogues still existed to serve fresh hot rolls on mornings like this. So far away, so long ago.

The light grew stronger, but Ida hardly noticed. She was reliving again the day that the police came to tell her that Little Alex had been hit and killed by a drunken driver. The news was harder on George at the time, but now, years later Ida suffered while George rested. The news that their only child was dead, was gone forever, had somehow diminished George. He seemed smaller and more tentative. When his partners offered to buy his interest in the firm, he had taken the offer without enthusiasm. His whole life ended then. One child dead, and the other sold off to become a tiny part of a larger conglomerate. Ida had watched over George for years afterward. It was so strange, George had always been the leader and she had been content to follow. The role reversal was confusing. Ida nodded, and drifted back into sleep on the plush sofa where she now spent the early morning of almost every day.

As usual, her dreams came and were filled with bits of memory fitted together like the Crazy Quilts sold by the Amish farmers of Pennsylvania. Little Alex was alive again, and wiping the sweat from his father's brow as he lay dying of prostate cancer. A bell chimed somewhere and a brightly colored dirigible skimmed along pulled by a team of winged horses. Her own dear Daddy gave her a chocolate bar and told her to share it with the monkey. God spoke to her in a crash of thunder, "This might be the day".

Ida's eyes flew open, and just like yesterday, she was momentarily confused. Where am I? What place is this? The familiar room seemed foreign and tawdry. She blinked, and the world returned to familiarity. Her neck hurt and her feet were still cold.

Ida returned to her bedroom and made the bed. Ida took a shower, brushed her teeth and judged herself as, "not too bad for an old broad". She put on clean cloths, as she did every morning and started back into the kitchen. At the door she paused, and then retrieved the bottle of pills from her dressing gown. "This might be the day", she thought.

She put the pills on the marble counter, and on a whim took a bottle of chardonnay from the wine rack. The cork came clear with a little pop, and the wine flowed like a light oil into her crystal glass. Like apricots and peaches the bouquet and color of the wine were so pleasing to the senses. She took a sip, and then another. This might be the day. Ida spilled the pills out onto the counter. There seemed to be so many of them.

As Ida began collecting the pills into the palm of her hand, the clouds parted. A bright ray of sunshine burst through the kitchen window and Ida's feet felt warm for the first time since she woke up. The red telephone began to ring on the wall. Ida sat her wine glass down and reached for the telephone.

Norma set the telephone back into its cradle. Her children were fighting over whose turn it was to take out the garbage. Harold had just left for his job, and the kids had to be ready before the school bus arrived. The dishes had to be washed, and the utility bills paid for the month. Later in the day she would have her hair and nails done, before going for her annual medical checkup. The children left, but Norma had to run after them with their homework assignments.

Trudging back to her kitchen, Norma thought of her Aunt Ida. Aunt Ida was Norma's idea of perfection. Norma's own mother was a nag, but Aunt Ida traveled the world and knew people and things. Her Aunt had style and enough money to have really nice things. Norma's mind returned to the short telephone conversation this morning. It was a strange conversation, as if Aunty wasn't entirely there. She certainly wasn't eating enough, and all alone in that big house since Uncle died. Perhaps she and the family should go over for a visit on the weekend. Cheer the old woman up; maybe take her out for a picnic if the weather ever clears up.