Merlot

Merlot

         Jane took a sip to calm her nerves. She unscrewed the top off the bottle and poured the wine into her favorite glass. She needed the Merlot to get through the evening. To get through every evening. Especially the ones where her mother called. She hated her mother for the call she’d already made, it reminded her of her past. She cut the carrots: thin long slices with the kitchen knife. Holding it gave her the power she felt she’d been lacking. The adrenaline rushed through her veins like water cascading over a waterfall, invigorating her and filling her with life and energy, two things that had been nonexistent within her for quite sometime.
         Slice after slice of carrot, so many slices, hundreds of slices, but they weren’t small enough. They weren’t good enough. Her Henry wouldn’t have eaten carrots prepared in such a haphazard way.
         Slowly she grabbed a handful of carrot slices and placed them on her worn white chopping board, filled with dents and scars from years past. It wasn’t the only thing that had been damaged over the years.
         She dumped the carrots in the center of the board, looked at the knife and then felt her energy turn to frustration and hurt. The tears burned at her eyes, her throat swelled, her stomach twisted in knots that would put an Eagle Scout to shame. She grabbed the knife. Catching herself in the mirror of the blade, bloodshot brown eyes and hair flying in crazy directions out of her once perky ponytail.
         “Ah!” She slammed the blade on the cutting board, diced the carrots, showed no mercy. Her throat closed and she started to heave as she chopped away at the carrots until they were hardly recognizable.
         She sniffled, leaned her palms against the white marble counter, and tried to regain her composure. She hated her mother, but even more she hated herself for the pain she caused everyone. Dropping the knife in the stainless steel sink, the clank brought her back to the vegetables that waited to be prepared on the counter.
         Jane wiped her hands against the semi-apron on her waist and then swiped at her hair as she tried to recapture the pieces that had gone astray, she then grabbed the celery and prepared them in much the same way she’d prepared the carrots.
         The chicken came next. She tenderized the meat, beat it, cut the pieces, and then tossed them into the scalding hot pan, letting them burn to a crisp. She grabbed the pulverized vegetables and dropped them into the pan, too, watching them burn.
         The fire that seared the chicken fascinated her. Orange and hints of blue danced around the cubes. She waited until the pan had turned to black, until there was no longer any color, no vibrant green specks, no orange clumps, nothing. Just like her life she wanted there to be no color. It had all been burnt out of her life in much the same way she had burnt the color and flavors and smells of her meal. She could no longer find enjoyment, not even one of the things that had once made her happy.
         She shuffled along the black tiled floor to the cabinet by the fridge. Trying to stretch high enough to grab a piece of the fine china she had once taken such great pride in. Her fingers grazed the side of a plate, her toes began to ache from stretching so long, red-hot fire shot through her right calf.
         Grabbing onto the one thing she could, the plate, she stumbled back, falling onto the floor. The white plate came crashing down along with her, shattering into hundreds of sparkling pieces.
         “No...not the china. Not the china.” She whimpered as she scurried to her feet as fast as she could, trying to piece the broken china back together. “Not now. Not the china, not the china too.”
         She helplessly thumbed the broken pieces, her ring finger scraped against a piece’s sharp edge. She barely registered the pain as it pierced her skin, as the ruby red blood began to bubble to the surface. Instead she gathered herself and got up, leaning against the fridge. After she closed the cabinet full of china, she turned and grabbed a paper plate, her wine glass, and a napkin which she quickly wrapped around her finger.
         Finally grabbing her meal she emptied the black contents onto the plate.
         Sitting at the glass table she looked at the chairs that surrounded her, now all vacant when they’d once been occupied at every meal. The silence in the room hung low upon her. It pushed her to see how alone she truly was; how lonely the silence, yet how suffocating.
         She forked a piece of black chicken and quickly downed the Merlot.
         The tiles were cracked, she noticed as she stared down through the smudged glass tabletop. Just another thing she would need to repair. They were just another let down.
         She could remember her husband’s jovial laugh whenever he walked in through the foyer off the kitchen. His favorite girl, May, would run to him from her playroom and hug and kiss him until he tickled her. His laugh would echo throughout the home, she’d hear it in the kitchen while she was prepping dinner. The noise used to curl her toes and light up her once wrinkle free face with what he’d always called a mega-watt smile.
         She stabbed at the chicken and successfully poked a hole right through the paper plate. If the chicken had been juicy, the juice would have run right through the hole in to the center of the plate and pooled below, making the paper go soggy. Then if she had lifted the plate everything, all the contents, would have broken through, landing in a black, runny, helpless mess. She wished the chicken was juicy.

         “Another glass of the house Merlot please.” She asked when the waiter walked past the table.
         Henry looked at her, his blue eyes assessing over his half moon spectacles. “Another glass Jane? Might as well have bought the whole bottle.”
         He had become increasingly more critical of her drinking lately. She rolled her eyes as she drained the remainder in her glass. The red wine stained her lips. She’d need all the courage she could get.
         He mumbled something unintelligible. The only thing she even saw moving was the salt and pepper beard under his lips. It moved with each breath he took.
         The candle in between them flickered, she couldn’t meet his gaze as he started talking about a new client at work. Another company dinner they’d need to go to. Another night for her to hide behind done up hair and a dimly lit smile.
         “Jane? What is it with you? Why are you so quiet?”
         It was the first time he had stopped and asked her what was wrong, the first time in a long time he actually looked concerned over her. It was too late though and she didn’t feel like she could answer, she didn’t have an answer. She wanted to though. She wanted to share with him like she used to when they were younger, when they were first married. When her smile was bright, and her life was great, back when they were great. Over time it had all just gotten too hard.
         The metallic taste of blood tainted her mouth; it wasn’t the first time her teeth had clenched her tongue. She wouldn’t say a word. She’d hold it in. The waiter came back to refill her Merlot.

         The merlot sloshed around her glass as she walked into the living room. Her crooked steps brought her past the pictures hanging on the wall. The last family photo dated back five years. She remembered four years ago she called the family photographer to cancel the annual family picture. May had moved out, her life was hectic, and she couldn’t make it back. Jane remembered she suggested that she and Henry just get their picture taken, like they used to every year before May was born. His response crippled her then, just as it still crippled her now. He said there was no point. As much as she wanted to take pictures with her child and Henry, no one ever suggested, besides Jane, that they pick the tradition back up again. Instead she stopped trying and the empty spaces on the walls would always remain.
         She was expecting her mother to call back. She always did. Always called back twice on the day of September 15th. Jane wished that she wouldn’t. When the phone rang at 6:30 she almost didn’t answer it.
         “How you doing?” Her mom asked.
         Jane gulped her drink, prepared to lie. Of course she felt like shit. There wasn’t a night when she didn’t drink herself to sleep. There hadn’t been a day in the last year where she didn’t feel the pain as fresh as it was that wretched night. All that damn pain. She hated pretending she was okay. She hated continuing to live in a facade. It had gone on while Henry was alive, it had gone on since she returned back from the hospital, hell it had gone on for several years before that. She wasn’t doing alright. She hadn’t been doing alright. She wasn’t okay.
         Jane tumbled onto the cold, black leather sofa Henry had insisted on buying after May had moved out. He had wanted to redo their entire house, one that she had put so much love and care into. She had asked that they keep their old, soft red sofa that they’d had for years, however one day she’d returned from work and saw the lovely red piece on the curb of the road. The only thing she liked about the new cold, lumpy thing was its color: it had replaced her past favorite, a light yellow.
She felt her stomach churn. She imagined the blackened mush swimming in all the red wine. Three quarters of the $10 bottle was already gone.
         “I’m holding up.” She said, the words slow and mumbled.
         The line on the other end was silent for a moment. “Janey, have you been drinking?” There was the typical sympathy laced tone of voice that Jane had yet to become accustomed.
         She tried to bite back a sarcastic remark and her brain utterly failed. “Oh, no mama I would never.”
         “Jane Louise Milton-“          A bright yellow light shone through the window and it hit Jane right in her left eye. The car’s headlights momentarily blinded her and caused a sharp pain to ricochet in her skull. She dropped the wine glass and heard the soft thud as it hit the carpeted floor.
         The red merlot spread out, violating the once pristine white rug. Jane glanced at it for a moment. She wondered who the hell it could be in her driveway. No one came out to her home to visit. She liked being alone, people shrugged it off and gave her space because her husband had just died, but Jane had felt like she was alone even years before Henry passed.
“Are you listening to me?”
         “No. I’m not and I don’t have to. Goodbye mom.” She sat up abruptly, hung up the phone, and placed her hands on the cluttered coffee table in front of her as she tried to stand.
Her head felt like someone had hit her, the pain so great her stomach felt ready to add another painting to the rug, this one made of a low quality meal and an entire bottle of cheap merlot. The knock on the door didn’t help the situation any, either.
         “Jesus mom I know you’re in there. Open the door.” She had wanted to just pretend she wasn’t home. She didn’t feel like she was home.
         The transition from the soft padded rug to cool tile in the foyer caused Jane to stand on her tiptoes. Again her calf protested the movement. Feet from the door Jane fell, stretching her hand out she managed to grab the doorknob, though she still crashed to her knees. Pain. A different pain from what she felt in her heart and head, yet pain that was regardless still unreal.
         May pushed the door open and saw her mother sprawled out on the floor. Her mother’s pale skin contrasted greatly against the black tile and black dress that she wore. Jane outstretched her hands, tried to pick herself up, and collapsed against the white foyer wall for support.
          “Did you burn something in here? It smells absolutely disgusting.” May said, catching the scent of the charred chicken that lingered in the house. Jane loved the way the smell continued to float through each room.
         Jane smiled weakly. She put her hand on the wall and edged herself again into the living room. She was relieved by the warmth of the carpet. May grabbed her mom’s skinny hands and brought her to lie on the sofa. “Just some chicken. Got some left in the kitchen if you want a plate.”
         Jane didn’t remember May saying she was going to stop by. Not that she was going to complain. May was the only person, besides her mom, she had heard from in about a year. Though she didn’t really blame anyone else. She blamed herself for pushing everyone and everything away.
         “What are you doing here?” Jane asked. She started to sit up. She was looking for her wine glass and drew her eyes to the carpet remembering where it went. She had no more wine, maybe just the sip that remained in the bottle. That was all she had left in her house. All she had left to drown out the dark and painful thoughts that were constantly screaming out in her head. She looked longingly at the wine soaked in the rug. It looked like dried up blood. What a waste.
         May followed her mom’s gaze and saw the wine. Although not wanting to be an enabler she went into the kitchen and grabbed her mom the little that was left in the bottle. She wanted her mom to talk. She’d already lost one parent and she knew she was on the brink of losing the other. “Sorry. I didn’t want to be alone. Figured you didn’t want to either.”
         Jane laughed and then burped. She was drunk. Her thoughts were floating. Her mind was going numb. Her pain was almost gone. Almost. “Didn’t want any chicken or vegetables, then?”
         “Those were vegetables? Are you sure you’re okay? When you taught me how to cook you always told me it was a sin to let food go to waste.” May sat next to her mom.
         “I didn’t let it go to waste. I ate most of it.” Jane shrugged. It was the only way she ate her food now. Angrily prepared and burned to a crisp. It was the way she learned to enjoy most things in her life.
         May’s mouth dropped open. Jane swirled the wine in the bottle.
         “Have you talked to grandma recently?”
         “Of course. Twice today. I hung up on her when you pulled in.”
Jane watched May’s face. She kept it calm, she looked so much like Henry, was so much like him, yet she could hide behind an emotionless mask, just like Jane. She hated that it was one of the only attributes that she had passed on to her daughter.
         “I used to think you and dad had the perfect relationship. You know you two used to talk all the time, about everything and nothing. I miss that, I miss him.” May said. There was a fond look on her face as she remembered.
         Jane remembered that too. They used to talk all the time. They used to go on date nights and vacations. She was envied. He was envied. They had the perfect life up until it wasn’t perfect anymore.
         “Mom, how have you been feeling?”
         To be honest or to lie? “Better May. A lot better. It’s only been a year but I’m getting stronger.” Lies were always better.
         May looked at her then. She looked past the drunken stupor and the wrinkles now etched on her mother’s face. Jane sat there and finally took a sip out of the bottle. The last drops of Merlot. Her mouth scrunched up. The sip had been bitter. She put the bottle down on the glass table and noticed that May must have cleaned it. The books and papers were gone and the top was clean of smudges.
         “You know, mom, I miss dad. I miss him so much and grandma and I are worried about you. We’re really worried. If I asked you to do something for me, would you?”
         Even drunk Jane knew where this was going. Henry had asked her on the phone that night, a year ago, when he was driving home. He’d asked her to go to therapy. He said they’d go together, that they’d work things out if that was what she really needed. She had started to spin one of her lies, she told him she was okay, and then she’d heard it, his scream and then the dial tone. He had crashed into a tree.
          “I’d been afraid to talk to your father about things. I’d been holding things in, all bottled up inside. And I waited to long. I wanted to get him off the phone that night. I wanted him to pay attention to the road. I had wanted to talk to him for a while and he brought it up that night. When he wasn’t even home with me.”
         May put her arm around her mother. Jane sat there on the cold leather sofa and cried in her daughter’s arms. Her mouth was dry, her cries turned to heaves, she felt like one of those carrots she’d been cutting earlier. She felt like she was being torn to pieces. She felt like she was on fire. She felt everything. She finally allowed herself to feel everything, to hear everything. The cloud from the merlot was fading as May held her, wrapped in an old flannel blanket that Henry had bought for her after May was born, and Jane with tear stained cheeks fell asleep.
         
The glass bottle of merlot was gone when Jane woke up. The white rug had a wet towel covering the red stain. The coffee table was still clean.
         Her mouth dry Jane walked to the windowsill, May’s car was gone. For a moment she wondered if it had all been just a dream. Her head pounded to a rhythm that made her want to cry as she made her way to the kitchen for water and an Advil.
         On the white marble counter, there was a note, the house phone, and the pile of broken china pieces in a bag. May had gone to grab them both coffee. Jane fingered the broken pieces; the points of the sharp edges against the soft pads of her hands brought her more pain. She looked around for the merlot bottle, for the burned pan she’d cooked her chicken in. May had attempted to clean up, but the pan was still left out, it looked like she had tried to rid it of all the black scars. Jane knew those scars were etched deep into the pan now. No matter how hard she or anyone else scrubbed, what used to be one of her prized possessions, would never shine the way it used to. The deep, black lines would now be part of the pan forever.
         Jane knew that May had cleaned as much as possible so that Jane would have no excuse but to call to make an appointment.
         Her heart in her throat as well as nausea that was brewing in the pit of her stomach, Jane dialed the number written. The secretary answered the phone and Jane hung up.
         Her head hurt but not from her headache. Her head screamed, the rational voice within her drowning. She found her cutting board and favorite knife. She grabbed eggs and ham from the fridge and went to go add more burn lines to her pan.