Be Careful What You Wish For
"There's not enough salt in these god-damned potatoes," Frank roared, slamming his fork onto the plate and spilling peas into his lap. "God damn it!" His face contorted in an ugly scowl. He grabbed the Jack Daniels and took a long swig straight from the bottle.
The meatloaf became a dry mass in Susan's mouth.
"Your mother used to make delicious potatoes."
"I know it, but she's not here. I'm doing the..."
"No, she isn't, is she?"
Because you killed her.
He didn't say the words out loud, but she heard the accusation clearly in her stepfather's voice, in the rigid stance of his body language.
She felt her cheeks flush with shame, tears welling and throat constricting, choking off whatever words she might have said. What could she say? It was the truth.
"God damn it," he said again, softly this time, and with less force. “This isn’t working.” Pushing away from the table, he took the bottle of whiskey and left the kitchen.
Susan buried her face in her hands and let the sobs come. Her body may have healed from the accident, but her heart had not.
She hadn't wanted to drive. Had no need to learn. Why did she need a car, when they lived in the city, with public transportation to take her to any destination she desired?
Of course, that was before the coronavirus put a temporary halt to public transportation. Along with any desire she might have had to venture out into the city.
It had been early January. The weather unseasonably warm. Her mother had insisted on taking her out for a driving lesson. Her dream for her daughter was for Susan to travel when she graduated from high school, to go west and explore the country. She’d need a car for that, and a driver’s license. She wanted Susan to get out of the city, to find and marry a cowboy, to live off the land and have babies, like she had.
Her mom had often reminisced of their life in Montana, where Susan had been born. Where they’d lived with Susan’s real dad, before he died in Afghanistan when she was eight.
Susan had fond memories of Montana; of wide open spaces, and snow topped mountains. Of sudden rain storms in the summer. She remembered pulling weeds in a garden, chasing chickens around the coop, gathering their eggs. Remembered skimming thick cream off the gallon of milk the neighbor left on their porch every Sunday.
She also remembered getting bucked off a horse, falling down the ravine, and almost drowning in the creek.
Riding a horse had been almost as deadly as driving a car.
And just like that she’s taken back in memory to the accident, to those moments of violence that ended with shattered glass and air bags deployed. To fractured ribs and punctured lung. Blood from a head wound dripping into her eyes; obscuring the sight of her mom, mangled and broken beyond recognition.
Susan began hyperventilating. She had to fight to catch her breath, struggling to pull her thoughts back to the present.
The dinner she had taken such pleasure in preparing was now cold and unappealing. Her appetite had fled with her memories.
She could hear Frank out in the living room, flipping through TV stations, muttering to himself.
Anger followed grief, and she let it come.
He was home all the time now, since his work shut down. He’d started drinking again, too. He didn’t hit her, or anything like that, but he got angry when he was drunk, yelling at her for no reason. Every other word out of his mouth was a swear word.
She tried so hard to please him, but he'd made it clear he didn't want her anymore. Without her mom, it seemed he wanted nothing to do with her. She felt betrayed by this man who had been like a father to her for the last six years. He'd rarely come to the hospital, and when he had, he’d hardly spent any time with her at all. He'd been so angry when she was released early, when the coronavirus started spreading through the city, and they needed beds for infected patients.
He’d even made suggestions about moving her out to Montana. But he couldn’t do that, could he? Just pack her off like an unwanted puppy?
Sometimes she wished he would catch the coronavirus himself, so he could see what it was like to be all alone in the hospital. As she sat there stewing, a niggle of an idea occurred to her. She had a follow up appointment with her doctor the next day; she'd need Frank to take her. Maybe he’d catch it then. That’d serve him right!
*-*
Frank woke on the couch. He was curled on his side, head and neck skewed at an odd, uncomfortable angle against an overstuffed cushion. His hands were clenched and cramping under his face. Drool crusted his cheek, and his eyes and throat were scratchy dry.
A glance at the clock showed it was three a.m. Bright moonlight streamed in through the slits of the blinds, highlighting the empty whiskey bottle on the floor beside him.
Why did he keep doing this, he berated himself. Drinking himself into a stupor, waking up hungover and often unable to remember the last events of the night. He told himself he wouldn’t drink the next day, but knew it to be an empty promise.
He’d started drinking after ten years of sobriety. When Carol died and his stepdaughter fought for her life in the hospital. When the pandemic struck and his work got shut down. His drinking got even worse after Susan came home early from the hospital, mostly healed, but still hurting. Still in need of the care he found so difficult to provide.
He blamed her for Carol’s death, though in his heart of hearts he knew it was not her fault. The guy who hit them had been speeding and ran a red light. He’d been slightly intoxicated, but not enough to be charged with a DUI. He’d been charged with manslaughter, though, and his insurance would pay dearly for the accident. But the bastard had walked away with minor injuries, while Carol was dead on impact, and Susan hospitalized for two and a half months.
Susan must have turned the TV off when she went to bed. He tried to remember if he’d spoken to her or not, but his last memory was of ranting about the damned potatoes.
God, he was such a jerk. He was so ashamed of himself. The poor girl didn’t deserve to be treated this way, but he didn’t know how to change. She looked so much like her mother, it hurt to look at her. Sometimes he wished she had died in the accident as well. He hated himself for thinking this, but the thought was there and wouldn’t go away.
Feeling guilty and ashamed of himself, he got up from the couch and made his way to his bedroom, knowing it would be a long time before he fell asleep.
*-*
“Will you come in with me?” Susan asked Frank from her seat in the pickup truck. She affixed her mask and stared out at the long line of people waiting to have their temperature checked before being allowed to enter the Medical Center.
Frank shook his head. “I’ll stay here. They won’t let me in with you anyway. Go on now. You don’t want to be late.”
She didn’t want to go at all. She’d thought about this all night, about exposing Frank to the virus so he could get sick. In the end, she felt guilty and ashamed of herself for having such thoughts and lay awake for hours, unable to fall asleep.
It took longer to get through the line and into the doctor’s office then it took for the actual examination. The doctor listened to her lungs, prodded her ribs and declared her good to go.
*-*
Three days later, Susan woke with a fever. Her throat was sore and her chest felt heavy. She was achy all over.
That’s when she knew.
She had wanted Frank to get sick, to get back at him for how he’d been treating her. But life didn’t work that way, and she knew it. This was karma’s way of getting back at her for harboring such thoughts, for wishing evil on another person, even though she had repented of those thoughts.
She climbed out of bed and padded across to the bedroom door, peeking out into the living room. Frank was watching television, sipping coffee. The aroma of the freshly brewed pot made her nauseous and she made a dash for the bathroom.
“Oh, honey! You’re as pale as a ghost.” Frank said, when she emerged and headed for her bedroom. “Are you sick?” There was genuine concern in his voice.
“I think it’s the virus,” Susan whispered.
“Oh no! It can’t be. You go back to bed, right now. I’ll call the doctor and we’ll figure out what to do.”
“Am I gonna die?”
She thought he would cry. Susan was struck at the incongruity of this strong man, whom she alternately loved and hated, trying to hide his fear while putting on a brave face.
“No! No! You are not going to die. Absolutely not. We’re gonna get you well and then we’re getting out of this city. You and me. We’re gonna move to Montana, just like your mother always wanted. We talked about this last week, remember?”
She’d thought he wanted to pack her off by herself. Had she misunderstood him?
“Go on, now. Back to bed. I’ll make you some chicken soup, then I’ll call the doctor.”
Later, she found him pouring all his whiskey down the kitchen sink.
*-*
Susan was back in the hospital, intubated in the ICU, fighting for her life. Again.
He’d done everything the doctor had suggested, but nothing seemed to help. And now, when he finally realized how much he loved this girl, loved being a father to her, it seemed he was going to lose her after all. He remembered wishing she had died in the accident, and now it seemed his wish was about to come true.
He considered buying a bottle of whiskey, but quickly dispelled the notion as cowardly. She would want him to live, even if she did not.
When the phone rang, eight days later, he was afraid to answer it. He wasn’t ready for the news, inevitable as it was.
“Your daughter has recovered, Mr. Johnston,” said the disembodied voice. “She’ll be in isolation for fourteen days, then we’ll release her into your care.”
Frank fell to his knees and sobbed.
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