One More Chance

The bright sun brushed Sandra's pillow with the strokes of morning. She buried her face in the feathered pile, and thought about the night before. John was such a stubborn man, and she could feel the frustration rise in her chest when she recalled their fight. Who did he think he was accusing her of spending frivolously? Calling her "Spoiled and "Undisciplined."

He's just cheap and controlling, she thought. She peeked up at the sheer black dress, specked with gold sequence, and trimmed with slick satin edges. It dangled over the closet door like an elegant woman draped in a doorway. She imagined herself on John's arm, he in his suit and tie, and she, a striking silhouette at his side. They would mingle and tap glasses with the other guests while the Christmas music played, and the smell of cinnamon and berries beckoned from the kitchen. It was his family's party. Didn't he care that she had struggled to lose seventeen pounds, sweating at the gym, and swearing off sweets for six months? Was it a crime to want to look good, maybe even feel good in something she wore? And would it be too hard for the man to put his socks in the hamper she grunted, glaring at the navy pair plopped on the floor. Why didn't I stay single? She thought, thumping her head back down on the pillow. Thirteen years of marriage and romance is like a holiday around here- only comes once a year, if I'm lucky.

Listening to the dog pant at the bedside, she rolled over and stroked his head. "Hey, buddy, where's John? Didn't he let you out?" Tossing her feet onto the carpet, she staggered to the kitchen. John wasn't at the table with his grey mug and morning paper. She poked into the den and noticed the stark screen on the computer- no John.

Well, isn't that sweet, off to work early with no note or goodbyes. Typical.

She let the dog out the back door, and stood breathing in the morning mist. That's strange, John's silver Sentra was still parked in the driveway. "John," she called through the kitchen, in the hallway, and down the basement steps. No answer. Well, maybe he carpooled, she assumed, shaking off the dread that suddenly stirred inside her.

Glimpsing the mantel clock, she noticed it was later than she thought. Pretty soon, I'll have to tussle with Terrance- the morning tradition that had dragged on since the start of his high school year. She'd open his door, turn on his light, and sift through littered Levis, and tattered T shirts, finding his bed. Then budging the body twisted in checked sheets, she'd say "Come on T, it's time to get up."

"In a minute mom," he'd groan. Then five, ten, and again thirty minutes later, she'd be standing in the doorway fuming "T, Move it now-you're going to be late." Doors would slam, feet would thunder through the house, and when the car door closed and Terrence sauntered into the school at last, she'd breathe again.

But this morning when she turned the knob and peered into his room, the rumpled bed was unoccupied. "Terrence," she called. "What's going on?" Her hands began to tremble, and panic punched her gut, as she raced from room to room. "Where are you, John, Terrence?"

The dog clawed at the kitchen door. She swung it open, gasping.

"Good morning, neighbor," Mrs. Burns called from the bushes that bordered her home. She smiled, holding a dancing dog leash that was half hidden by the shrubs.

"Mrs. Burns," Sandra screeched "Have you seen John, and Terrence?"

"Who?" Mrs. Burns looked perplexed, pulling at the leash.

"My hh husband, and son," Sandra said. "Terrence- he mows your grass, and John- he helped you haul out those boxes from your basement last month." Her cheeks felt hot, and her hands moist.

"I'm sorry dear; I have no clue who you're speaking of. My son helped me haul those boxes, and Billy- the boy down the block mows the grass on Saturdays. Maybe you need a minute to gather yourself this morning. You don't look well."

Sandra let the door slam, and stood in the silent kitchen, her heart beating like a bass drum. Was Mrs. Burns nuts, or was she? She paced, hastily trying to put the pieces together in her head. Then, picking up the phone, she dialed the seven digits that would bring solace to her situation- she hoped. "Hi, mom," she said smoothly, trying to stifle her anxiety. "I was wondering when you last saw Terrence, and John too?"

"What? Slow down Sandra, are you alright?" Her voice clamored with concern.

"Don't you know my family, mom" Sandra's fingers clamped the receiver.

"Honey, maybe you've had a dream of some sort. Take a deep breath. John and Terrence are gone, sweetheart. Remember the accident? I, I'm getting my coat on and we'll have coffee. Just stay there."

The phone clicked, and Sandra let it slip from her hand, and clunk on the kitchen floor. "The accident. The accident." Her thoughts swirled amid those two tormenting words. She rushed to the bedroom where she longed to awaken her Terrence. To tap her fingers on his shoulders, feeling his adolescent skin, and say "Come on T, it's time to get up." She turned her face from the blank bed, tears swelling in her eyes. She hurried to her bedroom, ripping the black dress from its hanger. She buried her face in the fabric. Aching for one more encounter, one more conversation, this time her words would be gracious, her speech soft and doting. She'd say she'd been petty, and selfish. She picked up John's navy sock that loitered on the floor. Holding the sock in front of her, she remembered all the socks, tousled newspapers at the table, and shaving cream smudges on the mirror. Recalling her fury, wishing back the bitterness.

Then the buzzing alarm nudged her from her nightmare into reality. Into her bedroom where she looked up to find the once glamorous garment, the black dress, was now just a paltry piece of fabric slung on a satin hanger. Her husband tossed beside her in bed. She smoothed her fingers through the black and grey tuft atop his head, and said "John, let's start over."