A Love Lost - A Short Story by Abraham Atawodi

This short story by regular contributor Abraham Atawodi reveals how a loving relationship comes to an untimely end. If you write poetry, fiction, or non-fiction and would like to be featured on the ZODML blog, send an email to [email protected].
Brian gazed at the blank sheet of paper in front of him, the unfathomable sea of white. Beside it sat his third cup of coffee since he sat down with the intent of putting pen to paper. As he stared at the white sheet, he could hear it mock him, its evil laughter reverberating through the sparsely furnished room. He picked his pen again, determined to break through this writer’s block or whatever it was called. He would put this insolent, unending whiteness before him to shame.
Ten minutes later, he still hadn’t penned a dot. As he took a sip from his fourth cup, he wondered about Mr Vermont, his writing therapist. Brian’s aged mother had prodded him, on several occasions, to try writing-therapy. She promised him he would heal from his hurt and his heart would mend. It sounded improbable but he gave in to her relentlessness, and found himself in Mr Vermont’s office, much to his displeasure. Just humour the old woman, he thought.
“This is exactly what you need,” the bright-eyed counsellor had said on the first visit, as he began a winding, unending discourse, complete with incredible stories, loud exclamations, and saliva flying in many directions. His rotund stomach heaved with each breath, and Brian hissed. He looked around, surrounded by the unfamiliar world of marble and brass, and felt uneasy. He hoped this was no hoax. He had no patience for charlatans.
He kept on visiting (his mother wouldn't let him off) until he began to nurse the belief that the therapy might ease his emotional distress. Visit after visit, hope began to bloom, until he became excited. The future was about to begin; the sombre past would fade into oblivion.
“It’s time. I think you’re ready to write,” the therapist had said today, smiling. Brian smiled back and assured him he would return on his next visit a brand new man.
However, now that he had returned to his cosy home, to the eerie quietness of solitary living, he wondered why he felt so dry, so lifeless. He wanted to write it all out, to let go, to heal. But that was the problem. He couldn’t summon anything except the incomprehensible blankness before him. As he looked at the clock again, then back down at the plain sheet that mirrored his wounded soul, he wasn’t sure he would ever find his own feet or spread his wings and take to the sky. He wasn’t sure he could ever get over Claire. He stood up from his chair just beside the fireplace and walked into the bedroom they had once shared. Her place was still there, waiting for her if she ever decided to come back. Brian reached for the picture on the bedside drawer flanking her side of the bed, and peered into her face as it shone from the glossy print. He missed no detail. The curve of her cheek, her priceless dimples, the wisps of her golden locks, that seductive smile... how could he forget? He could still feel her skin, soft and supple, as he heard her voice ring clear in his head, telling him that she loved him. And he had loved her back, in ways he had never loved anyone before. But she left, he reminded himself. She left, and he couldn’t blame her. His hands trembled as he clasped the frame to his chest, letting the anguish he felt find expression in hot tears.
There was nothing unusual about the morning Claire tried to leave. Brian had woken up and Claire was not beside him in bed. He hadn’t thought anything of it. She was always complaining about this or that now that she was pregnant, and she hardly slept much. He gazed at the ceiling for a moment, and with a quick prayer, swung his feet to meet the tiled floor. Then he noticed the peculiar quietness. He couldn’t hear Claire anywhere in the house. She would normally be listening to soft music as she chopped and sliced in the kitchen. Yes, another absurdity: there was no aroma wafting throughout the house. Where was Claire?
A quick search throughout the house did not reveal any trace of her. He ran outside, searched the entire compound, and came up short. Sweat began to break out all over his body. He told himself to calm down and think, even though he knew he couldn’t. Brian raced inside and began to search every room again, every corner, every open space. Then he found her. She was sprawled on the bathroom floor, looking pallid, her toothbrush sticking out of her mouth. Brian rushed to her side, screaming her name, feeling for a pulse. He half-dragged, half-carried her to the car and hurried back inside to fetch the keys. His driving that morning was erratic, demoniacal even, as he charged and meandered, fighting the tears, beseeching God with desperate, incoherent pleas.
The ten-minute ride to the city hospital took seven minutes. As he drove in, he hollered for help. The nurses swung into action. They carried Claire out of the car and placed her on a gurney to be wheeled into the emergency ward. A nurse said he was lucky to have brought her in the nick of time; she was near dead. As Brian panicked, orders were barked. Feet moved. Wheels promptly rolled. But the perplexed husband did not stop shouting and rubbing his palms together. He thought everyone was moving too sluggishly, like zombies in a slow march. He would have followed his wife in, but a nurse told him to relax in the waiting room. Claire would be fine.
A full hour later, no news had come. He could see some of the nurses running helter-skelter, whispering to one another, stealing gloomy glances at him. He looked at his watch: 9:33am. They had told him she would be revived in a few minutes. His palms turned sweaty. God, please! Out of nowhere, a white coat appeared in the waiting room, seeking a certain Brian DuPlessis. Brian sprang to his feet in an instant, rubbing his wet palms on the sides of his khaki shorts, bracing himself for the worst. God, please!
“Your wife has revived,” the tubby doctor announced. Brian almost kissed his shoes. The room suddenly looked brighter.
“A few concerns, though. She is short of blood. We also discovered the pregnancy. Why didn’t you say anything before? Where is she registered?”
Brian felt numb all over. “Registered,” he repeated.
“Yes, registered. Antenatal?” the doctor questioned, wondering if the shaky leaf in front of him was hard of hearing, or just plain stupid.
“We didn’t register anywhere, Doctor,” Brian replied, bowing his head in shame. He couldn’t bear to look into the doctor’s eyes, to behold the doctor’s surprise.
“A five-month old pregnancy and no antenatal?” the doctor asked, his eyes bulging. “Okay. Any history of diseases I should know?” It was obvious he was trying hard not to blow up and deliver a punch to Brian’s crooked nose. Brian looked around at the other people in the room whose eyes were fixed on him, ears straining to hear his shameful conversation with the fiery doctor. He looked back at the doctor, a pained expression on his round face.
“Let’s go to my office,” the doctor said, shaking his head as he turned around and led the way. Brian told him everything: Claire’s sickle cell anaemia, her catalogue of miscarriages, her previous near-death experiences. The doctor watched him as he narrated his sorry tale. He interrupted to ask questions and clear up grey areas, as he scribbled indecipherable notes in Claire’s green medical file. He wasn’t pleased with this irresponsible husband, and he did nothing to hide it.
“Your wife needs blood, young man. Any ready donor? Family? Anybody?” the angry doctor asked, rising from his seat.
“I’ve given her blood before, Doctor,” Brian replied, his voice quivering, as he made to get up. Claire opened her eyes to see her dishevelled husband sitting by the bed, his bloodshot eyes testifying of the anguish she had put him through. He rushed to her side and planted a tender kiss on her forehead. She managed a weak smile, then tried to speak, to apologise, to profess her love. Brian told her to hush.
“Just get better,” he said, holding her hand. Another kiss, then he stood up and told her he would be back. He needed to pack a bag. The doctor said she would have to remain in hospital for days, maybe even weeks. As he turned around and shut the door behind him, he did not see the tear that slipped down from her eye.
The days stretched into a week. Claire was still in hospital, and feeling very grumpy. She had regained most of her strength, her blood level was no longer critical, and her appetite had improved a great deal.
“I want to leave this place, Brian,” she said, a grim expression plastered on her face. He chortled and told her she would. It was only a matter of time. She didn’t press further; she just sighed.
The next morning, she said it again. Brian told her not to worry. “The doctor said anytime soon,” he lied. “Don’t bother yourself. Just get better, my love,” he added, holding her soft hand in his, wishing he could make all her pain disappear in an instant.
“I’m suffering here. Please get me out. It’s not like I’m about to die. I haven’t felt this good in months. Please,” she begged. He held her in a tight embrace and let her cry on his shoulder, determined to do everything he could to make her happy. He went to the doctor’s office.
“Doctor, can my wife be discharged? I think she’s okay.” The austere doctor gave him an icy stare before gesturing to the chair in front of him. Brian looked like he would fall apart.
“Who’s the doctor? You or me?” the doctor fired. Brian stared at his hands as they quivered in his lap. He summoned the courage to explain his predicament, hoping to appeal to the doctor’s sympathy and convince the seasoned physician that the worst had passed, and his wife could recuperate at home. The doctor didn’t budge. He proceeded with a long lecture, advising against the foolish suggestion. Brian didn’t seem to be paying any attention. The conversation went back and forth, back and forth. Tempers flared, and the doctor produced a discharge-on-request form.
“I hope you understand that this is silly. You have full responsibility for whatever happens,” he said, giving Brian his iciest stare. Brian didn’t say anything. He just grabbed the form and appended his signature. It was done. Claire hadn’t been happier in a long while. She was going home! Brian helped put her things together, and then thanked all the nurses he could find, as he announced that they were going home.
“The doctor released us today,” he said, as they looked at him, puzzled. Claire placed her feet on the floor gingerly. She hadn’t done much walking since she had been in the hospital, but she felt good and wanted to prove her strength. She stood on her feet and would have fallen had Brian not immediately reached out and held her. “Take it easy, Claire,” he scolded. She smiled. 
A nurse suggested that Claire be wheeled out to the car park. Brian barked at her in remonstration. Why would anybody wheel his wife out of a hospital when she was no invalid? Claire took her first step, unaided. She wobbled like a toddler. “You know I’ve been lying down most of the time,” she explained to no one in particular, letting out a short laugh.
The nurse offered to hold her and walk her down to the car. Claire shook her head in disapproval. Brian shot the nurse a reprimanding look. She scampered off. Claire took a step, then another, until they stood outside the impressive hospital building. A few yards to the car park, she said she was tired; she wanted to sit down. Brian found her a place to sit. She said it looked like everything was spinning, so he told her to calm down. She did, and slumped again right there in front of the hospital, leaving him forever.
Brian stared at the picture, berating himself mercilessly as the tears burned his eyes. When he had cried enough, he replaced the picture in its position and strode back to the sitting room, reclaiming his chair. He gazed out of the open window for a moment, looking at nothing in particular. There was nothing to see. Claire had abandoned him. Now, all he had was a new pen and a blank sheet of paper. His hand trembled as he picked up the pen and proceeded to write her a love letter.
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