Good Plans

Nora Martin lay diagonal across her unmade bed looking up at the ceiling. Her hair covered her face, but she could still see the shadow of venetian blinds on the chipped plaster, blinking to the cadence of the stoplight outside her third-floor walk-up. She whisked the hair away from her eyes, and her hand fell on the bare shoulder protruding from her nightshirt. She wiped the sweat from her hand and raised herself up against the headboard.

Her legs looked like two giant chopsticks dropped on the sheet. Reaching down, she squeezed her thigh with her left hand and plunged the needle with her right. She hesitated, not moving, not breathing. Exhaling, she whispered, “It’s not working—I need more,” and pushed the full vial into her body. 

The used syringe fell silently on the bed near two already-emptied vials. The ticking shadow counted off the seconds. Nora waited to die.

The cold. She hadn’t anticipated the cold traveling up and down her body like an electric current. She rolled onto her side, bringing her knees to her chest under her stretched night shirt. She was little again, waiting at the bus stop for her father after work. Shivering in the winter air and the falling snow, she had a good plan.

Daddy hates me chewing on my hair. So, I’ll put my hair in my mouth, and that will make him come on the next bus. I’ll say, “I’m sorry, Daddy,” and cry. He’ll feel bad. Won’t stop at the bar on the way home. Mommy won’t have a reason to get mad.

At eight years old, you still think your plans will work. It was around then that the voice started talking to her. For the next thirty years, it rose up on every occasion—a familiar voice, one she couldn’t silence. None of your good plans work.

The empty wine bottle on her nightstand gave a flat reflection of the blinking light, not like the almost magical sparkle from the crystal wine decanter and wine glasses her mother put out for Sunday dinners.

She and her sisters served the food, always the same menu with slight variations driven by what was on hand: pasta with meatballs and sausages, roast chicken, salad, pastry, fruit, nuts for dessert. Daddy drank his wine from a juice glass. Nora followed suit.

Grandma and Uncle Pasquale sat next to Mom. Bill sat next to Daddy, and little Kristin next to Bill.

The insulin was having its effect. She drifted into darkness. Soon the diabetic coma would silence that voice. She heard the din of the conversations Daddy was having with Bill. My men, so smart, so good. She saw Daddy sipping his wine.

She screamed, “Stop Drinking,” and her words carried the force of a demon— a monster that turned toward her then dissolved in thin air. Her breath fell from her chest. Why did I follow you? Regret hung like a heavy stone in her gut. I’m so sorry.

She couldn’t say Bill without picturing Kristen. Her little girl’s smile brought. a smile to her face, pushed the grief down, but it sprung back as a long pulsating moan.

“Kristen, I didn’t want to leave you. I couldn’t stay. I couldn’t let what happened to me, happen to you. I had to go. I had to.”

Kristin. Kristin. Kristin. It was as if her mind wouldn’t let go of little Kristin. Just a few weeks ago, grown-up Kristin had sought her mother out. She stood so tall and straight. Nora had no words to fill the long pause, but Kristen’s finally spoke.

 “Mom, I love you. I have always loved you. I forgive you.”

Nora never expected forgiveness; she hadn’t forgiven herself. They both cried. She told Kristen how much she loved her, how much she missed her.

Nora swept the three empty vials off the bed and let out a sound like an injured cat in the night. Her mind cleared as if a strong gust had come up and blown the fog away. How could she have forgotten her promise?

“Yes, Kristen, I will come to your wedding.” 

Kristen’s words, “Mom, I love you. I have always loved you. I forgive you,” made it possible, and now she had to live up to that promise.

She flailed in the bed, “I can’t die now. I can’t fail her again. I have to be there for the wedding, for the rehearsal. I can’t die now.”

Her emergency chocolate bars were in the nightstand. If only she could reach them, she could raise her blood sugar. She struggled through to open the drawer. Her arms didn’t seem to belong to her.

She removed the candy bars. They slipped through her hands like Jell-O and fell to the floor—out of reach.

 The room darkened even more. Insulin was draining her blood of its nutrients, sucking consciousness out of her brain.

“Daddy,”she whispered and wedged a thick strand of blonde hair between her lips. She fell back onto the bed. He’ll come on the next bus.

She could see a dollhouse in the darkness with a motionless doll that looked like her on the bed. She heard a muffled sound as quiet as a heartbeat coming from inside and brought her ear closer. The sound grew louder like the dull thump of bare feet running on mud flats. Now the sound was in her own head. Then came a crescendo, she was back in her bed and someone was banging on her apartment door.

“Nora, are you in there?” It was her father’s voice. “Are you coming to the rehearsal? Nora! Nora, are you alright?”

“Daddy,” she cried out, but she wasn’t sure if the sound made it out of her mouth. If it did, it was too soft to be heard at the door.

She didn’t know how he got in, but she felt Daddy’s hand on her forehead.

“What have you done to yourself, my precious little girl?”

She felt his tear fall on her cheek, but she couldn’t open her eyes or speak.

Daddy is smart. He’ll see what’s happening. He’ll figure things out. He’ll take care of me.

She heard him rip open the first chocolate bar, and felt pieces being stuffed into her mouth. She could hardly chew, but as the chocolate melted, she began to swallow the lifesaving sugar. Eating became like climbing a rope in gym class, and she was challenging herself to finish. She was coming back.

Her hopes increased with each taste of sweetness and with each stroke of her father’s hand on her head. When she finished the last bit, she looked up, “Daddy,” she said, “you’re here.”

He answered, “Of course, Precious, of course.”

She knew now she could clean herself up. She could be there for Kristen just like her father was now there for her. This time the plan would work.

Each year, a week before her wedding anniversary, Kristen bought a small bouquet of Forget-Me-Nots. She visited her mother and grandfather, next to each other on the grassy hill, always repeating the words she had said to her mother the last time she saw her.

“Mom, I love you. I have always loved you. I forgive you.”