Death Throes

Now it’s over, it’s almost funny that I can recall the precise date when I started to think about our future, wondering where we would live and what it would be like. It started at Halloween, to be exact, when Imogen and I deliberated where we should spend the night. What Imogen loved above everything else were holidays and most of all, the presents that came with them. Even without a special occasion, a present, regardless of what it was, would brighten her day. She would make a big deal out of my sharing my sandwich with her, holding it carefully like it was an invaluable gift, making sure to savour every bite. She used to say that her love for presents was a consequence of her having been born on Christmas day. If you arrive to heaps of presents, you’ll inevitably expect gifts every day. It made sense. About Halloween Imogen liked the dressed up children being presented with sweets and the memories of sugary gifts they elicited. Since my flat was on the ground floor while hers was several stairs up, we decided to spend the special night at my place. The children who rang our doorbell didn’t know that we didn’t usually live together and it felt good having them believe we were husband and wife. I knew it was too early really, but once my imagination was stirred, I couldn’t wait any longer. I simply had to trust that Imogen had given the future some thought as well.

It turned out she had. She looked at me sadly and closed the box. “I’m sorry, Jimmy, but I can’t.” She gave the black velvet box another longing look before pushing it back across the table towards me. I had already put the well-rehearsed, suave, not too goofy smile on my face when I realised that this wasn’t exactly the answer imaginary Imogen had given during my rehearsals. Catching the utterly horrified expression on my face, she added, “I’m so sorry, but I just can’t.” “But why?” I blurted out before I could stop myself. Clearly, if she was that sorry that she was in fact close to ruining the carefully applied, thick layer of mascara that framed her eyes, she could. “I couldn’t do that to you.” “Do what to me?” I snapped, sickened by the fury that was coming to a boil in my stomach. Imogen started to reel off the very same speech I had heard from a set of different women several times before – how much she enjoyed spending time with me. How she thought I was the most caring man she’d ever met or was ever likely to meet. BUT. Cue insipid excuses of why it wasn’t working out. How she was so glad she’d met me. How she couldn’t bear the prospect of me becoming a widower at this young age. Blah blah blah. What? “I didn’t want to scare you, so I kept it to myself.” Imogen paused, whether it was to pluck up some courage or to inspect her scarlet nail polish I couldn’t tell. “I am destined to die young,” she finally whispered, took a deep breath and closed her eyes for a moment. “Just like my mum did. It runs in the family.” “What?” I couldn’t help my voice becoming unpleasantly loud. “Drink-driving runs in your family? You haven’t even got a license!” I could see her mouth tighten before she lifted her face and said stubbornly: “It’s going to be tragic, I can feel it. Besides, I think I’m coming down with a cough that could easily turn into pneumonia.”

There was nothing I could do to convince Imogen to become my wife. Considering we would only be married for a couple of months, she figured it wouldn’t be worth spending all our money on a wedding. Money I could put towards her funeral once she’d passed. However, she agreed to move in with me, once I had pointed out that towards the end, she might need someone to take care of her. She didn’t neglect to mention though that my flat was an ideal target for burglars and that she might be brutally murdered in her sleep while I was on one of my many night shifts.

One day, I caught her staring at her naked reflection in the mirror, jabbing her belly with her index finger. “You know,” she sighed deeply, “I think I have a tumour.” She arched her back to get a better look. “If it’s this big already, I doubt I’ll make it until my birthday.” That was the only time I actually saw her cry about her unjust fate. And the prospect of her dying that soon was grim indeed, for her birthday was her favourite holiday of them all. For several days she seemed utterly miserable, not speaking at all apart from muttering under her breath how she should have savoured her last birthday much, much more, until I finally couldn’t bear it anymore. “Look, Im”, I said carefully, “If you have that little time left, wouldn’t it make sense to make the most of it?” She seemed to consider my advice for a moment. Then, her face changed rapidly, bursting into one of the biggest smiles I had seen on her in a long time. “Do you think…” she whispered excitedly, as if she was about to say something illegal, “... do you think we could celebrate my birthday a little earlier this year?” It was a silly idea, but it was either that or watching her suffer. There was nothing to it, really – ordering a cake, buying a present, taking her out for dinner. “I suppose we could,” I replied slowly, watching the smile gaining intensity. “You’re the best! Can we do it tomorrow?” I opened my mouth to speak, which she seemed to take as agreement, for she did a little jump in her chair, beaming. Then she got up slowly, leaning heavily on the table for support. “I’m going to bed. I’m telling you, this tumour is draining me of all my energy. Can you phone Brian and Chloe for me, please? I would do it myself, but I’m absolutely knackered. Nellie should come, too, and you can invite Tom if you want. And don’t forget about the tree and the turkey!”

The next night I collapsed on our bed completely exhausted. By a miracle, I had managed to conjure up Christmas in less than a day. I had embellished the sitting room with the opulent Christmas decorations Imogen kept in several big boxes at the bottom of her wardrobe, had spent all night preparing a roast dinner while trying to make it sound plausible to several of our friends to buy a present and come over to celebrate Christmas in mid-November. Imogen had woken up to a small pile of presents at the bottom of our bed – to be honest, it had been rather piteous, but the main thing to her was the pretty wrapping paper and the excitement of what she was going to encounter inside. She didn’t mind that Tom gave her a corkscrew with a ribbon on it and she wasn’t at all surprised to find an odd assortment of useful things like matches and paperclips in the box Brian and Chloe solemnly handed her. All in all, she had had the time of her life and it was probably just what she had needed to take her mind off things for a while. Indeed, she was beaming as she dropped onto the bed. “That was fun. It’s just a pity it was my last birthday. I think I was enjoying myself so much I actually forgot to enjoy it enough.” There was a short silence and I almost dozed off, before Imogen declared: “Including this birthday, I’m twenty-nine now.” And when this didn’t elicit any reaction on my behalf, she repeated, louder this time, and with a hint of urgency in her voice: “Jimmy, I’m twenty-nine!” “Huh? Oh, yeah, of course…” “How old do you think women can become these days?” she interrupted my stammering. “Eighty? Ninety? So I still miss out on sixty-one birthdays!” “It’s a shame,” I murmured, turning to face the wall and curling up in a ball. “There are 36 days left until Christmas,” Imogen went on. “Provided I don’t die tomorrow of course.” I mustered a sympathetic grunt. “It would only be fair if I got as many birthdays as I could before my young life has to end in such a tragic way…. and the decorations are up already…”

By the end of the week, our friends had not only stopped attending our daily Christmas dinners, but they had pretty much ceased to exist. Tom was the last one to abandon us, demonstrating incredible patience by getting through the celebrations three times. The fourth time, he hurriedly picked up one of my trainers in the hallway, only to present it to Imogen as a gift several seconds later. She looked at it from all sides like she had never seen it before, but when she opened her mouth to thank Tom, he burst into tears. “Don’t look at me like that! I can’t afford Christmas every day!” He shouted and scarpered. I had to buy a new pair of trainers since Imogen kept her legitimate part of my old pair on her bedside table, using it as a candle holder.

That night, when I was arranging my presents for the next day, Imogen beckoned me to sit on the bed beside her. “Jimmy,” she said gravely, “I feel that my days here are coming to an end.” She gave me a minute to digest the news, before making me promise to do her a favour, no matter what it was. “Don’t forget me,” she demanded tearfully. “Once I’m gone, don’t just forget all this has ever happened.” “Im, of course I won’t! How could I forget you?” I stammered, repeating the lame words over and over again. Imogen slowly leant back against her pillow, closed her eyes and folded her hands on her chest. “Once I’m gone, I want you to commemorate my death day every day.”

It was finally Christmas, for real this time, and we had been invited to spend it at Tom’s place. He was obviously still beating himself up about our last meeting, for he had assured me on the phone that this time he had real presents for everyone. Imogen was feeling rather frail that day and was reluctant to leave the house, even though Tom only lived a ten minute walk away. “Come on, Im,” I clucked. “It will be good to get out again, who knows whether you’ll be able to get out of bed at all tomorrow. Plus, is it asked too much of a friend to organise a Christmas party once every thirty six years?” “OK.” She sighed. “Get me my cane.”

I didn’t see the car coming until its bumper touched my thigh. Instinctively, I pushed Imogen away from me, only seconds before my arms wouldn’t obey me anymore, but were soaring above me like entirely independent beings. Then I felt my spine crack into tiny little pieces and all motion stopped.

I can’t open my eyes properly, but through tiny slits I can see Imogen slumped against a tree. I am laid in a puddle and I don’t understand… when did it start to rain? I try to will my limbs to move but nothing happens. “Oooh, my wrist…” I can hear Imogen moan, while she’s slowly getting up. “I think it’s…” Her eyes meet mine and I see them widen in shock. Then everything goes dark again but after a moment I can feel her hands against my skin. Poor Im. I can’t believe I stole her thunder. I want to laugh but the sound doesn’t make it out of my throat. I’m glad Imogen is holding my hand. My sweet Imogen. Don’t forget me. Commemorate my death day every day. And don’t forget the turkey and the tree.