Freezing

The sun is still low in the sky casting bright edged beams through the half open curtains and across my eyelids as I wake this morning. The room is yellow and blue, the speeding light of nuclear fusion skimming snow on its way to my eye, the colours of potential, the type of day I feel full of energy and intent. I allow the softness of my pillow to hold me for a moment, my body languid under the covers. I can feel the heat from your body next to me, your face turned away from the morning. You never have liked the way I like to let the light in, though it’s rarely you it wakes. I hear the heating kick in, and I know it will still be freezing in the house. Maybe I don’t need to get up just yet. Give it ten minutes to take the edge off. But my body has begun to stiffen, slack muscles readying, heart rate picking up. I barely notice, really, but still, I read the physical gathering of myself and it reminds me of the whirring which stirred me in my sleep, and the soft thud which woke me. First of the month. Shit. I sit up, pivoting on my hip and bringing my feet to the floor, using my fingers to pull my slippers over my heels before I stand. It IS cold. It matches my mood now. I stomp to the door and open it. It’s even colder outside, even brighter. I glance down at the box, and then across the dazzling gleam of the varnished porch, to the sparking white of the world beyond, all diamond shimmer with splashes of green where shining leaves poke out under heavy coatings of snow. There is no surface, it seems to me, that is not throwing off light. Except the box.

The box is a matt mid brown. Rectangular. About the size of large book. The bible, let’s say. I sigh, and creaking slightly, bend at the knee to pick it up. It isn’t heavy. Not as heavy as a bible I would guess. Nor is anything written on it. There never is. It’s all automated, the blood sample verifies the source, fraud would be impossible. I carry it inside, letting the door close on the luminous world beyond, feeling the welcome warmth of the underfloor heating beginning to seep through the boards. Pushing aside the dishes I was too tired to clear last night, I put the box on the counter top, and fetching a knife from the draining rack, slice through the seal. I work my fingers between the flap of the lid and the stiff cardboard side, and pull it open.

And my heart drops into my stomach. Low in my stomach. My eyes, I can’t move them, can’t turn away. Pounding in my ears. Not today. Please, not today. Not this. Not now. I can’t feel myself, I’m frozen in place. But also, I am aware, so very aware, of my knees. Of my thighs. The flex of my feet, the ache of my stomach. My arms, hanging now from my shoulders. My shoulder joints, weighted by those arms, held tight by the tendons stringing arm to shoulder to chest, holding me together in one piece. I am aware of my eyes, and of nothing else in the room. I am aware of noticing my eyes, and my tendons, and my shoulders and my thighs. It’s funny how quickly you shatter into pieces.

I had expected something else, I suppose. Something grander. Less ordinary. I am making breakfast, heating oats soaked in milk, letting the starch draw in the moisture and swell to globular pockets of warmth. The wooden spoon feels soft against the press of the gelatinous mass as I stir it. I want to make it perfect today, just like every day. I listen as the porridge sloops softly into the bowls, the dull thud of the spoon scraping the edges of the pain. I add honey, a generous spoonful in each bowl, thick amber liquid drizzling across the yellow-grey mass, then melting away to a sheen, pools of gold around the edges like a halo. Taking the breakfast through I am confused. I don’t know whether to open the curtains or close them. You sit up in bed, plumping your pillow and leaning against the headboard, sleepy eyed and groggy. Open them, you say, and I do, and you turn your head to the sun’s irresistible siren call. I place the bowl in your hand, feeling the curve of my own bowl against my palm as I watch you hold it, two handed for a minute, relishing the comfort of it, before you take up your spoon and eat. I notice all of this.

I ask you how you slept. Not bad, you say, only got up once. Your voice is croaky still, and I wonder if you’re going to be alright. That flu last week, it came and went and came again and I’m hoping its finished with now. You rub your eye with the heel of your hand, too rough, you never were gentle with yourself. I notice the skin stretch and spring back.

Later, after I have cleared the path of snow, and laid extra salt, we walk down to the edge of the woods. It’s not a long walk and we are dressed in coats and hats and scarves and gloves, and I try to hold your hand, but its just a glove, in my glove. The light is still dazzling, even as the sun reaches its full height, but the woods seem dark after the white road, with large patches of clear brown ground, and I turn around, and we go back, feeling the creak of snow beneath my feet. What do you want for lunch, you ask, and I don’t know. I say I don’t know, and you say shall I make a sandwich, and I hear how your voice is raspy on the low notes but clear on the high, and I say that sounds fine, and we eat cheese sandwiches at the counter, and I am aware of the box in the cupboard by my knees where we keep the placemats and corkscrews and teapots we never use. I notice how cheese is tangy and creamy at once, and how you are looking out the window while you drop crumbs on your lap.

You go to phone your sister, and I do some paperwork. Not do, really. Check. It’s all done, I like to stay on top of it. I check over some paperwork and I think about the box. I don’t want to think about the box, and you are still on the phone, so I go back to the bedroom and I pack a bag full of clothes. I hate these clothes, they never felt like me. I’ve only left a handful of things in the wardrobe though.

When you get off the phone, I am waiting on the sofa. You said we should see this movie, and I promised I would try it. I don’t want to see it, really. But I do want to sit and feel your body against mine, solid, and warm. I want you to feel mine back. You have a back ache, and half way through, you pull away to get comfortable. Sorry, you say, I just need to sit straight. And we watch the rest, side by side, not touching, and I look at your feet on the coffee table and I remember the paper feel of touching them with my own feet under the blankets, all those years ago.

Its dark now, and you are drifting, and as I feel your body jerk and slacken into sleep, I start to cry a little. I don’t want you to wake up, so I get out of bed sooner than I hoped, and go back to the kitchen. Did you know? I don’t think so. I take out the box and open it again. Inside, where every month for forty years the small needle has nestled beneath the plastic cover, ready to collect the sample that tracks my every shifting hormone, my buzzing antibodies, my mutating cells, instead there is another box. Small, black and cold, so metallic I can taste it in the air, I think. The electrodes emerge from one end on four wires, the tiny harpoons sprung and ready. One button. The diagram shows me where to place them against my skin. 16 hours. You get 16 hours. I hear the drone return and hover, whirring like a bee swarm outside the door. I don’t want you to wake. I step outside quickly, I don’t bother with a coat. The electrodes will transmit me into this box in an instant, less than a second. You can keep me forever then, in this box, plug me in, play me back, whenever you want, and never know the anguish of me failing you, of my flesh melting away, of my legs growing weak, of the sickness, and the pain and the crying in the night. I wonder where it is, this disease, this infirmity, this flaw, and how long it has been growing. How many months has the data been gathering, before this one?

Less than I second. I have less than a second to leave you with something perfect. The first time we laughed together? The day we watched the sun set over the sea and knew it was not a passing thing? The time we ran down the hill, screaming like we were five years old, and knowing the joy was in sharing the fall? I place the box into the claw of the drone. It is neither patient or impatient, it just is. I position the harpoons. I look out over moon bright fields of shining snow, and I think, very hard. I notice tears on my face, rivulets of freezing skin, and the tightening of my lips into the smallest smile. I press the button.