Made With Love

It’s well-known that apples support a healthy immune system. I’ve packed hundreds of them in my children’s lunchboxes over the years.

It’s less well-known that apple seeds, when crushed and ingested, release cyanide into the bloodstream. Two hundred can be fatal.

So I have a thousand, just to be sure.

I didn’t always hate my husband. In the beginning, I thought he hung the moon and the stars in the sky. Apparently, so did my sister.

And my cousin.

And my best friend.

And several different women from work.

I’ve done my research. My husband is a photographer for a magazine, and the photography industry’s equipment is a common source of cyanide poisoning. If, on the off chance someone does an autopsy on the body, it won’t be surprising to find traces of cyanide in his bloodstream.

That being said, too much would definitely be suspicious. The seeds alone aren’t meant to kill him.

No, they’re just going to make him dizzy.

I’ve just finished cutting a chocolate cake into six slices when he arrives in the doorway. If the frosting tastes a little bitter, he won’t say anything. He’s always been so incredibly polite.

I put on my best smile. “Happy anniversary, my love. How was work?”

I don’t bother listening to his half-assed answer, instead zeroing in on the off-kilter tie and ruffled hair. I walk over for a kiss on the cheek, and the proximity lets me catch a whiff of another woman’s perfume. My jaw tenses for a split second in confirmation before I smooth out my expression. On our anniversary? This man has no decency.

“Wow, that sounds stressful,” I say sympathetically. I help remove my husband’s coat and empty his pockets. If, in the process, his phone finds its way into my purse, no one else is around to notice. “How about you go lie down in bed and I’ll bring you something to eat, okay?”

“Thanks, honey.” And he has the audacity to smile at me.

I watch as he makes his way up the stairs, to our bedroom, before plating one slice of chocolate cake and following after him.

I hold my hands hopefully to my chest when he picks up the fork, and when he cringes a little at the taste, I make an effort to look disappointed.

“You don’t like it?”

“No, no, it’s really good,” he lies. “I’m just…it’s so rich, you know?”

“Oh, you hate it. I knew it. It was a new recipe that I found online and I thought…I just wanted to do something special for today…” It’s not hard to summon tears and blink them away. It’s a bit dramatic, even for my taste, but it does the trick.

He shovels the rest into his mouth. “No, no, it was wonderful! Thank you so much.”

I wait until he swallows it all before offering him something to drink and carding my fingers through his hair, the perfect picture of a doting wife.

“You must be exhausted. I’m going to head to the grocery store and pick up a few things to make you something special for dinner, okay?”

“You know you don’t have to do that for me, sweetheart.”

“It’s a special day,” I insist, kissing his forehead. “Let me spoil my husband.”

“Okay, okay, you win.”

“I always do.” I lower my voice. “The kids are at a sleepover, so we have the house to ourselves tonight.” I didn’t want them touching the cake on accident. “You might want to take a nap while I’m out. You’ll need the energy.”

With a wink, I walk back down the stairs.

The second I hit the bottom step, I’m moving. I have to be quick. The onset of poisoning should take only a few minutes, and I need to be at the grocery store when it does. I put his phone on the counter, turn the volume on the ringer all the way up, and within under a minute I’m peeling out of the driveway.

On my phone, propped up against the dashboard, is the live feed from two baby monitors—one in the bedroom, and one at the top of the staircase. We never threw them out after the boys were old enough, so he won’t be suspicious to see them.

Using the hands-free, I call his cell. Before I left, I set an awful alarm noise as my ringtone, because I know he can’t stand listening to it.

Pulling into the store’s parking lot, I pause to check the feed. He’s gotten to his feet well enough, but I see that he grabs at his head and winces like the noise of the alarm hurts him. As he makes his way down the hallway, he becomes sluggish, as if he’s wading through syrup.

And if his foot catches on a strategically placed pile of laundry and sends him headfirst down the stairway, well, I’m already in the vegetable aisle—check my phone’s location.

If his head cracks on the hardwood floors and he struggles for a moment, I have no idea about it until I come home twenty minutes later and dial 9-1-1, sobbing hysterically into the receiver.

It's the best anniversary we've ever shared.