Industrial Lemon

The recovery room smelled like industrial lemon and old blood. Beth lay there, her stomach tight under the heavy surgical tape. Every time she tried to take a full breath, the incision point pinched. It wasn't a sharp pain, just a reminder that she was currently held together by glue and hope. The nurse, a woman named Carla who had a tattoo of a hummingbird on her wrist, kept checking the clock. Beth checked her phone. Nothing. No texts. No missed calls. Just a wallpaper of a dog they’d had three years ago that Greg had eventually forgotten to feed.

"He’s probably just stuck in traffic," Carla said. She didn't believe it. Beth didn't either. The 405 was always a mess, but Greg wasn't in traffic. Greg was in a hole. A hole he dug himself every time something required him to show up. Beth felt the anesthesia-fog lifting, replaced by a cold, hard clarity. It was like a window being wiped clean with a dirty rag. Streaky, but you could see the street now. She felt the weight of her own body on the thin mattress. She felt the silence of the phone.

"I'll call an Uber," Beth said. Her voice was raspy from the intubation tube.

"Honey, you can't. Hospital policy. You need a designated driver."

"I'm my own designated driver," Beth muttered. She looked at Carla. "He's not coming. He's having a 'dark day.' Which means he's playing Overwatch and eating cereal over the sink. Please. Just let me sign the waiver. I just want to go home."

Carla looked at her for a long second, the hummingbird on her wrist pulsing as she gripped the clipboard. She sighed. "I'll get the paperwork. But you wait in the lobby until the car is actually there. Don't move until you see the license plate."

Beth nodded. The walk to the lobby felt like crossing a desert. Each step pulled at her midsection. She held her breath, focusing on the linoleum tiles. Square after square. White. Off-white. Scuffed. The automatic doors hissed open, and the spring air hit her. It was too bright. The sun was aggressive, bouncing off the hoods of cars in the parking lot. It smelled like wet grass and exhaust. It felt like oxygen. Real, actual oxygen. Not the canned stuff from the tank.

The Uber was a silver Prius. The driver was a kid with headphones around his neck. He didn't talk, which was a gift. Beth leaned her head against the window, watching the green of the trees blur. The blossoms were out—pinks and whites, looking like popcorn stuck to the branches. It was beautiful. It was also incredibly annoying. How could the world be blooming when she was leaking fluids into a gauze pad?

When she got to the house, the driveway was empty. Greg’s car was in the garage. She used her key, the metal cold in her hand. The house felt stale. It smelled like unwashed laundry and the smell of a computer that had been running for twelve hours straight. She found him in the living room. The curtains were drawn. The only light came from the 65-inch screen, casting a blue, flickering glow over his face. He was slumped in the ergonomic chair Beth had bought him for his birthday. The clicking of the controller was the only sound.

"Greg."

He didn't turn. "I know. I know. I’m a piece of shit. I just... I couldn't get out of the chair, Beth. The weight. It just came down on me. I started thinking about the surgery and then I started thinking about my dad and then—"

"I had surgery," Beth said. She didn't raise her voice. She didn't have the energy. "I was on a table. They cut me open."

"I know! You think I don't feel guilty? I feel like I'm drowning, Beth. You’re mad, and I get it, but I’m literally at my limit here. I can't even breathe."

Beth looked at the screen. He was playing a game where he was a knight in shining armor. He was winning. His health bar was full.

"Move," Beth said.

"What?"

"I need the suitcase from the top of the closet. Move."

Greg finally turned. His eyes were bloodshot, his hair greasy. He looked like a man who hadn't seen the sun in a week, even though he’d been at the grocery store yesterday. "Wait. What are you doing? Beth, stop. You’re being dramatic because you’re tired. Let’s just—I’ll make you tea. I’ll order Thai."

"Move, Greg."

She walked past him, her side burning. She reached for the suitcase, but the stretch was too much. She hissed through her teeth. Greg stood up, hovering, his hands twitching. "See? You’re hurt. You can't do this. Just lie down. I’ll take care of you. I swear. Starting now."

"You haven't taken care of a plant in five years, Greg. You haven't taken care of me in ten."

She grabbed a handful of shirts from the drawer and threw them into the open suitcase. They weren't folded. She didn't care. The sound of the zippers and the sliding of hangers was the only rhythm she needed. Greg started the pivot. She knew the pivot. It was the shift from 'I'm sorry' to 'I'm going to hurt myself.'

"I don't think I can stay here if you leave," he said, his voice dropping an octave. "I don't think I can stay anywhere. If you walk out that door, I don't know what I'll do. I might just... end it. I’m serious this time."

Beth stopped. She looked at him. In the past, this was where she would drop everything. She would cry. She would hold him. She would tell him he was loved and that they would get through it. She would spend the next three days monitoring his mood while her own needs withered into dust.

She reached into her pocket and pulled out her phone. Her thumb swiped, tapped, and she held it out.

"What's that?" Greg asked, backing away.

"It's the crisis line. I’ve already dialed. I'm hitting 'call' and then I'm handing the phone to you. You tell them what you just told me. They’re professionals. They can help you. I can't."

"Beth, don't be a bitch. Put the phone down."

"I'm hitting call, Greg."

She pressed the button. The ringing started. She stepped forward and shoved the phone into his hand. Greg stared at it like it was a live grenade.

"Hello?" a voice said from the speaker. "National Crisis Line, how can I help you?"

Greg looked at Beth. His face went from 'tragic victim' to 'annoyed teenager' in three seconds. He hung up. He tossed the phone onto the couch. "You’re cold. You’re actually a cold person."

"No," Beth said, zipping the bag. "I'm just finally warm enough to leave."

She carried the bag down the stairs, one painful step at a time. Greg followed her, shouting now. The overlapping noise of his voice and the TV downstairs created a chaotic static.

"You’re leaving me when I’m like this?" "I’m leaving because you’re like this." "You’re selfish!" "Finally." "You’ll be back! You have nowhere to go!" "I have the key, Greg."

She got into her car. The interior was hot from the spring sun. She rolled the windows down. The air was sweet, filled with the scent of jasmine and cut grass. She felt a sudden, sharp intake of oxygen that didn't hurt her incision. It felt like her lungs had doubled in size. The claustrophobia of the last decade evaporated.

She drove to the East Side. To a street where the buildings were brick and the paint was peeling. She parked in front of a narrow door. Inside, up three flights of stairs that made her sweat, was a room. It was three hundred square feet. The floor was cheap laminate that looked like wood if you squinted. The window looked out over an alley and a single, struggling cherry tree.

It was empty. It was quiet. It was hers.

Beth sat on the floor, her back against the wall. She felt the ache in her stomach, the physical toll of the day. But her head was clear. For the first time in years, the 'brain fog' was gone. She pulled her phone out. There were seventeen texts from Greg.

Please come back. I’m sorry. I’m doing it, Beth. I’m really doing it this time. Why are you doing this to me? Answer me.

She didn't feel the familiar panic. She didn't feel the urge to fix it. She felt a strange, clinical detachment. He was a sinking ship, and she had finally jumped into the life raft. She tapped his name. She scrolled to the bottom.

'Block this caller.'

'Block Contact.'

She clicked it. The screen went still.

Outside, the sun was beginning to set, casting long, orange shadows across the laminate floor. A breeze came through the window, ruffling the edge of her surgical discharge papers. Beth leaned her head back against the wall and closed her eyes. The silence was the most beautiful thing she had ever heard. She wasn't lonely. She was alone. And for now, that was the greatest romance she could imagine.