Cheesecake
By Philip J. Lees
“Are you sure you won’t have any?”
“No. You finish it. My diet, remember?”
Edward pulled the dish towards him and helped himself to a big spoonful. The dish was for cooking and serving, not eating from, but things like that never bothered Edward.
I stood up and started gathering up the plates and cutlery.
“I’ll help you with that,” he said through a mouthful of cheesecake. Talking with his mouth full was another of Edward’s annoying habits.
“Don’t bother.” Not that he had any real intention of doing so. “You just stay here and relax.”
I smiled—a small smile on the outside for him and a much bigger one on the inside for me.
Edward made a point of telling people what a good cook I was, as if it enhanced his own prestige. He was right, though. Friends were always asking for my recipes and I was glad to oblige, but they said the dishes never turned out as tasty as when I made them myself.
There was a reason for that. When I gave out each of my recipes I took care to miss out or alter one vital ingredient—a pinch of tarragon, a squeeze of lemon, one extra half teaspoonful of ground ginger. It was those secret ingredients that made the difference and it was the same with the cheesecake that Edward was finishing off so greedily.
In the kitchen I rinsed off all the plates under the faucet before stacking them in the dishwasher. Edward accused me of being obsessed with cleanliness, but it was really just professionalism. As a nurse, keeping things clean and tidy was part of my job.
By the time I returned to the dining room Edward had finished the cheesecake and was slumped to one side. I was expecting that and had the luggage strap ready. I looped it around his shoulders and tightened it against the chair back so that he couldn’t slip down onto the floor. The muscle relaxant acted quickly. It was a synthetic drug, based on curare, and like curare it didn’t affect the heart. I could see the pulse in a vein on the side of Edward’s neck.
The drug did paralyze the respiratory muscles, though, and Edward’s breathing had diminished to the occasional hoarse gasp. His lips were starting to turn blue, so I fetched the portable ventilator from the broom cupboard under the stairs where I had hidden it when I came home from the hospital. There was no chance that he would ever look in there! I fitted the mask over his mouth and nose and adjusted the oxygen pressure until his lips began to pink up again. He was trying to look at me, but his head had lolled back and he seemed to have difficulty focusing. Never mind. He could hear well enough.
“I know about June,” I said. “I know about you and that slut. How could you? After fifteen years!”
Edward made a grunting noise, as if he was trying to say something, but he was far beyond speech, I knew.
The other secret ingredient of the cheesecake took considerably longer to be absorbed by the stomach wall—and it had been much more difficult to procure. The nerve toxin would affect the internal organs first and would then spread through the body, propelled by Edward’s slow, steady pulse.
He would not be able to react when the pain started, to move or cry out, but I would know the moment, I was sure. I would see it in his eyes. I would talk to him then, tell him everything I had been holding back all these years, taking my time, not hurrying, letting it all come out, while Edward sat and listened and soaked up my hurt along with his own. At the end, when I had nothing more to say to him, I would disconnect the ventilator.
There was still plenty of time, though, so I picked up the cheesecake dish, took it into the kitchen and put it in the sink to soak. The table in front of Edward was clear now. I sponged its Formica top clean and polished it dry with a towel.
Then I sat down to wait.
- End -
© Copyright Philip J. Lees 2004