The Cost of a Gym Membership
I hadn’t meant to do it. Didn’t even really think anything would happen. Not until the blade went in and it had felt like…medium rare steak — soft and stubborn at the same time, just enough resistance. I really hadn’t meant for it. I was only trying to scare him a little and, yeah, maybe hurt him…a little. And he had just looked surprised. Then it was as if he was annoyed with me, staring at my hand, then at me and then at the hand again, holding it as if we were simply exchanging a tender moment between husband and wife. Except, he had looked annoyed. That’s what had surprised me, his annoyance. That’s what had jolted me back to the cold, white kitchen and the little splosh of blood welling around the knife. And then I had pulled, then yanked it out — of his neck. And then more and more blood. Quick spurts of it for a moment and then just a stream. And I hadn’t meant to but then I just…I took a step back.
The corner booth will already have been taken. Frida will unconsciously toss a glance to check by whom, before bounding back to multitasking, her movements will become heavier. It will be the morning rush, the early morning gym-goers, mostly corporate types, will pour out of the showers and into the cafe, trying to get in their high-protein, post-workout breakfast shakes before their oxygen-fuelled rush to work. Mornings are always the hardest for her because rushing is not her forte but on that day she will be more distracted than usual. She will be all uncertainty, a flutter of hope flapping its tiny wings deep inside her, anxiousness clouding her head. To make matters worse, Jason will be late so she’ll be stuck taking orders at the bar and making shakes and lattes at the same time. Of all the days for him to be late. But she’ll see that as a sign, that maybe he knows he’s about to be proven wrong. Ernest will come through and prove him wrong.
The mad rush will be just distracting enough and for a while she won’t have time to think, just move, wipe tables, take orders, make coffee, smile, bring out food, smile.
The cue at the bar will eventually become a trickle of one or two customers. Soon it will already be 10:15. She will have the leisure then to not just glance but stare at the empty corner booth, hoping for the waiting to be over and for everything to be out in the open for everybody. Then life will begin.
The psychologists and their theories. Now they tell us you’ve already formed the child when their only four years old. Four years old! That everything the child sees and hears before that has already decided who they’re going to be. I don’t know if I believe that myself. It hardly seems fair. Raphael’s never mentioned remembering anything not nice. I used to put him in the crib and slam the door shut when things got bad. I never let him see anything. Sometimes we would cry together though, afterwards. Him crying because of the noise I guess, and me crying because of everything I had to take. Still, he didn’t see anything, he was so small anyway. But somehow Ernest was never able to get that boy back on his side. And now he’s gone. Sixteen years old, thinks he’s a man already, living on his own. With his friends. One day he’ll see you can have lots of friends but you only have one mother. And I did my best as a mother. I put my foot down and made the war stop, eventually. And I kept the family together, for his sake. Now he’s gone and left me.
Frida was nervous. Ernest hadn’t been there for the evening talk she had been anticipating all of yesterday. Instead, here the woman was sitting alone in the corner this morning, much earlier than usual. She looked preoccupied, staring at nothing while she sat there with one of her short legs butchly mounted across a knee as she clutched and massaged the ankle, rotating and bending it forwards and back like a prize fighter stretching intimidation before her opponent. This was the woman who might change everything for her today. Or change nothing at all. Either way it was the day to put everything on the table.
Before Jason could come out of the kitchen and add to the second guessing, she threw two scoops of protein powder into the metal shaker, poured the almond milk and crushed ice in and blended her magic potion, emptying it into a tall glass that she made sure gleamed squeaky clean. She focused all her attention on that glass as she placed it in a tray that wasn’t needed and carried it like a prince in a litter chair toward the woman for final inspection. She did not look at the woman even once on the way there, so when she arrived at her table it was as if by unexplainable coincidence. When she set the glass down on the table it made a clumsy clink sound that surprised the woman out of her trance. She smiled, the woman did not. She just looked up at the strange grin and said simply, “I didn’t order this.”
“No, I thought…” Frida replied awkwardly, “maybe you’d like a shake? Ernest always gets you one after your workout so…I thought you’d like one now,” she cringed at her own silly repetition.
“Oh,” the woman replied, once again becoming pensive, “Ok. Thanks.” The “thanks” was a dismissal, relieving the girl of her duties but for some reason she stayed put.
“So is he coming too? Ernest?” the girl chirped away. “I mean because — should I make one for him too?”
“Well you can ask him when he gets here,” the woman answered, noting with annoyance the girl’s persistence.
“That’s fine,” the plastic smile said.
The girl turned to go but something stopped her and she turned back around. Coming closer to her than necessary, she pronounced, “I just wanted to tell you, your brother’s a really great guy. He’s been really nice to me.”
“My brother?” she asked distractedly.
“Ernest. He’s been really kind to me,” she powered on, “we have wonderful talks together when he comes here in the evenings.”
The last part was really pushing it, but there it was anyway.
Silence and a confused expression answered her. The woman was now looking at her, a blurry picture through a viewfinder, slowly coming into focus for the first time. Her head tilted slightly as she took in this girl, up and down. Before she could speak the sound of the swinging doors being slapped open made both women turn. Ernest had not expected to see this picture, but it did not deter his confidence or unbalance his long strides towards them. He would deal with this situation, whichever way it was about to go.
“So your little friend here says I’m your sister,” she hurled the words across the room at him like a heavy metal shot put. Her eyes were wide and focused, demanding response.
“Ok just calm down now,” he said as he came nearer. “What’s going on here?” he asked with a big sheepish smile. He was juggling, trying to keep both women on his side without giving too much away. That smile was enough of an answer for the woman and she got up from the booth grabbing her coat and scarf, and she stormed off with a shake of her head and a murmur under her breath, leaving her gym bag behind. Ernest tried in vain to bar her from leaving.
“She’s crazy,” he said hastily, turning for a moment to Frida. “Don’t worry I’ll sort all this out,” he said but his words were not reassuring enough as he rushed out. Frida was left standing alone at the booth watching him run after the woman.
Just as they were both out of sight she looked back at the counter and there was Jason standing there having witnessed it all. His arms were folded and he let out a sigh of commiseration but she wasn’t interested.
The blood seeps through the red jersey material turning it a dark maroon and then even darker. That might leave a stain. Did you make me do this? The way I made you hurt me? All those times I stupidly returned a smile to some stranger in a supermarket, not knowing what it meant. Not knowing the consequences. Every time our jokes turned sour and you weren’t laughing anymore. Because I had said the wrong thing. Is that what this is now? Did you make me hurt you now? Is this your fault? Stop staring emptily and say…something. You who have always had something to say. You and your charming mouth.
She had to get away from the pair of them; it didn’t matter where she was going. Suddenly the coat and the scarf were too much, too tight, too warm. Air was bursting out of her lungs far too quickly to keep up with. She couldn’t reach the glass doors quickly enough and when she did she thrust all her weight against them so they flew open throwing a gust of cold into her face. She ripped the scarf off from around her neck to let the air cool her bare skin. She took in greedy gulps of the icy air.
It was still dark with just the suggestion of daylight peeking at the edges of the horizon. The streetlights seemed to be competing with the faraway blue light. From a distance she could hear her name being shouted after her. Turning back she saw him on the other side of the glass doors running towards her. He just seemed a dark shadow that was moving unnaturally without its host heading for her. A spectre she didn’t know. She did not look back as she ran across the street. There was no goal in her steps, only the need to keep the rhythm up. One foot after the other somehow felt like real action while her mind was still scrambling, darting from thought to thought, struggling to grasp onto the here and now.
She was running as if in a rush to catch a bus. When one pulled up it felt like the natural thing to get on it as she was carried with the swarming crowd, urgently surging onto the bus that was already brimming. There was a kind of safety in this bumping, shoving horde. She found a handrail to hold onto as the bus pulled out, swaying everyone inside like a giant wave. A computer voice soothed her nerves and stopped her mind from racing, every once in a while reassuring her with declarations of, “This is bus Y1 to Bristol Centre” and then “Next stop: Stover Road”.
Her mind was lulled by the noise of the buzzing chatter on the bus. No one here knew her or Ernest but maybe one of these was a friend or a neighbour of the girl. Was this perhaps her bus route? “Next stop: Longs Drive” said the voice again, telling her it didn’t matter anyway. Not in the face of all the years she had endured.
The darkness that had followed her from the cafe was slowly lifting and the blue tinged edges of the horizon were growing lighter, invaded by a cold, exposing white. “Next stop: Coalpit Station Road”. The bus was beginning to empty and she could at last slump into a hard seat, still warm from the previous occupant.
The window next to her showed moving pictures of people with their children, people walking their dogs, people waiting for buses, people smoking; everyone doing their usual and living lives she had no idea about. Her usual was far off and inconsequential now. The cold white of the sky gave way to a piercing yellow that carried with it a bit of warmth. She closed her eyes and let the sun brush her cheeks gently as she rested her temple against the window pane. The bustling had long subsided and all she could hear now was the bus’s deep, growling snores and the computer lady’s calm meditative announcements.
Her trance was disrupted by the declaration “This bus terminates here. Please take all your belongings with you”. She opened her eyes and looked about her. No one left on the bus but her. She felt inadequate not having any belongings to take with her, until looking down she realized she was still holding in one hand the scarf that had stifled her before. How curious that her one hand could be doing something the rest of her body had no knowledge of. How strange that a man she knew so well, good and bad, could still surprise her so.
She did not recognise where the bus had brought her but she disembarked anyway and kept walking in the direction the bus would have gone in, not caring where this road was leading to. She walked on the smooth pavement and kept walking when it changed to cobblestone. She dutifully stopped at traffic lights even when others ran across in the nick of time. She kept walking, no longer wondering where she was.
She felt her legs and feet starting to go numb and she quickly wrapped her scarf around her neck again, zipping the coat up to her chin. How long had she been walking? She peered into a bakery to see a clock on the wall — 12:35. No wonder she was cold. It was time to get home; she was already late with preparing lunch. Ernest would not be pleased. Ernest. It was time to face him.
She turned the key and hesitantly pushed the door open. The smell of cigarettes filled her nostrils. Ernest had been smoking in the apartment. Not a good sign, he was usually very strict about keeping the place spotless. She peeled the coat and scarf from her body, dropping them to the floor. She was tired. Not ready for a confrontation or to pretend to believe explanations. It was welcomingly warm in the apartment but she dragged her feet on the long walk down the dark hallway till she arrived in the kitchen.
“There you are,” Ernest said as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. He sat in one of the metal frame chairs at the kitchen table. His arms leaned on the table like he was about to dig into a big bowl of pasta. But in front of him instead sat a saucer doubling as an ashtray and though he sounded casual his fingers nervously held the remains of a cigarette, its end no longer glowing. He seemed relieved to see her back safe but a better man might have kept running after her in the first place. She did not make eye-contact with him. She just walked to the sink to wash her hands and started to make lunch, taking the meat out of the fridge and peeling, then chopping carrots, tomatoes and garlic, saving onions for last.
“Where the hell have you been, then?” he asked trying to sound in control.
“Just walking” she replied, the large knife tapping against the wooden board.
“‘Just walking’ huh? So you want to talk to me now?”Chop, chop was the only reply.
“I don’t know why you always make such a big deal of things, you know?” he was defensive. “A man can’t have friends now?”
He continued like that, arguing with himself until his voice became just a relentless droning in the background. Chopping vegetables was her priority now. The rhythm of the knife kept her steady. Chop, chop went the orange ones, all to one side. Then chop went the red ones, oozing water and seeds. Then the little cream coloured ones and the whites. The onions upset her and she was on her way to run them under cold water when she heard the muffled crunch. The knife was in. It must have been lodged between bone and tendon because this meat was tough.
She hadn’t noticed the droning had stopped until she released the knife and she was looking him in the eye. He looked to be pleading with her, now so weak and needy, gently grasping at her hand. Then she pulled the knife out and stepped away from him, wondering if that’s how she had appeared to him for all these years. Small, weak and needy.
***
Frida had waited the rest of the day for Ernest to come back. The whole day had passed without a word but she still held hope. She was happy to take another morning shift just so she wouldn’t miss him if he came looking for her at work today. 10:15 already. He never came after nine. She went over to the booth and sat down feeling like a fool and inside cursing Jason. Lazily resting her face in her palms she looked up at the silent TV on the wall. And there it was. A picture of a handsome, younger Ernest next to a younger version of the woman. The headline proclaimed that a survivor of years of domestic abuse had violently murdered her tormentor. It wasn’t yet clear, however, whether there was a more recent incident in particular that had triggered the woman to kill her husband.
