Forty Years For A Shadow
Even now, with children and grandchildren filling our home, he still reached across the dinner table to place the tenderest cut of the fish fillet into my bowl.
I thought this was the definition of growing old together.
That illusion shattered the day I went down to the basement to look for old things. I accidentally knocked over a heavy, clay jar of aged Portthe one he had sealed and hidden away for her.
He burst in, looking like a madman, and his hands closed around my throat.
That is not yours to touch.
That was the last memory she left me!
Then, he stormed out in a fit of rage, locking me inside the cold, damp cellar.
Since your hands are so careless, you can stay down here and reflect!
The heavy iron door of the basement slammed shut, and the darkness swallowed everything.
But he forgot. I had just had triple-bypass surgery. I had no strength, and the cold was the one thing I couldnt endure.
1
I was completely sealed in the dark.
The iron door banged shut with a deafening clang, the locking sound dull and absolute, like a hammer blow straight to my heart.
I lunged forward, using every ounce of my post-surgery strength to pull at the frigid metal handle.
It didnt budge, feeling as fused to the frame as it was to my stiffening arm.
Open the door! Rob, open the door!
I pounded on the paneling, my voice echoing and ricocheting in the cramped space, yet barely traveling far enough to matter.
I tried to find the light.
My hand fumbled along the wall, finding the familiar, old-fashioned pull-chain.
I pressed the switch repeatedly, hearing the hollow click-clack, click-clack, but the dim bulb overhead had no intention of lighting up.
The wiring was ancient; hed always promised to fix it, but always forgot.
Before, even when the door was locked, I could usually slip a finger through the narrow gap and work the latch open bit by bit.
But not now.
My body was still betraying me after the surgery. Forget slipping my hand into the crackthe simple act of raising my arm drained the last of my energy.
I slid down the door and collapsed onto the floor. The biting dampness from the concrete seeped into my bones.
In the dark, hallucinations began to bloom.
I saw him putting the fish fillet in my bowl, saw him getting up at midnight to tuck me back in, saw him pushing my wheelchair to the park for some sunshine.
Forty years of tenderness flashed before me.
But then, that distorted, contorted face from moments ago reappeared, his eyes filled with a hatred that threatened to consume me whole.
That is not yours to touch!
The violent contrast made me reel, and the familiar, tightening ache in my chest began.
Upstairs, a loud crash shook the house, the sound of porcelain smashing violently.
Then a muffled thud, as if a large piece of furniture had been overturnedthe bookshelf?
I had never seen him that angry.
In our forty years, Rob had always been gentle and reserved; he rarely even raised his voice.
He didn't drink, which everyone, including his friends, knew.
Yet now, he was upstairs, breaking things like a maniac, all for a jar of vintage Port that had materialized out of nowhere.
I had seen that jar.
It was tucked into the darkest corner of the basement in an old wooden crate, with a small, yellowed label bearing a delicate, script "S" on it.
I had always assumed hed made it himself in his youth, a silly hobby.
I was wrong.
This whole time, forty years of domestic tranquility, of children and grandchildren, meant less than that one jar of fortified wine left by another woman.
My husband, for the sake of a memory of someone else, had locked me, his wife just recovered from major heart surgery, in this cold, pitch-black cellar.
It was absurd, and utterly heartbreaking.
...
The survival instinct pushed the sorrow aside.
I could not die here.
I leaned against the wall, struggling to my feet, and used all my remaining strength to shout up at the ceiling.
Rob! Open the door! I... I dont feel well...
My voice was hoarse, a barely audible whisper. I could barely hear myself.
The crashing sounds upstairs ceased.
A flicker of hope ignited in me. Did he hear me?
I tried again, louder: Open up! I cant breathe!
A moment later, his voice drifted down from the ceiling, muffled and indistinct through the thick concrete floor.
What are you yelling about? Swearing at me? That is no way to behave!
He hadn't heard a word I said.
He'd only heard the frantic tone of my voice and immediately assumed I was yelling obscenities at him.
Unrepentant! You stay put and reflect on what youve done!
His voice was filled with annoyance and impatience.
The flicker of hope was thoroughly extinguished by his dismissal.
Reflect?
What was I supposed to reflect on?
Reflect on discovering a secret hed kept hidden for forty years?
Or reflect on accidentally breaking the last memento left by the woman he truly loved?
He wasnt like this before.
He normally wouldn't say a harsh word to me, but now he was like a different person, demanding an apology.
It was useless to rely on him.
I fumbled for the cell phone in my pocketmy only hope.
The faint glow of the screen was the sole source of light in this oppressive darkness.
My hand trembling, I tapped the contacts list.
The signal in the basement was terrible, just a single, flickering bar.
First, I called my daughter. No connection.
Then my son-in-law. Still the cold, busy signal.
My heart pounded with desperate urgency as my finger scrolled down the long list, finally stopping on my son, Owens, name.
I pressed the dial button.
Doo... doo...
After an agonizing wait, the call actually connected!
Mom? What is it? Owens voice came through the receiver, laced with concern.
Owen... help... help me... I desperately tried to speak, but the sound that came out was too weak to carry.
Mom? What are you saying? I cant hear you! Why is it so loud on your end? All that static.
The signal was failing.
My voice was completely drowned out by the crackling.
Mom? Where are you? Talk to me! My son was frantic on the other end.
I screamed with all my strength, but he heard nothing.
After a few seconds, the call disconnected.
Immediately, the shrill ring of the landline upstairs in Robs study cut through the silence.
It was Owen calling the house phone!
I pressed my ear against the frigid iron door, straining to make out the conversation upstairs.
Dad, wheres Mom?
Your mother? Shes sleeping, just laid down. Robs voice sounded perfectly calm, even carrying a hint of an easy laugh. Whats wrong?
She just called me, didnt say anything, and hung up. I was worried.
Oh, she probably pressed the wrong button in her sleep. Its nothing, dont worry.
Okay... alright, Dad, you should get some rest, too.
The phone clicked off.
Upstairs, the silence returned, heavy and final.
My heart sank completely into the ice.
Even our son was so easily fooled by his casual lie.
I couldnt give up.
I opened the text message screen. My fingers, numb from cold and exhaustion, shook uncontrollably.
Writing each word felt like it consumed all my strength.
Owen, Im in the basement, your father locked me in, please come.
I stared at the words, then pressed the send button.
A red exclamation mark and the Send Failed notification pierced my eyes.
Refusing to believe it, I tried to resend it again and again.
But the red exclamation mark seemed to mock my futile efforts.
I tried Owens number again. The number that had just connected now only returned a Cannot connect to signal message.
The signal was completely gone.
The light on my phone screen finally flickered, using up its last bit of power, and died.
I was thrown back into the endless, suffocating darkness.
This time, there was not a single trace of light.
...
Just then, a knock broke the studys silence.
Knock, knock, knock.
Rob froze, looking cautiously at the door, not immediately answering.
The knocking came again, accompanied by a familiar womans voice: Ellie? Are you home? Its Pat.
It was Patricia, my neighbor and my bridge partner.
Rob let out a quiet breath of relief. He straightened his slightly rumpled collar, walked over, and opened the door.
Can I help you? His voice had recovered its usual calm, sounding entirely normal.
Pat poked her head into the house. Seeing only him, she paused, then raised the plastic container in her hand, smiling warmly. I heard Ellie was home from the hospital. Figured she needs to build her strength up. So, I brought over some of my famous lasagna for her to try.
She peered further inside. Where is Ellie? Is she asleep?
Yes, just laid down. Rob stood in the doorway, blocking Pat from entering.
Oh, well, she needs to rest, that surgery is no small thing. Pat asked with genuine concern, How is she doing? Recovering well?
Shes fine. Doctor said lots of rest. Robs replies were brief and dismissive, his eyes darting away, avoiding Pats gaze.
Pat and Rob didnt interact much, so she simply assumed this was his naturally reserved, quiet demeanor and didnt think much of it.
She pushed the lasagna container into his hands and instructed him, Well, you take good care of her. This is easy on the stomach. Tell Ellie that when shes feeling better, Id love for her to come over for a game of bridge. We havent had a proper foursome in ages.
Sure. Rob muttered vaguely.
Seeing his reluctance, Pat didnt linger. She waved goodbye and walked away.
Rob closed the door and stood in the foyer, holding the lasagna.
Pats words were like a bucket of cold water, suddenly snapping him back to reality.
He remembered then: I had just had surgery. The doctor had been crystal clearabsolute rest, no stress, and no exposure to the cold.
The anger on his face drained away, replaced by a barely perceptible flicker of remorse.
He walked to the basement door, his hand resting on the cold doorknob. He hesitated for a long moment, then tentatively called my name.
...Ellie?
He had already started to soften.
Normally, he would be apologizing by now.
No, normally, he would never, ever lock me in a cold, dark place. He wouldn't even let me go down there myself to fetch something, always insisting it was too stuffy and hed do it.
But this time, he thought I had gone too far.
He told himself that if I just swallowed my pride and said one small word of apology, he would open the door immediately.
No matter what, a few hours of reflection was surely enough punishment.
But the only reply that came from the basement was a sudden, sharp, smashing sound.
That was me.
The darkness and the cold had caused my limbs to grow stiff. I could no longer maintain my upright stance. My body went limp, and I fell straight down.
As I went down, I instinctively tried to grab something to steady myself, but my hand missed, knocking over a stack of glass jars and bottles on a nearby shelf.
The sound of the glass shattering reached his ears, but to him, it was proof of my unrepentant attitude, a deliberate act of destruction to vent my anger.
The rage he had just managed to suppress instantly reignited.
Fine! You think you can play games with me! he sneered. The faint hint of guilt in his eyes vanished completely. I guess you do need a lesson!
With that, he turned and walked away, no longer hesitating.
I lay on the icy concrete floor, desperately trying to open my mouth to call for help, to tell him it wasnt on purpose, to tell him I was in terrible pain.
But my throat felt completely blocked, and I couldnt force out a single sound.
My skull had struck the hard ground with a heavy impact, and a warm, slick fluid quickly spread around my head.
My consciousness began to fade, and the world dissolved into a hazy, suffocating dimness.
...
I died.
My soul floated up, weightless, passing straight through the heavy iron door, and followed him back to the study.
He didn't turn on the lights. He used the sliver of moonlight filtering through the window to pull a small, deep-set photo frame from his bottom drawer. He traced the glass again and again with his thumb.
Seraph... Im so sorry... I couldnt even hold onto the last thing you gave me... His voice was broken and thick with suppressed tears. They all said it was your blessing for me, to find my happiness, to drink on my wedding day... But how could I ever drink it...
He spoke in a low murmur, as if talking to the person in the frame, but also as if he were explaining himself to me.
No one knew that the man you married was an animal... He hurt you... When I finally went to find you, it was already too late... too late...
Floating beside him, I finally saw the picture.
A delicate, beautiful girl with braids, her eyes crinkling into a soft smile.
It was his childhood friend, Seraphina.
That jar of Port was his lifes regret, the only memory of her he had secretly cherished for forty years.
...
A sudden thought hit me.
Just last month, I had been helping him tidy the study and had accidentally come across this hidden photo frame.
He had walked in just then, seen me holding it, and his expression had changed drastically. Hed snatched it away and locked it back in the drawer.
I actually hadn't clearly seen who was in the picture. I had simply found his overreaction odd.
Later, I'd grown concerned because he was staying up late reading, neglecting his health, and wed had a petty argument, cold-shouldering each other for days.
Now, I realized: he must have thought I had seen his first loves photo and was deliberately picking a fight, being difficult.
In his eyes, my concern and my irritation over his health had all been twisted into evidence of my jealousy and irrational behavior.
How ridiculous.
I was worried sick about his health, and he thought I was jealous of a ghost.
I was slowly losing my life in a cold, dark cellar because of his cruel indifference.
And here he was, staring at his first loves photo, quietly mourning his youthful, incomplete romance.
What separated us was far more than a simple iron door.
I thought back to when we were first married. He truly was good to me.
He remembered my preferencesmy dislike for onions and garlic. Hed quietly bring me herbal tea during my cycle. Hed subtly protect me when his mother was being difficult.
Those moments of tenderness were the harbor I thought I could rely on for a lifetime.
But now, those memories felt like a thousand sharp needles, piercing my soul with pain.
The truth was, all his kindness had only existed because I was "well-behaved," because I "knew my place," and never dared to cross the boundary of that forbidden zone in his heart named "Seraphina."
As he sank deeper into his personal grief, his gaze unknowingly swept across another photo on his desk: our family portrait.
In the photo, our son, Owen, newly an adult, was standing between us in a sharp suit.
I was clutching his arm, smiling radiantly.
Robs expression was serious, but the corners of his eyes and mouth held a faint, undeniable joy.
I remembered the day we took that photo. I had teased him, saying, Rob, look, our hair is all white. We have to make it all the way, together, to see Owen get married and have kids.
How had he answered?
He had said, I promise.
Now, Owen was married with a child, but we wouldnt make it to the end.
Looking at my smiling face in the picture, Robs eyes finally showed a flicker of real emotion.
He reached out, trying to touch the photo, but his finger stopped inches from the frame.
He was softening.
Perhaps those forty years of coexistence, of mutual respect, were not completely devoid of feeling.
He did love me.
But that love, in the end, could not measure up to the fleeting, breathtaking image of his teenage "white moonlight."
He likely felt my punishment had gone on long enough.
After sitting motionless in the study for hours, the light outside turning from dusk to night, he finally stood up and slowly walked to the basement door.
His jaw was clenched tight, his face expressionless, but the worry in his eyes betrayed him.
He had regretted it the moment he closed the door. He regretted it when Pat brought the lasagna. He regretted it when he confessed his heartache to the old photo.
But he needed me to break first, to apologize.
In his mind, I was the one who had broken his sacred object; I had committed the first offense.
He cleared his throat. His hand rested on the cold doorknob, but he didn't turn it.
He was waiting.
Waiting for me to cry, waiting for me to beg, waiting for me to utter the words, I was wrong.
If I did, he would open the door, hold me in his arms, and say he forgave me.
I only felt a terrible, biting irony.
My soul hovered in the air.
Jealousy?
I hadnt even known the woman existed. How could I have been jealous?
I had only accidentally shattered a jar of winea jar I thought was one of his silly youthful attempts at brewing.
But the body of the woman inside the basement could no longer make a sound.
My physical form was already cold, curled up in the corner like a discarded rag.
The utter silence from within the door, to him, was simply proof of my silent protest.
He remembered our old arguments, how I would always start a cold war, refusing to speak, waiting for him to break first, to come and smooth things over, to apologize.
He thought I was doing the same thing now.
He believed I was deliberately silent, holding out until he came begging for my forgiveness.
A fresh wave of irrational anger surged through him, burning away the small amount of guilt hed managed to muster.
This was his only memento.
In his mind, he had already given me every opportunity, yet I was still refusing to be grateful.
Fine! Go on, play your silent game! he gritted out, the words squeezed through his teeth. Im done with you. If you want to stay in there, stay there forever!
With that, he slammed his hand against the door and turned back toward his room.
The bang was so loud it shook the walls.
And I, the woman he had just condemned, had no strength left to push that door open.
My body lay alone in the freezing basement, accompanied only by the shards of glass and the spilled wine.
...
The world outside fell completely dark.
Closer to evening, the sound of a car engine grew louder, pulling up to the curb.
Owen, our son, was finally home from work.
He arrived with his wife and our grandson, carrying bags of things meant to help my recovery.
Even though Rob had used the butt dial excuse on the phone earlier in the day, Owen remained unsettled.
So, the moment he clocked out, he rushed over with his family to see me for himself.
Dad, open up! Owen called out from the porch.
Rob opened the door. Seeing his lively, adorable grandson, the tension that had gripped his face all day finally eased.
Grandpa! The little boy rushed into his arms, shouting sweetly.
Rob picked up the grandson, his mood lightening considerably.
Wheres Grandma? I brought her favorite apple turnovers! The grandson held up a small box, looking around the room for me.
Robs forced smile froze for a second. He mumbled, Grandma... Grandma is tired. Shes sleeping.
The little boy wiggled free of his grandfathers arms, his small nose twitching in the air. He pointed innocently toward the basement door, his brow furrowed.
Grandpa, whats that smell? It smells funny.
An indescribable, strange, faintly sickly odor was beginning to seep out from under the door.
Robs heart gave a violent lurch, but he quickly composed himself, dismissing it casually. Oh, probably just the leftover fish smell from the lasagna Pat brought over earlier.
He paid no more attention to it.
Owen and his wife exchanged a look.
The atmosphere in the house was entirely wrong.
Ever since theyd walked in, Rob had been distracted, shifty-eyed, and completely unwilling to talk about my condition.
It was deeply unsettling.
Dad, where exactly is Mom? Owens smile vanished, his voice turning serious. How is her health, really? Dont lie to me.
Under his sons intense stare, Rob grew flustered.
He tried to change the subject. Your mother is fine. What could possibly be wrong...
Fine? Owen pressed harder. If shes fine, why wont she come out to see us? If shes fine, why did you turn off your cell phone? I called you dozens of times this afternoon!
Having his lies exposed and being cornered by his son in front of his daughter-in-law and grandson, Robs face turned a mottled purple.
That fragile, pitiful pride, combined with the shame of being exposed, caused him to explode.
Like a cornered animal, he sharply raised his voice and roared, Shes reflecting! Shes down in the basement reflecting!
He pointed furiously at the basement door, his anger spilling out as he accused me: Your mother is narrow-minded! She cant stand to look at a simple jar of wine, cant tolerate one single memory of my past!
Hearing this, Owen and his wife looked at each other, both stunned and bewildered.
They knew me too well.
I had always been the one to respect everyones privacy, especially Robs.
I never touched his study; I never rummaged through his old things.
A jar of wine? What wine? Owen demanded.
Under his sons piercing gaze, Rob finally crumbled, his voice weakening as he stammered out the truth: ...It was Seraphinas Port... the only memento she left me... and your mother shattered it.
Who is Seraphina?
My... my childhood sweetheart.
Owen heard this and nearly laughed from the sheer rage and disbelief.
He bit out a harsh rebuke. The sweethearts wine? Dad, be reasonable! Did Mom know that was her wine? She didnt even know you had a childhood sweetheart! How could she possibly shatter a jar out of jealousy?
She nearly killed herself giving birth to me! Shes worried herself sick for this family her whole life! And for a single jar of wine, you locked a patient who just had heart surgery in a freezing basement?
No matter what you think she did, you had no right to do this to her!
Owens words were a heavy blow, smashing Robs self-delusion.
He finally woke up.
He remembered me clumsily learning to cook his favorite meals when we were first married; remembered me nursing him through a bad sickness; remembered everything I had given to this family over the forty years.
All the ordinary, consistent warmth he had deliberately ignored suddenly flooded his mind.
He finally remembered my goodness.
In the end, his love, however flawed, was a truth too late.
With Owens urging, Rob reluctantly gave in, muttering an agreement, and followed him to the basement door.
But he still held onto his pride, yelling toward the door: If you just apologize, Ill forgive you. Lets forget this ever happened! Weve been married for decades, dont be so dramatic. The kids are watching!
Seeing his fathers stubbornnesshis hard mouth and soft heartOwen wasted no more time on him. He snatched the key from Robs pocket and jammed it into the lock.
Click. The door unlocked.
Even in the second before the door was fully pushed open, Rob was still grumbling.
See? Shes always like this, the stubborn streak. She could come out on her own, but she has to make a scene until the whole family comes to coax her. Every time...
The door was violently flung open.
The dim overhead light spilled into the darkness.
In the corner, a small figure was curled up.
My body was already stiff and blue, tear tracks dried on my face, my eyes vacant, staring fixedly at the ceiling.
At that moment, the noise outside the door ceased abruptly.
Robs complaint died in his throat.
His daughter-in-law covered her mouth, a low, strangled gasp escaping her.
The little grandson hid behind his father, terrified to look.
Everyone froze.
Time seemed to stand still.
First, search for and download the MotoNovel app from Google. Then, open the app and use the code "330560" to read the entire book.
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