AMY CARLISLE works in an old limestone mine, preserving the sounds and
images of the past.  She writes fiction in a desperate attempt to maintain contact with the living.

                                                                 stalled


Even though it's only 4:30 in the morning, traffic seems worse than any rush hour.  Probably an accident up ahead; understandable, in this weather. Freezing drizzle entombs the Honda in dirty ice and sleet.  Desperate to recapture the illusion of control, I fiddle with the heater, feign interest in the gas gauge, command the radio to seek and scan.

And wait.

Funny, we're usually so good at waiting. Lots of practice. For years, our reality has been hour after deadly hour of waiting and watching. Playing the game of staying alive.

Say what you will about the doctors - they've always been honest. Brutally honest. "Never let your hopes get too high." "Remission is not a cure." "Be thankful for what time you might have."

And so we were watchful. With the fearful expertise of the desperate, we became authorities on how many terrifying ways your body can fail you. We questioned and studied, measured and compared. Waited and watched for death.

Yet one can't live in terror indefinitely. Every good day - hell, every day alive - implied the promise of another yet to come. So we gradually stopped living our lives like insects fossilized in amber, trapped in the immediate present. We made plans, counted on the promise of that implied next day. We were drunk on the wine of sheer survival.

Until Monday.

Her cough alone was nothing to worry about. "Just the dry air. We really should invest in a humidifier." "Maybe next spring, we can move to a nicer apartment. One with hot-water heat."

On Monday, we still believed in the future.

Tuesday, the fevers started again. "Probably just a cold" I guessed. "There's a lot of flu going around" she noted. Casual as a Tuesday, normal as a life in the suburbs.

But, now, at 4:30 in the morning, after a night and a day and a night yet again of terrified sleeplessness, we know the truth. We've always known the truth. Funny, they always say that the truth will set you free.

So will Death.

And I'm sitting here, on my way to the hospital again, just like old times. And I know what Annie knows, that the charade that was our life these past five years is over.

And I can't look at her, because I know that if I do, I won't be able to drive on.

Stuck in traffic at 4:30 in the morning.

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© 2002 Amy Carlisle