Part 2: A Series of Unprecedented Events
He came to bed past midnight, no longer drunk and in his right mind. G. heard him enter the bathroom, change, brush his teeth, and approach the bed. She pretended to be fast asleep. But she lay awake for a long time, unhappy and fearing for her marriage. This on what should have been a very happy day; the day she had seen her last born married in church.
The first time Dan had taken up drinking G. had told him that she’d not live with the behaviour; that she’d divorce him over the habit. What would she do now if what she was faced with was a lasting relapse?
She woke up early the following morning, made breakfast for two, and wept silently as the meal went cold and the milky tea formed a layer of cream in her cup.
At last, Dan joined her. He approached the table with a tentative air, his every movement betraying nervous energy. He settled into his seat, his gaze flickering between his breakfast and G., unable to hold her gaze for long. He talked with his demeanour as he nibbled on the cold eggs and tomatoes, but she could not tell whether he was begging to be forgiven or silently asserting his defiance.
Then he poured the milky tea from a red flask and gobbled up the rest of his breakfast as if he had suddenly been hurried. The whole time, not a word was exchanged between them.
“Coming to work?” he asked, rising from the table.
“I’ll come later,” G. replied tersely. Their chemist shop did not get busy till the afternoon. In the meantime, she had another plan.
After he departed, she dressed up, donning her attire with purposeful determination. She got out of the house, locked up, and got into her weathered but still reliable Toyota Starlet, a relic of past journeys. She ignited the engine and, with a practiced shifting of the manual gears, navigated the familiar streets, her destination clear in her mind: the bank.
She got to the bank but not in one piece. In her distress, she had forgotten to take her pain medicine and her hip joint had gotten worse with each shift of the gear. But she bore it, parked outside, limped slowly through the banking hall, and eventually ended up at the manager’s office.
“What may I do for you today, Mrs Kange?” The bank manager asked when she was settled in his office. They had a decent account and were generally treated respectfully at the bank.
“I need to see our bank statement,” she said, handing the manager a card with their account number.
“Shall I print it or do you just need the balance?” the manager asked.
“Printed, please.”
“How far back, Mrs Kange?”
She thought for a moment, then said, “Six months.” That was when they took the stocking-up loan.
All the monthly payments for the loan were up to date. And all the daily bankings from the shop, which Clair, their shop clerk did, were reflected. And the account had a positive balance; small but positive. So what was that reference to “stress” that Dan blamed for his drinking? An excuse?
She scanned the account statement again, wondering why the balance levitated on the low end despite the bankings. She saw it: a monthly debit of the same amount, transferred as an RTGS by order of her husband to an account number with the name: Magdalene Wanja.
The manager noticed her sudden change of demeanour and her now laboured breathing, and the sweat that trickled down her pained but still good-looking face.
“Is everything alright, Mrs Kange?” he asked.
“It’s not, Manager,” she said, pointing to the line with the latest debit amount on the bank statement. “How did this happen?”
“Your husband initiated the standing order, Mrs Kange. The mandate for your account is ‘any can sign.’”
“Do you know her?” she asked.
“No,” he said. He looked at her with sympathy, aware of what must be the cause of her pain but unable to avail any emotional support.
“Can I stop the standing order?” She asked.
“Of course, you can,“ the manager said. “You have the mandate.” He pressed a buzzer and a young man showed up at his office’s door.
“Please give me a standing order form, George,“ the manager instructed. The form came and G. stopped the monthly debit.
She rose from the seat, frustration evident from the wrinkles and bulged veins that had formed on her face, and walked hastily out of the manager’s office. Feeling her weight, the pain in her hip bone, and the sweat that had by now, trickled down to the small of her back.
As she opened the door to her Starlet turned the ignition key, engaging reverse gear, and stepping on the accelerator pedal to exit the parking space, she was in a daze, lost, unaware of her surroundings or actions.
She was thrust back into reality by a deafening bang, the sound of her car violently colliding backward into metal. Glass shattered, adding to the cacophony of chaos. The force of the impact violently jerked her head forward, slamming it mercilessly into the hard steering wheel. Blood gushed from G.’s nose as she succumbed to unconsciousness.
***
G. opened her eyes to a blurry vision of Timothy, Lina, and a woman she vaguely remembered. Timothy was speaking, but not to her. She longed for his attention, wishing he would transport her back to their teenage years and allow her to bask in the memories.
Straining to hear his words, she realized he was praying. Her vision cleared slightly, and she saw that he, Lina, and — she now recognized the other woman—Tim’s wife, had their hands clasped. Timothy’s voice resounded within the four walls of the room, “Oh, Lord, we beseech Thee, in the name of our Lord Jesus.” The others echoed, “Amen!”
“She’s awake!” Lina exclaimed, jolting G. out of the illusion.
All three turned their attention towards G. She attempted to lift her head, only to realize she couldn’t. A brace encircled her neck, immobilizing her.
“Stay still,” Lina advised, coming to her aid. “You’ve been in an accident.” The memory flooded back to G. Pain also accompanied her breathing.
“Hello, G.,” Timothy greeted her gently.
She tried to speak, but no words came out.
“Lina filled us in on what happened,” Timothy continued, understanding her inability to speak. “Do you remember Grace? We attended Terry’s wedding.”
G. Tilted her eyes towards Grace…lucky Grace…and in doing so, saw a bunch of flowers. Red and yellow roses. But fresh and in a vase. Tim’s doing, she thought.
That day, when she and Tim sat at the weathered bench during Terry’s wedding and Tim had cursed Posta, she had reasoned with him to accept the eventuality of their different paths in life. Now, she felt like it was her turn to scream like Tim had “Bloody Posta!”
Lucky Grace. Terry’s wedding. The dried flowers…. The fresh flowers… G. drifted off, struggling to organize her thoughts. She slipped into a dream, a blissful memory from the past, but upon waking, she couldn’t recall the details. Tim, Lina, and Grace were still by her bedside.
A nurse approached and informed them that visiting hours were over.
“Can she eat?” Tim inquired.
“Not orally,” the nurse responded. “She’s receiving nutrition intravenously.” She gestured towards a tube connected to a suspended bottle, through which the colourless liquid food slowly dripped into a receptor with a needle that penetrated G.’s left wrist.
“Balanced diet,” Lina said subtly, touching the inside of her cheek with her tongue. G. shifted menacingly to face her younger sister. Lina’s teasing, and G.s reaction reminded Tim of the exchange the two had had on the day of the land case, impressed that they could maintain their mock fights even despite the tragedy that had come about.
“We will be back,” Grace said.
“And we are praying with you,” Tim added.
G. nodded her understanding, her gratitude. And they left. But Lina circled back and quickly asked the nurse in G.’s hearing, “When can we talk to the doctor about the hip replacement?”
“When she can talk,” the nurse said, adding, “after her rib cage heals enough to allow it.”
After the visitors had gone, the nurse sat on a stool so that they were at the same eye level as G.
“Can you hear me ok?” She asked.
G. raised her eyebrows in acknowledgment.
“You have been unconscious for a week,” the nurse said. “I am Nurse Gertrude. I look after patients with spine and other internal bone injuries – like you.”
G. did not fully understand what that meant, in respect to her condition. But she had heard enough to know her body was in bad shape— although she could not feel all of the pain associated with her condition. She didn’t panic; she knew why: the wonder of modern medicine.
“Are you in pain?”
“No,” G. indicated by double-blinking. The cast on her neck did not allow her to turn her head.
After the nurse was done talking and attending to her, she’d left, allowing G.’s thoughts to drift and take her back to the events that had unfolded earlier that afternoon. Why had Dan not come?
At some point, she thought she’d heard her children…Ken, Daya, and Terry…. All three of them, together, chatting to each other within her hospital room in muted tones, and, sometimes, to her. But she was too tired and sleepy to fully process what was going on.
***
She came back home from the hospital after nearly three months; with a new hip made of metal alloys, titanium, and polyethylene. And a new nickname: Mama Chums (Metal Lady), courtesy of Lina, queen of sick humour.
While at the hospital, Tim, Grace, Lina, and G.’s children – along with their spouses- frequently visited, helping chase away any loneliness that came with being confined to a hospital bed. Some brought flowers, while others brought cards. And food (which Lina vetted viciously) after G. could eat solids.
Grace, oblivious to the buried history between G. and Timothy, brought her a potted spathiphyllum, their blooms on the cusp of unfurling.
“It produces white blossoms,” Grace explained. “To brighten your days.”
As the white blossoms finally bloomed, they gracefully adorned G’s room, imbuing it with tranquility. Yet, neither G. nor Grace discerned any symbolic significance in the gift, unaware of the plant’s common name – peace Lilly – and the subtle thread it wove between the two women and their husbands.
When the other flowers (the dead flowers, as Lina called them) began to dry, G. forbade the attendants from trashing them. Tim brought her a huge Britannia Encyclopedia and showed her how to use its weight to flatten them and dry them permanently. “For preservation in silica gel and framing,” he whispered.
But Dan never came. Not once. G. worried about it, but eventually rationalized that it was guilt. Hopefully, they would mend the fractured relationship after she came home from hospital.
The accident-related medical bill was covered by her car’s insurance policy. The waist surgery, however, was largely covered by their medical cover, with their business helping cover the excess. Ken, her son, drove her home, doing his best to prepare her for the pitiful situation she’d find when they got there.
What do you think G will find when she gets home? Will Dan still be there, or will he have taken her three-month absence as a chance to start a new life with the mystery woman, Magdalene Wanja?
Part 3 on, Mystery of the Dry Flowers can help answer all those questions soon. In the meantime, feel free to leave a comment. I enjoy hearing from my readers!
And in case you missed the first installment of the series, here you go: Mystery of the Dry Flowers part 1.
Disclaimer: All characters, locations, and events depicted in this blog post are entirely fictional. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, or actual events or locales, is purely coincidental. This work is created for entertainment purposes only and does not intend to portray real individuals, organizations, or occurrences.
Haron Wachira 