Winning Entry: Margaret Atwood #Freeze-DriedFiction Contest, Sister of the Bride

“Sister of the Bride” was written by Jennifer Cooreman as a prequel to Margaret Atwood’s story “The Freeze Dried Groom” (one of the nine tales in Stone Mattress). It was chosen as the winning entry by a panel of editors in the Margaret Atwood sponsored Freeze Dried Fiction contest. Be sure to read Margaret Atwood’s story first so you’ve got proper context for my story (see link above). Happy reading!

Ashes

Claire pushed past her mother, dragging her sister’s mahogany chest down the steps and through their back yard. “Claire, don’t make me beg. Her journals are all we have left.” For a moment her mother’s shoulders lost their rounded slump, her eyes flashed and she appeared ready to do battle with her oldest and only surviving daughter.

But by the time she’d thrown a thin wrap over her nightgown, Claire had already reached the burn barrel and stood poised, ready to strike the match. Touching the flame to the first bits of paper, the fire started easily in the cold morning air. Whatever secret joys and sorrows her younger sister had recorded in her letters and journals became quick, bright tinder, envelopes and pages tumbling one after another into the roaring fire.

As Claire stirred and banked the coals, wanting to be sure each scrap of paper was reduced to ash, she tried to tamp down her guilt and despair. When she lost a patient, when their father walked out without warning, she knew how to detach. This was her art, one she believed she had mastered.

But her sister was gone, and although she knew she was not responsible for her death, she could not separate herself from her sister’s accident. She believed she could have saved her.

“Nonsense.” Claire spoke to herself as she stood near the dying fire, as if she was one of her own grief-stricken patients. “Think logically, Claire.” If anyone was to blame for Elise’s death, it was Clyde Davis.

At the rehearsal dinner the night before their wedding, Elise’s fiancé had been vacillating wildly between laughter and tears, listening to his friends and family reminisce about his younger days, sharing his dorm room, braving the police academy together. As the night drew to a close, Claire pointedly steered Clyde away from the bar. “Better get a good night’s sleep so you’re in top form tomorrow.”

Claire had never seen him so drunk. Was Elise embarrassed by his antics? She seemed oblivious and was glowing, radiant with excitement. Claire tried to hide her irritation. It was her sister’s night, not hers.

“After tonight, she’s yours for the rest of your life. How about letting me drive her home?” Claire tried to finesse her way past Clyde’s considerable male pride, the same way she approached difficult patients. Sideways. Telling him he was too blitzed to drive wouldn’t have gone over well, especially not in front of his police officer buddies.

Elise shot her sister a warning glance. One that said, quite clearly, “Let go, Claire. We’re fine.” So she backed off, giving her sister one last hug.

“I’ll see you in the morning, Claire. Eight o’clock sharp. I know you can’t wait for hair and makeup!” Elise flashed a wide grin, and then she was gone.

It was only a five mile drive, Claire told herself. Nothing Clyde couldn’t handle.

Gone

Claire returned to the restaurant to collect her things and drove home, looking forward to a good night’s sleep. The ringing phone startled her. “What could Elise want now?” She was surprised to hear a stranger’s voice, “There’s been an accident.” Annoyed, Claire shook her head. “I’m not on call tonight.”

“No, Dr. Ledus. Your sister has been involved in an accident.”

Claire couldn’t remember how she got to the hospital. Her only clear memory was Clyde, slumped against the corridor, outside a room she knew was the morgue. The blood stains on his white shirt. Still dressed in his suit and tie, he did not look at Claire until she stood directly over him, shouting his name. “Clyde, where is Elise. What the hell happened? Who’s working trauma?” Clyde began to howl, banging his head against the tiled wall. “She’s gone, Claire. Don’t you understand? Gone.”

Claire’s vision turned inward, becoming a long grey tunnel. She focused on the center of the hospital’s endless hallways, hearing faint sounds. A group of people speaking in hushed, urgent tones. Nurses? Doctors? Someone took Claire’s elbow, steering her towards an elevator. A steady whisper began in her ear. Calm, as if she was a child that needed soothing. Perhaps it was a nurse, or one of the orderlies who wasn’t afraid of her. Claire was the hospital’s leading cardiothoracic surgeon. Most everyone on staff was afraid of her for one reason or another.

An officer, one she’d seen with Clyde countless times, approached Claire. “She’s gone, Dr. Ledus. There was an accident just after Clyde and Elise left the rehearsal dinner. Your sister did not make it. There will be a full investigation. I can promise you that. But Clyde’s too torn up now. We want to let him grieve. Give him some time.”

Someone wrapped her in a blanket. “We’ll drive you home, Claire.” The whispering people were telling her what to do, making her sense of unreality more acute. More arms, more whispers along the long white halls. This was her hospital, the domain she controlled. So well lit, but strangely quiet tonight. Clyde appeared, walking stiffly next to her, his boutonniere hanging limp from his lapel. “I tried to slow down. It all happened so fast. I’m sorry, Claire.”

Sorry? Give Clyde time?

Then she heard a woman scream, waling so desperately that Claire couldn’t think. She closed her eyes and covered her ears, finally sinking to her knees. Flashing lights coursed behind her lids, red and white pulses. Where was her sister? There was a roar, a wind, someone holding her down. They needed to give that woman something, Claire thought absently. Some Seconal, something to calm her nerves. Why wouldn’t anyone help?

Promises

Five months before Elise’s death, Claire and Elise took a walk around a lake near their childhood home. Barefoot and laughing, they talked about their lives and family. They agreed their mother needed to see a therapist. Would she ever get over their father? “I don’t think about him anymore, Claire. I used to pray he’d come home.” Claire never thought of their father, and certainly never prayed he’d come back.

Their conversation wound its way back to the wedding “You really don’t mind the bridesmaids dresses? I know pink is not your color, but it looks beautiful on you. Everything does.” Claire made a face.

“Can we dye it black?”

“Stop it, Claire.You’re going to look stunning. Pink is the perfect backdrop for my flowers. Garden roses, Stargazer lilies and gardenias.”

“You sound like a florist, Elise. Maybe you should open up a flower shop and paint with petals. Put your fine-arts degree to use. You know, make some money?.”

“Shut up, Claire. I make money. Clyde says my paintings are beautiful and I’m going to be a famous artist someday. Anyway, we’re supposed to be talking about the wedding. I’ve made all the chair sashes. So many wedding things have been delivered to the apartment. Clyde says we look like a couple of hoarders.”

“Elise, do you think that’s a sign you’re going overboard?” Poking her sister, she continued, “I could set up an eval, get you some meds. I hear there’s a new disorder. Bridal mania, I think.”

“You’re going to wind up exactly like me when you get married.” Shooting her sister a sideways glance, Elise added, “Well, when it’s legal for you to get married.”

Then Elise stopped, her mood darkening. Avoiding Claire’s eyes, she bent to pick long stalks of Queen Anne’s Lace growing along the edge of their path. “Can I ask you something? Don’t laugh. If anything ever happens to me, burn all my journals. Everything in my chest.”

Bile rose in Claire’s throat at the memory. She had laughed, surprised at Elise’s strange request, so out of character for her light hearted sister. For that she would never forgive herself. Other mistakes, sins and split second decisions would never haunt her the way failing to listen, truly listen, to her sister would.

Memory

For a time, Claire hoped she would find the strength to forgive Clyde. Humans were prone to tragic errors. Forgiveness would have been a stretch, but she could have forced herself. For her own sanity.

But then she found one last piece of her sister’s memories lying in the snow, as if placed there by an unseen hand. A thin red ribbon had escaped the fire. It had been meticulously removed from one of her sister’s journals, the ribbon firmly attached to a sheaf of papers with Elise’s distinctive writing covering its pages.

She started back to the fire, intending to add those pages to the ashes, stirring the coals to life. She fully intended to keep her promise.

But her sister’s words reached for Claire as she carried them in her trembling hands. Despite her best efforts, she could not look away, and she was soon consumed by her sister’s private memories.

“So afraid… He’ll be fired…lose his license. He’s so angry when he drinks. I want to help, but I don’t know how.”

Claire’s hands shook as she backed away from the fire.

“…Can’t tell her. This isn’t the Clyde I know. How can I help?… gets angrier and angrier until I do what he wants. Last night the landlady threatened to call the police. Then what would we do?”

She didn’t want to keep reading, but how could she stop? There had been so many clues, but Elise had been so careful to explain each one away. She nudged Claire from her circle of secrets, and Claire had believed all the excuses. The mysterious bruises, the cancelled plans. “I’m such an idiot, Claire. I hit my face on the bathroom cabinet in the middle of the night. I don’t feel like going out tonight.”

Pieces of a puzzle whirred together. The plate glass door Clyde fell through. He wasn’t a klutz, he was a violent drunk, an addict and excellent liar. One Elise fought to save and protect. One she ultimately died for.

“…I don’t want to lose him. I told him I’d tell Claire or call his boss if he didn’t stop, and he started…I couldn’t breathe, but he cried so hard afterwards…Don’t know what to do…keeps promising he’ll quit.”

Was that why her sister wore so many layers? “Why do you wear so much makeup, Elise? You’re wasting your money on all that crap.” Why hadn’t Elise trusted her with the truth? Why had Claire laughed? Why had she ever laughed at her sister?

She shuddered, realizing Elise had lived with two men. The Clyde the world knew, a responsible policeman, tall and handsome, always ready with a joke or to lend a hand. An upstanding citizen, seemingly above reproach. That, in stark juxtaposition to the Clyde Elise lived with behind closed doors. The petulant drunk who finished a six pack after work to ease the stress of his day, then started in on the harder stuff. By the time he staggered into their bed, he wouldn’t listen to Elise’s pleas. Please stop, you’re hurting me. Don’t make me beg.

Claire hated herself for not listening, for failing to protect her sister. She hated Elise for protecting Clyde. And she hated Elise for dying.

Above all, through the haze of the dying fire, Claire hated Clyde. Clyde, who drove home from the rehearsal dinner, drunk, taking back road curves at ninety miles an hour. Clyde, who’d walked away from the wreck with barely a scratch, sobbing over his lost love. Officer Davis, the grieving groom, hadn’t even gotten a ticket from his buddies who were called to the scene . “Has he been drinking? No, he’s been through enough tonight. Let it go for now.”

Regret

Claire was cold, even standing next to the fire. She didn’t want to move, or answer any of the questions waiting for her. What would Elise wear in the casket? What readings would she like for the mass? What the hell did any of that matter now? Her sister had died, and Claire didn’t give a shit about readings or caskets. But someone had to take over, and her mother and Clyde were too hysterical with grief to help. She thought of her sister and felt ashamed. If the situation had been reversed, Elise would have done something, somehow been a better sister. Rage and regret battled with Claire’s desire to help. To kill. To die. Claire was rooted to her spot in the snow. She could not stop remembering.

She had introduced Elise and Clyde thinking they’d be perfect for each other. On the phone, Elise could barely contain her questions. She’d begged Claire to introduce her to one of her residents. “No, he’s not a doctor. Doctors are egotistical assholes who cheat on their wives and get blow jobs from nurses in supply closets. This one’s a policeman. Upstanding, serve and protect, all that bullshit. I’ve watched him around the hospital. Seems like a decent guy. As far as guys go, anyway.”

The entire hospital staff loved Clyde. Affable, handsome, always ready to help those in need, to rush in and save the day. He handled Claire’s toughest patients with an easy calm, never using too much force or throwing himself around like the other cops she knew. Hospital security was usually a hardened bunch, but Clyde was gentle. Like he cared about the mental patients and gunshot victims he escorted into her ER.

Claire built her life around caring for others, and her methods had always worked. Calm logic. Hard work and planning. Yet she had failed her sister miserably. Clyde Davis won. He’d fooled them all.

Funeral

Claire would not allow her sister’s funeral to revolve around Clyde’s conspicuous grief. She knew the truth, felt it shining from her like a beacon. Everything in her screamed, “Liar!” But the mass would be a celebration of her sister’s life, honoring her spirit and providing some small balm for their mother’s wounds.

She tried to spare their mother as much pain as possible in the days before the funeral, first by calling in a favor from a colleague in the psych department. He had known Claire since her days as a resident, before she became quite so callous and clinical. “Mom, I know you hate taking medicine, but you’ve got to sleep or you’re not going to make it to the funeral.” Dr. Weisman left Claire with several scripts for anti anxiety meds, for herself and her mother. She now carried a small pharmacy in her purse. “What else can I do for you, Claire? I’m so sorry. What about something to help you sleep? You know not to combine these with alcohol?”

Dr. Weisman was the only physician in the hospital who didn’t seem afraid of Claire, or call her a heartless bitch behind her back. He knew her professional detachment was nothing more than a screen, an efficient tool she used as a surgeon. He’d seen Claire punish herself when she lost a young patient or when a transplanted heart was rejected.

Claire wished she could ask her mother for help deciding what to do with Elise’s wedding things. She had been avoiding calls from the country inn where her sister planned to hold the reception, but she had to call them back eventually. What would she do with Elise’s wedding dress, the celebration set up for a bride who’d never show? Although the staff was well aware of the tragic circumstances, their messages were becoming increasingly short. “I’m sorry, Dr. Ledus, but we can’t hold these things past tonight. We’ve got another wedding coming in.”

The funeral planning had frayed Claire’s nerves. Disposing of Elise’s wedding things would have tipped her over the edge. So, she spared herself yet another painful decision by dialing up a moving company. “Can you pick up a load of wedding supplies this afternoon? The wedding’s been cancelled. Groom’s a no show. Yeah, a real asshole. Deliver the entire lot to a storage facility in Mississauga. Yes, I’ll pay a rush fee. Whatever you need. I’ve rented a unit big enough for everything.”

Claire knew she should let go. Donate the wedding to a deserving couple, or toss it all in a dumpster. But she couldn’t. Not the boxed favors, each one lovingly handmade by Elise, tied with a bow and holding a tiny heart shaped candle. The crates of champagne, folded table linens and a guest book which would remain blank for eternity. Her sister’s wedding dress hung, with its voluminous tulle skirt and hand appliquéd silk organza flowers, in the bridal room of the inn. The funeral director asked Claire if she would like to bury Elise in the gown. “Seems a shame she never had the chance to wear it.” Claire agreed with the unctuous prick. Elise should have had the chance to wear her dress. But she wanted to preserve her memories of her sister when she was alive, even if she had to manufacture them. So she would imagine her sister wearing the gown in the winter portraits she’d planned for her wedding day, not trapped in a coffin, rotting in the ground.

Claire went shopping one last time for her sister, choosing a dark green dress for the burial, one of Elise’s favorite colors. The saleslady, not noticing Claire’s mood, insisted on idle chit chat. “This will look beautiful with your hazel eyes. Are you going on a trip? Somewhere fun?”

Medicated, but present enough to mourn, Claire made it through the funeral. She heard the prayers and hoped her sister had truly gone on to a better place.

“Lord, we trust in your grace, believing those who have died live glorified in Your presence. We pray in joyful hope for our families, and for the souls of the dead, whose hope lies in You alone.”

Their mother seemed, impossibly, at peace. “It was a beautiful funeral, Claire. I know Elise was looking down on us from heaven.”

Claire was dying inside. Disintegrating while she waited for her escape. But her mother held firm. “I’m worried about you. Nothing will make me whole again, but I’ll survive. But I know your heart is breaking. Stay with me. Just for one night?”

“I need to sleep in my own bed, Mom.” More than anything, Claire needed solitude. To hold her sister’s sweater, which she’d borrowed the weekend before she died. To cry, with no one there to tell her everything would be alright. Because she knew that was a vicious lie.

It was after midnight when Claire stopped crying, wiped her eyes and went to the kitchen for water. Still wearing Elise’s sweater, her thoughts took a morbid turn, one she recognized but could usually talk herself through. “Perhaps”, she mused, “the best solution to this pain is death.”

Depression stalked Claire for much of her life. There had been many times she fleetingly decided death was a kinder option than living. Tonight, alone in her apartment, death became increasingly appealing. She meditated on the opportunity cost of suicide. It did not seem steep. Going to to sleep, never waking. No new days without her sister.

She was already dead. Walking back to her couch, she found her purse, counted the bottles of muscle relaxants and sleeping pills. She considered driving to the hospital, pocketing several vials of Ketamine. It was snowing hard now, but she could walk the few blocks to the hospital and mix her own cocktail. Propofol, morphine, some Methohexital, just to be sure.

She thought of her mother, who told Claire she was irrevocably broken. “So my death will be the icing on the cake.” Claire found a bottle of vodka in the back of her freezer, then some orange juice to wash down the pills. Wasn’t that how Marilyn Monroe died? She couldn’t remember.

Her mind calculated the number of pills, how much vodka she’d need to consume without throwing everything up. Distracted, concentrating on her plan, she barely registered the knock at the door. Would it be less suspicious to drive to the hospital and nab a few vials from the pharmacy or should she walk? Or go with the pills? The anesthesia would be more reliable. Quicker.

In the stillness of her apartment, she heard another knock, then a familiar voice. “Claire?” Was she already in hell? Peering through the peephole, she saw Clyde. Distorted, the tiny opening giving him a walleyed appearance. His head looked bigger than his body, and he wore a large black hat. Was that his top hat? It was getting colder outside. She could feel it. “Clyde, what are you doing here. And what are you wearing?” She heard crying, then a muffled thud. “Clyde?” Had he fallen, or fallen asleep? Left the building?

She opened her door a crack and saw him slumped against the wall. Bleary eyed, reeking of sweat and alcohol. This time she could smell it from across the hall. “What are you doing? I hope to hell you didn’t drive here.”

“I am supposed to be a married man, Claire. The groom. Look at me. Would you fucking look at me?” He had gone out in a winter storm wearing his tuxedo, dressed for the wedding he’d made impossible. And he was there at her doorstep, drunk as hell, banging his head on the doorwall. He would wake her neighbors. Claire thought frantically of calling the police. Then she thought of Elise. Of how frightened she must have been when he came home at night.

He pushed his way easily into her apartment, crying and babbling. “I’ve lost my bride. She’s all I can think about. I should be with her right now. She was my everything. Do you understand, Claire. Are you even listening?”

Claire looked through him. Should she walk to the hospital in all this snow? How many vials of anesthetic could she steal without anyone noticing? Clyde lurched towards her couch, helping himself to her vodka and orange juice. Claire just wanted him gone so she could sleep. He was the reason she did not want to live, a walking, breathing reminder of all the ways she had failed her sister.

She looked out her window, and saw the snow falling harder and faster. The storm was coming, just as they’d predicted. Sometimes the forecasters got it wrong, but not tonight. They’d warned the storm of the century was bearing down on the region, fueled by uncommon weather patterns. The polar vortex. For once, they were right. Soon the entire city would shut down. Claire needed to get Clyde out of her apartment. She sure as shit wasn’t going to get snowed in with him.

“I’ve got to take a piss,” Clyde announced abruptly.

Claire’s stomach tightened. “Clyde, you can’t stay here. There’s a storm coming and I don’t have anywhere for you to sleep.” Maybe if she was lucky, he’d walk home and freeze to death on the way. Clyde was in no rush to leave, and was still zipping his fly as he emerged from her bathroom. Slowly, as if he’d just realized Claire wasn’t a mirage, he turned to face her, appraising Claire as if she were a ghost. “That’s Elise’s sweater. It looks good on you. You two could have been twins.”

Clyde sat down heavily next to her, so close that Claire could see the broken capillaries in his eyes and the places where he’d cut himself shaving.”You’re so pretty, Claire.” He’d slurred his words, resting his head on her shoulder. “Don’t go to sleep, Clyde.” She knew she’d never get him up if he passed out. “I’m not sleepy, Claire. I’m just dreaming. Thinking how much you look like your sister. But you’ve got a bigger rack. Elise was beautiful, but she got screwed in the tits department.”

Claire thought about how long her sister had protected this worthless piece of shit. She considered for a moment which way to go. But it was Clyde who helped her decide. His hands had a mind of their own. The man had no soul.

His breath was sickly sweet as he leaned towards her, his fingers tracing her spine. “Have you ever thought about me, Claire? What it would be like? Because I’ve thought about you.”

Claire forced herself to breathe. “Really, Clyde? I’m flattered. I thought you knew.”

Clyde chuckled. “Well, Elise told me. But I figured you might change your mind. That I might change your mind.”

“Oh, but you have, Clyde. You have changed my mind.”

Clyde reached clumsily for the buttons on her blouse, but Claire held his hands. “Are you sure, Clyde? You’re not going to regret this?”

“Shit, no. I knew you wanted it. Don’t feel bad. It’s perfectly natural. We’re lonely souls. God, you’ve got gigantic tits.”

“Yes, Clyde. I know. I’ve been saving a bottle of wine for the right occasion. Let me pour us a glass.”

Claire poured two glasses of merlot, and spoke to Clyde from the kitchen. She was not ready for him to fall asleep. “I can’t believe this is really happening.” She heard him half laugh, half snort. “Me neither.” She mixed his glass with extra care, added a few of Dr. Weisman’s easily dissolvable helpers.

“I propose a toast. To new beginnings and second chances.” Clyde drained his glass in one long gulp, leaning greedily towards her. She stood quickly, unbuttoning the first few buttons of her blouse, giving him a glimpse of the black, lacy cups of her bra. “I’m going to change into something special. Just for you.”

From her bedroom, Claire saw his head nod. Then heard snoring.

She wondered, as she pulled on her winter coat and boots, how many pills would it take to put down a horse? None of that mattered now. She was just playing games. Clyde would sleep while she made a quick run to the hospital. “Just here to check on my patients. Wanted to be sure everyone’s OK before I get snowed in.”

Anesthesiology was always dead on stormy nights. Scheduled surgeries were cancelled when the weather got bad. If any emergencies came in, Dr. Wagner was on call and he wouldn’t bother Claire. She’d done a triple bypass on his mother last month. Saved her life. He wouldn’t notice if she slipped in and out with a few vials of anesthetic in her pocket. Claire moved quickly through the hospital. On her way to the parking lot, she grabbed a wheel chair. Clyde was a heavy bastard.

Back at the apartment, Clyde was sleeping. Claire calculated the timing of her trip. Less than an hour, even with all the snow. But she needed to hurry, before any more ice accumulated on the roads. They were deserted, everyone hunkered down and waiting for the storm to pass. Clyde woke easily, drunk, relaxed and compliant. “Wake up, baby. I’ve got someplace special to take you. The perfect place for a romantic evening.”

Claire helped him to the car, cajoling, dragging and wheeling until he was finally settled in the front seat. He nodded in and out while Claire focused on her driving. She couldn’t afford to slide off the road. Parking on the side of the building, she turned off her car and used a blast of cold air to wake Clyde. “We’re here! You’re gonna love this.”

It took more time and strength than Claire knew she possessed, but there was just enough room to maneuver Clyde into a corner. She had to shift a few boxes and crates, and focused on working quickly and quietly. For good measure, she placed a few dissolvable morphine tabs on his tongue. “Don’t forget your top hat!” She placed it on his head at a rakish angle, then set up a makeshift table. Two champagne flutes, a dried bouquet and two linen napkins. So very festive.

He stirred, briefly, when she emptied the first syringe into his vein. The massive dose of Succinylcholine would paralyze his body almost instantly. Soon, he wouldn’t be able to breathe, speak or move. But he’d be able to see. For a few minutes, anyway. Then, it would all be over.

“All tucked in! Cozy, isn’t it? There’s plenty of champagne if you feel like celebrating. It’s already chilled. Going down to negative nineteen degrees tonight. Can you see the extra bottles? They’re right over there. Just behind the wedding dress.”

His eyes silently followed Claire as she paused to take one last look before turning out the light. Then she slipped out of the storage locker, making absolutely sure she’d closed the rattling metal door behind her.

“Sleep tight, Clyde.”

***Cover photo courtesy of Teresa Lee, www.teresaleephotography.com