He feels irritated with Celia. He knows that it’s irrational and that he had better stop before things escalate into a fight, but he cannot help thinking that it is her fault for not seeing the strings.
“Hold me,” she says, in a half-asleep stupor.
Simon gets under the covers, but he cannot touch her.“Let me cut your strings,” he says.
“Go for it,” she says.
“Do you want me to cut them with scissors, or just use my hands?”
“I don’t care. Do what you feel like.”
“Which do you prefer?”
“Dammit, Simon.”
“Well which?”
“Hands. I don’t know.”
“OK, let me know if it hurts.”
He reaches for the belly strings first because they are the smallest, but Celia is lying at an angle where Simon cannot reach them.
“Can you move?” he says.
She rolls over, grumbling about what an asshole he is.
Simon grabs the three belly strings in his hand and jerks on all three at once. They go slack and slide out of her belly, unbloodied, damaging her in no discernible way.
“Did you pull out my strings?” Celia says.
“Be quiet. I’m waiting to see what happens.”
Nothing happens for another minute, then the strings blacken and wither. They slip out of his hand and retract into the ceiling like vines.
“Do you feel any different?” he says.
“I feel exactly the same, which is annoyed and tired.”
“Sorry. I’ll be done soon.”
“Can’t you be done now?”
“Celia, there are strings coming out of your body. I don’t give a fuck if you can’t see them. I want them gone.
Maybe they’re a new breed of insect, or probes.”
Simon collects all of Celia’s remaining strings in one fist, thinking again of cheese. He will pull them out all at once.
“I’m going to pull all of your strings on three, OK?”
He knows telling her this will annoy her, but since it is her body they are dealing with, he thinks he should at least keep her in formed. “One… two… three.”
He pulls the strings.
He slides a hand under the covers as the strings go slack and dark. He strokes her lower back. “All done,” he says. “Thank you for being patient with me.”
Celia offers no response. Simon feels sick. “Celia? I’m sorry. Please say something,” he says.
Her deteriorating strings leave a sulfuric odor in the air. She must be really pissed to ignore him like this. He knows it is better to leave her alone. After sleeping for a few more hours she will not be mad, but Simon cannot stand letting bad feelings simmer between them, even though Celia says bad feelings are sometimes necessary.
He tries tickling her. She remains still. “Celia.” Frustrated by her unresponsiveness, but also growing concerned, Simon shakes her shoulder. “Celia.” She does not move. “Celia!”
There is no question now. Celia is not breathing.
Pulling out her strings has rendered her unconscious.
And the baby, the baby. What about the baby?
Not knowing CPR, Simon leaps out of bed. He slips in elephant shit twice, banging his knees and elbows, before he reaches the phone on the wall.
Simon and Celia thought it would be charming to have an old-fashioned telephone. Now, as Simon struggles to pick up a dial tone on the antiquated machine, the receiver feels like a stone wheel in his hands.
Finally, the dial tone buzzes through and he punches in the emergency number. He wonders what he will say.
That he has killed his wife and unborn child by ripping out the strings that tethered them to life?
“What is your emergency?”
“My pregnant wife is unconscious.”
“How long has she been unconscious?”
“A few minutes I think.”
“What is your location?”
“Seven-One-Seven Golden Oak Drive.”
“An emergency dispatch will—”
“An emergency dispatch will what? Will be here shortly? Answer me!”
He looks at the phone, hesitant to hang up, but there is a blue string running out of his right hand, and he drops the phone.
AMBULANCE PEOPLE
Fifteen minutes later, an ambulance pulls to the curb outside the apartment. Simon opens the door. Two ambulance men dressed in gray uniforms and carrying a stretcher between them hop out of the ambulance and hurry into the apartment. One of the men has curly red hair and looks to be about Simon’s age. The other man has a white handlebar mustache. The ambulance men have strings identical to Celia’s strings, minus the belly strings. Simon decides to ignore the strings so the ambulance men can focus on Celia. He doesn’t want to cause a scene.
The men place the stretcher next to Celia on the bed and set to work checking her vital signs.
“No pulse,” the mustached one says.
“No temperature,” says the one with red hair.
“Even if she’s dead, she should still have a temperature.”
“Well it’s obviously the temperature of a dead person, so it may as well be none at all.”
“Standard procedure, Dan,” says the mustached one.
“Temperature is protocol.” He turns to Simon. “Really sorry about the attitude. He’s new to the ambulance squad.”
The men roll Celia onto the stretcher.
“Is she OK?” Simon asks.
“For a dead woman,” Dan says.
“Oh shut up,” says the mustached one. “I’m sorry to report, sir, this woman here is
beyond retrieval.”
“Beyond retrieval?”
“It means there’s nothing we can do to bring her back.”
“She’s gone, chap,” Dan says. “Left you for a Mister Rigor Mortis.”
“What did I just tell you?” the mustached one says.
“You said she’s beyond retrieval.”
“Of course she is, but no! I told you to shut up. Now shut up and lift.” And to Simon: “Again, I’m terribly sorry for his behavior.”
The men lift the stretcher and move toward the door.
“Hold on a minute.” Simon hurries in front of them, blocking their exit. “Where are you taking her?”
“Trying to keep her around for some after-hours fun, eh?” Dan says.
“Idiot!” says the mustached one. “I’ll be back in a moment to discuss the paperwork.”
“Paperwork?” Simon says.
“Death papers, funeral forms, a load of bollocks if you ask me,” Dan says.
“Nobody asked you,” says the mustached one.
The ambulance men push past Simon, balancing the stretcher between them. They load Celia into the back of the ambulance and hop in after her.
The emergency siren howls.
Simon thinks they are about to drive off, having practically abducted Celia from the apartment, when the mustached one hops out of the ambulance, holding a thick stack of papers in his hands. The mustached one yells something to Simon, but his words are drowned by the siren.
They go inside and the mustached one says, “Take a seat.”
Simon sits at the table. The mustached one lays the stack of papers in front of him. He puts a pen in Simon’s hand and says, “Sign here, please.”
“Sign where?” Simon says.
“Anywhere. I just meant sign the forms. It doesn’t matter where you sign, or what order you sign them in, but all these forms do have to be signed.”
“What are they for?”
“Records and Information. Tax men. Telemarketers. Local, state, and federal governments. The green forms contain information about the funeral. They certify that you trust the hospital to make all funeral arrangements. One of those forms is an Agreement of Notification. The hospital agrees to notify all immediate family members of the deceased. Were you her spouse?”