MY BEST FRIEND - Short Story by Clive Aaron Gill

 

MY BEST FRIEND

Short Story

by Clive Aaron Gill

 

 

Abigail, my adorable wife and best friend of ten years, served me bacon, a cheese omelette and buttered toast in our kitchen. She kissed the top of my head, sat down and loosened the belt on her light blue pencil dress.

Abigail, short and blue eyed, plucked her eyebrows to thin arches. I, bear-shaped and tall, towered over her. We devoted our free time to each other and seldom spoke of our unrealized dream of having two children.

“Dylan, let’s take a cruise in the Mediterranean.”

“Honey,” I said, “you know I get seasick.”

Abigail looked up from her Global Traveler magazine. She tried to cloak her irritation with a straight face, but she failed, even though she had been a professional actor before I met her. Theater critics praised her role in A Doll’s House. Her friends said she squandered her talent when she married me and gave up acting.

“You’ll be fine on a big ship,” she said.

I sipped my cappuccino in silence, enjoying the sweet aroma and hoping to avoid an argument.

“The cruise I’m thinking about goes to the Greek islands, Rome, Barcelona, Monaco, Venice, and Dubrovnik.”

“Listen, my darling. People on cruise ships often get food poisoning and flu.”

She fingered her diamond necklace. “Dylan, I’ll be disappointed if we don’t go.”

I leaned back in my chair and sucked my lower lip. “Ask one of your friends to go with you.”

“Well … if you won’t go ­—.”

“Invite Mia.” Mia and Abigail met in their twenties while performing on the stage.

“She can’t afford it.”

I drummed my fingers on my thigh. “We can pay for her.”

“What?”

“Yeah. Get a large cabin with a balcony. And fly her from South Carolina to New York.”

“All that will be expensive.”

“Go ahead.”

“You’re so generous.” She puckered her lips in a kiss. “I love you. I do.”

“I love you, my sweetheart.”

“Mia may not be comfortable with the invitation,” Abigail said. “In the past, she’s refused my offers to help. But I’ll try to convince her.”

To my relief, Mia, single and working as a server in a diner, agreed to join Abigail on the seven-day Mediterranean cruise.

While they were away, I met with my financial advisor, played golf with three of my friends and joined a Rotary Club event.

*

When Abigail returned home, I hugged her. “How was your cruise?”

“Excellent food, room, entertainment. I loved it.”

“Great.”

“I can’t wait to go on another cruise,” she said, her lips stretched in a broad smile.

“Did Mia enjoy it?”

“Not all of it.” Abigail lowered her head. “On Mix and Mingle night, she met a guy she wanted to get to know better. But instead of having a conversation with him, she just clammed up. When I asked her why, she said, ‘I felt nervous and overwhelmed. And I don’t feel comfortable going on more noisy cruises.’ But I told her there are plenty of quiet places on cruise ships. She thought about it, and the next day she agreed to go with me on another cruise.”

“Good. You’ll have a companion.”

*

Abigail and Mia continued to travel on cruises once a year for nine years. Their destinations included Australia and New Zealand, Costa Rica and French Polynesia.

Abigail returned from an Alaskan cruise suffering from a headache, muscle aches and a fever of 101 degrees. I urged her to see a doctor.

She said, “I’ll take Tylenol. That’ll take care of it.”

For two days, I gave her fruit juices, broth and water. I put damp cloths on her forehead and kept the bedroom temperature cool. But her symptoms did not improve. On the third day, she coughed up mucus and blood. She had shortness of breath and chest pain. This time she didn’t argue when I said, “I’m taking you to the emergency room.”

A physician, wearing a white coat over green scrubs, diagnosed her illness as Legionnaires’ disease, a form of pneumonia, and admitted her to the hospital.

“I wish you had come in sooner,” the physician said to Abigail.

Numbed by grief, I lost my appetite and couldn’t concentrate. I wanted to continue our lives together as normal.

Because Legionnaires’ disease is not contagious, the hospital staff allowed me to stay in Abigail’s room. I slept on a couch for about three hours a night, then strode in the corridors while my wife slept. Furious that she had the illness and about my helplessness, I pounded my fist repeatedly into my palm. I felt guilty for encouraging her to go on cruises.

Three days later, her condition worsened. I paced in the hospital room, the hair on the back of my neck damp from perspiration.

A week after being admitted to the hospital, she died in her sleep of respiratory failure.

I couldn’t believe my darling’s life had ended. Cheated by her sudden death, I plunged into an overwhelming despair.

*

Abigail’s funeral was held at the Woodlawn Cemetery. The heavy rain slowed to a drizzle. A deep sadness swept over me. I didn’t know what day it was. How would I survive without her?

Mourners, with open, dark umbrellas, gathered around the grave, sniffling and moaning. I took deep breaths and twisted my mouth to hold back my tears.

Many people, including Mia, gave eulogies describing Abigail’s kindness, how she respected people and how they admired her acting skills.

Abigail’s sister, eight years younger, spoke at the gravesite. “I’m Amy.” Tears fell from her swollen, bloodshot eyes. “In my earliest memories, Abigail took me on walks in Duck Pond Park near our home. When our parents were at work, Abigail prepared cheddar and mayo sandwiches for my school lunches and snuck in candy bars.” Amy’s lips trembled, and her chest rose and fell with choking sobs. “I remember Abigail’s first doll, the long scar on her thigh and her beaded moccasins.”

The grey clouds had retreated, and the drizzle stopped. Only a single, cottony cloud hung in the blue sky.

I recalled the first time I’d seen Abigail’s blue eyes at a dinner party. They reminded me of the colour of the ocean on the day my uncle had taken my parents and me fishing in his boat. A cold, briny wind had stung my face.

A tall man with cool grey eyes and wearing a black, two-piece suit approached the coffin.

“My name is Robert,” he said in a dignified, deep voice. “Abigail was a wonderful, dear person.”

He paused, looking up at a red-tailed hawk that broke the stillness with a hoarse kee-eeeee-arr screech. A faint wind brushed against the broad leaves of a weeping birch tree.

I stared at the speaker, knowing I had never met him.

The tall guest’s face blurred, and I felt disoriented and dizzy. He spoke about his profound friendship with Abigail. My shoulders wilted. My world collapsed under the reality of his words.

“She was so generous,” Robert said, clasping his hands. “Every year she booked a suite for me and her on a cruise ship.”

People gasped. My legs buckled and my knees struck the mud.

“She …” Robert said. “She was my best friend.”

Clive Aaron Gill - Born in Zimbabwe, Clive has lived and worked in Southern Africa, North America and Europe. He received a degree in Economics from the University of California, Los Angeles and lives in San Diego.

More of Clive's stories may be found at

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