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Fiction Short Story

by Lisa Roderick

Honey

It's a warm November day and I'm standing outside the church in Lindenow, my hometown. The light reflected from the white weatherboards makes me blink. I shade my eyes and try to identify the figure standing on the church steps. The man walks toward me and I realise it's Michael Tanner, my childhood friend. I must be dreaming because Mick died nearly three years ago. Mick smiles, his lips move, but I can't make out the words. The chapel door slams shut and startles me awake.

It's almost dawn and the morning shift arrives. I hear the fat nurse, Trina, laughing at the nurse's station outside my door. "Please God, not her today." My nerves are not in the mood for her rough hands and raucous laugh. I let out a sigh as Louise, my favourite, swings the door open and enters my room.

"Morning, Frank, how was your night?"

I wrinkle my forehead and glare at her rosy-cheeked smile.

"Nightshift banging doors again, eh?" She chuckles, checks my vitals, fluffs my pillow, and closes the door quietly when she leaves.

The constant hum of the oxygen supplier fills the room and my thoughts drift to the bees. I spotted the hive on the roof of the hospital's other wing the day they wheeled me in here. One has to look hard to see it, and it helps to know what you're looking for. It's not a problem for me, however. I'm a honey man from way back. My uncle, God rest his soul, was an apiarist, and he ran the family business. When I was a kid he'd suit me up and we'd go check the hives together. I never got stung, not one time.

My eyelids felt heavy and I dozed off again. My dreamy thoughts wandered back to the church. This time Maggie Ferguson, the first girl I ever kissed, stands before me. She takes my hand and leads me to the church steps. Mick is still there and appears to be talking, but no sound comes out of his mouth. I stare at him for a moment and try to figure out what he says. It dawns on me that Maggie has been dead for over a decade. I wonder if I died in my sleep. Maybe that's what Mick babbles about. The church door slams, my eyes open, and my wife, Shirley, greets me.

Shirley carries her grief around like a handbag. It's hard for her to see me like this, I know, but the sight of her mournful face gives me the shits. I want to scream at her, "I'm not dead yet!" but I haven't the breath to waste.

"Hello, darling, did I wake you?" She doesn't wait for an answer and prattles on. "I know it's early and I can't stay long. Janie's waiting for me downstairs. I just wanted to bring you some fresh pyjamas. It's my sewing day today. Lizzie will be by this afternoon. I'm sorry, darling, but the girls are expecting me. I'll be back tonight."

"Bees?" I whisper and her brow furrows as she stares at me.

"Oh, you want to know if they're still there? I'll check." She fumbles with the well-worn blind for a minute. The morning sun streams through the slats. Shirley pretends to concentrate and exclaims, "There they are!" After thirty years of marriage I know when she's faking. I don't think she's ever seen them. She probably thinks they're a figment of my imagination. She folds my pyjamas, collects the dirty laundry, and looks at me as little as possible. "Time to go." She bends and kisses me on the lips. As she draws closer I smell her familiar scent. Our eyes lock and for the briefest moment we are lovers again. I smile, raise my hand and attempt to wave. I'm too hard on her really. Like me, she copes the best she can.

Hours linger until the distinctive jangle of my daughter's bangles alerts me that she is near. Lizzie eases the door open, sits by me, but doesn't utter a word. She digs into her cavernous handbag and pulls out a pair of tiny binoculars. She presses the lenses against her face and walks to the window. "The bees are working, Dad. I'll leave these for you, so you can see for yourself." She returns to the seat, holds my hand, and says nothing. A short time passes and I close my eyes. I'm not asleep. Lizzie speaks again and I don't know if she means me to hear or not. I keep my eyes closed. "Dad, I know you're trying to be brave. You promised you would fight and you have. There's no shame in letting go you know. Sometimes it takes just as much courage not to fight."

I hear her blow her nose and realise she is crying. I want to comfort my girl, but I am unable to lift my body. She kisses my forehead and I hear the bracelets jangle out the door. With the little strength I can muster I clasp the binoculars and pitch them across the room.

Maggie appears again. She takes my hand and leads me up the steps of my old church.

"Hello, Frank," Mick says.

"Mick, I can hear you!"

"Welcome home," he says.

I look at Maggie. She smiles at Mick, nods, and turns her gaze back to me. She holds out her hands and offers me a jar of honey.


About the Author
Recently Lisa Roderick left her teaching career to be a stay-at-home mum. In her spare time she writes short stories, attends writing classes and dreams of finishing her novel. Lisa lives with her husband and her three young sons in Melbourne, Australia. She can be contacted at lroderick@optusnet.com.au.