Letters to Omar by Rachel Wyatt

Author:Rachel Wyatt
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: epub, ebook, QuarkXPress
ISBN: 111-1-11-111111-1
Publisher: Coteau Books

Lying on the table drinking a thick, white, floury concoction, she watched the two men on the other side of the window point out to each other the beauties or defects of her esophagus. The older man must be the doctor, the other, no more than a boy with brushed up hair, a student. They wouldn’t divulge their findings on this day. The mysteries would be revealed at a meeting with Dr. Bartel next week. She gulped down the last of the fluid and imagined being told that she could have no more asparagus, no more cheese, no more wine. Ever. This vile liquid contains every nutrient your body needs, Ms Graham. Not my body, doctor! My body likes cakes and ale.

“That’s it,” the technician said. “You can go now.”

The men behind the window gave no acknowledgement of her existence, no wave goodbye. To them she was only an interesting piece of tubing. And in moments another patient would lie there on the table, drinking, waiting to be told that eating was damaging to her health.

On the way home, she stopped at the Italian Caffe and ordered a cappuccino and a mozarella and prosciutto sandwich on focaccia bread. The three healthy, dark-haired young folk behind the bar smiled and laughed and shouted to make themselves heard above the sounds of anguish on the sound system. She’d never liked opera and certainly didn’t want to take it in with what might be one of her last meals. She died doing what she liked best. She and Kate and Elsie had made a game out of that phrase picked out of obituaries of crocodile hunters and golfers and racing car drivers. At one time they might all have chosen to die having sex. But now? Eating? Drinking good wine?

“Turn the music down, please,” she shouted.

No one paid any attention. In half an hour she’d moved from being a body on a table to being a crazy person who yelled in public places, a woman who ate large sandwiches at ten thirty in the morning. She wished she’d brought a jacket. The sun kept going behind threatening clouds.

She also wished she hadn’t left the car at home. Every now and then she made a virtue of choosing to travel by public transport. On a day like today, feeling bloated and invaded and sad, she decided to go home the easy way and treated herself to a taxi. After all, how long was she going to live?

A thick brown envelope delivered by hand had been pushed through the letter box and was lying on top of the mail on the mat inside the front door. She pushed at it with her foot. It wasn’t a neatly wrapped bomb from the developers, but all the same she was afraid of it. Maybe it was her letters, rejected, unread, returned to sender. She held it at arm’s length as she carried it to the kitchen. With the carving knife, she ripped open the envelope. What were

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