Honeymoon

Chapter 18

“DOES THIS TASTE okay to you?” she asked.

Connor opened his mouth for the piece of ham hanging from her fingertips. He chewed for a few seconds. “Delish.”

“Good, because I didn’t know how long you’ve had it,” she said. “How was your shower?”

“Felt great. Not as good as you feel, though.”

Nora finished cubing the ham and began slicing the onion. Still time to change your mind.

Connor, wearing only sweatpants, his wet hair combed back, went to the fridge and grabbed an Amstel. “You want one?” he asked.

“No, thanks. I’ve got my water.” She raised a bottle of Evian for him to see. “Watching my waist—for you.”

He opened his beer and took a swig. He looked at Nora from the side. “Honey, are you all right?”

She turned to him, a lone tear streaking down her cheek.

“Oh,” she said, realizing it was there. She wiped it away and forced a smile before averting her eyes. “I guess onions make me cry after all.”

Nora cooked up the western omelet soft, no burn on the outside, the way he liked it. She placed it in front of Connor at the kitchen table. He doused it with salt and pepper and dug in his fork.

“Fantastic!” he declared. “This could be your best.”

“I’m glad you like it.” She sat down next to him. He took a few more bites and she watched.

“So, what do you want to do tomorrow?” he asked.

“I don’t know. Maybe we can take my new car out for a spin.”

“You mean actually leave the garage?”

He laughed and raised his fork for another bite. But with his hand halfway up to his mouth, Connor froze.

In a split second the color drained from his face. He was as white as milk. His head began to weave. The fork dropped to the plate with a noisy clang.

“Connor, what is it?”

“I don’t…” He could barely talk. “I don’t know,” he said, his voice straining. “All of a sudden I feel really…”

He immediately grabbed his stomach as if he’d been viciously punched. Or stabbed. His eyes rolled back into his head. He lurched in his chair before falling off with a horrific thud.

“Connor!” Nora sprang from her seat and tried to help him off the floor. “C’mon,” she said. “Try to get up.”

He struggled to his feet, his legs like rubber. She guided him to the bathroom in the hall. Connor fell to the floor again, nearly passing out. Nora lifted the seat of the toilet, and he tried to crawl to it.

“I’m… I’m… going to be sick,” he muttered between gasps of air. He was beginning to hyperventilate.

“Let me get you something to take,” she said, her voice ripe with panic. “I’ll be right back.”

She ran into the kitchen while Connor labored to raise his head above the lip of the toilet. His body was an inferno, and not just his stomach anymore. Sweat gushed from every pore.

Nora returned with a glass in her hand. In it was a clear liquid, fizzing. Looked like Alka-Seltzer. “Here, drink this,” she said.

Connor took the glass, his hands trembling. He could barely lift it to his mouth, so she helped him. He took one sip, then another.

“Take more,” she said. “Finish.”

He took another sip before clutching his stomach again. Connor clamped shut his eyes and clenched his teeth, the jaw muscles so taut that they looked ready to burst from his skin.

“Help me,” he begged. “Nora!”

Seconds later, it was as if his prayers had been answered. The awful trembling began to subside. As quickly as it started, it was ending.

“I think the medicine is working, honey,” said Nora.

Connor was back to breathing normally. Some of his color had returned. He opened his eyes, slowly at first, then wide. He breathed out a long sigh of relief. “What was that?” he asked.

That’s when it all started again.

Only ten times worse. The trembling was now a series of brutal spasms that shook his body. The gasping became a quick and horrible suffocation. Connor’s face turned blue, his eyes fully bloodshot.

The glass fell from his hands and shattered. His body violently convulsed, and he was writhing in pain. His hands reached for his neck, desperate for air.

He tried to scream. Couldn’t. Nothing came out of his mouth.

He tried to reach for Nora. She took a step back.

She didn’t want to watch and yet she couldn’t turn away. All she could do was wait for the shaking and convulsing to stop again, which it finally did.

Permanently.

Connor was lying on the floor of one of the bathrooms in his 11,000-square-foot Colonial.

Dead.