Between Obligation and Relief
Stuart McWhinney
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The weather had been dreary, and all day Cameron had been eyeing the windows of his office wanting to savour the peace of the rain. On the highway homeward, traffic was heavy, and the radio forecast informed him that the downpour would intensify in the coming hour. A small smile crept across his lips, knowing what small joys would be awaiting his return.
He arrived home, as usual, a little more tired than when he'd left his workplace — the weight of the day fully realised without the distractions of work.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, one further obligation pined for his attention; it had been several days in the making, but yesterday he had promised to clean the mess in the fridge. “And it needs to be done properly this time,” his brain nagged.
Something had run down the side and was contaminating everything; the flippant attempts to mop up the mysterious liquid had only granted an illusion of cleanliness, only to discover a few hours later that the liquid had seeped back like nothing had been done at all. They had already exceeded their usual weekly food budget having to restock on contaminated vegetables, and so — more than the hassle of cleaning — it had now become an expensive task to sit idle.
Cameron shook his head, trying to clear the image of something … sticky crawling down the side of the fridge, and went to where he knew his wife was probably waiting for his return. In the bedroom, Abigail was waiting in the corner of the loveseat by the window, curled in the shielding embrace of her chosen blanket. Her smile greeted Cameron warmly but her eyes still carried a dull melancholy.
Light kisses, soft touches, hushed greetings.
“Have you eaten anything today?” Cameron’s voice held light concern.
“I'm not hungry.” That was a ‘no'.
“Hold on, I'll get you something.”
“No, Honey. Stay.” A hand exposed itself to catch Cameron's wrist. “You just got home. I've been waiting to enjoy the rain with you.”
As if on cue, the aforementioned downpour pounded on the roof.
Cameron nodded; he was tired and welcomed the chance to sit comfortably with his wife. Abigail lifted her legs, careful to remain within her veil. Cameron slid under her legs, and shuffled closer to her on the loveseat.
Cameron wrapped his arms around the blanket, securing Abigail inside the cocoon. Together they lay into the corner of the arm and the backrest to look at the cascade of raindrops streak their windows. Mottled greens and greys of the outside world produced a fluid mosaic for their private viewing.
Time stood still. Nothing existed beyond their moment. Cameron was happy to be able to share something with his wife that wasn’t the heaviness of his workplace strife. Abigail’s depression made him uneasy; he didn’t know how to best approach the subject, or even if he should. He believed the best thing was to keep her distracted until the storm clouds passed.
Drop by drop.
drip by drip.
Greens and greys.
drip.
Cameron blinked.
schlick.
Cameron could feel his hair raising across the back of his neck.
“You need to clean the fridge.”
Cameron shivered and tapped his wife's shoulder gently. “Okay, yesterday I said I would do it when I got home today, so I'm going to clean the fridge before it gets too late.”
Abigail looked into Cameron's face. Her gaze penetrated his determination and he felt his exhaustion laid naked before her.
“You've had a long week,” she said tenderly, “You look exhausted, and it could wait one more day. We've put it off this much already, one more day can't hurt.”
Cameron hesitated and looked at his watch. He figured he had at least another hour before it would feel as though it was too late to undertake the task. He agreed, dropping the tension held in his shoulders to settle beside Abigail.
The rainfall subsided, the streaks stilled, and the mosaic returned back to its static visage. Something pulled at Cameron’s attention from his pocket, and they mutually pulled out their smartphones to explore the digital sides of their lives.
Cameron’s notification was one of the reminders he had set himself to think about the recycling for the following day. In the background, Abigail was already watching a video. Cameron's recycling schedule led to emails. Abigail's video continued in the background, her breath pitted with small scoffs of amusement.
There was comfort, catharsis, between his wife's sounds of enjoyment and the elimination of junk mail. Cameron didn't have to think about the leak within the fridge.
drip.
Junk mail cleared.
drip.
An incoming email directed Cameron to the newest videos waiting on YouTube. The most pleasing thing about the first video he watched was that it wasn’t about the big project his boss was trying to rush. Cameron moved to another video through the suggested titles. The next video wasn't about how agitated his co-workers were from time constraints; which led into another video that wasn't about how he had stepped between Mark from marketing and Pennie from payroll; then it was a TEDx talk about how sexism still survives subtly in the workplace.
drip.
Cameron skipped over to social media, trying to ignore the prickling at the back of his neck. As the application icon expanded to overtake the screen, Cameron rubbed Abigail’s leg through the blanket. “Can I get you anything, Honey-gail?”
Abigail’s lips rounded at the corners. “No, I’m fine.”
Cameron left his hand making small circles on Abigail's leg while he scrolled idly through the newsfeed.
Small chuckles and pops filled the space between the waxing and waning of the rainfall as the two of them left reactions to things that weren't consequential to their lives.
drip.
“Okay, three move scrolls.”
Pop.
“Three.”
Cameron rolled his eyes at the clickbait article title that one of his acquaintances had shared. “Why is this person on my feed?”
drip.
“Two.”
That prickling sensation was back, this time making its way down his spine, feeling his feet want to take him to his next task.
“One.”
Pop.
drip.
“Zero.”
“Okay,” Cameron said psyching himself up. “I have to do this.”
Abigail looked at him forlornly. “I thought we agreed that we wouldn’t do it today.”
“I know,” Cameron was sheepish, “but I’ve been putting this off for too long. I just-”
“I can see you don’t want to do it.” Abigail interjected lightly, but firmly.
“Yeah, but it still needs to be done.”
Abigail sighed. Cameron could see the weight behind her eyes return, and he blamed himself for his restlessness.
“Okay, how’s this?” She offered, “If you’re going to clean the fridge, I’m going to help.”
“I can’t let you do that.” Cameron’s hand jumped from her leg to her forearm.
That weight in her eyes turned from one of melancholy to resolution. “No, that’s the deal you’ve got. We are in this together; so if you’re going to be unhappy doing it, then so am I.”
“Fine,” Cameron relaxed again. He looked at his watch. “Okay, well, it’s too late for that, anyway. Tomorrow.” But really he was thinking how he could alleviate that responsibility for her. He had promised to do it, and these were difficult times for her.
Back to social media.
He soon followed a link through to a webcomic. Cameron turned his screen to Abigail who adjusted her gaze to read. The reaction he got from his wife was smaller than expected, but Cameron tried not to take it personally, citing her current demons.
“You know, I usually think they’re pretty funny, but it’s just not doing it for me today.” Cameron smiled and told her that he understood, feeling justified in his assumption.
Cameron went back through the most recent comics that he missed.
Flipping back, the newsfeed was blank, refreshing.
He let out a small huff of frustration, “I hate it when it does this.”
“When it takes you back to the top?” Abigail hummed in agreement.
Cameron groaned in affirmation. Abigail bobbed her head side to side, making a sassy caricature, “Mm-hmm.”
They looked at each other and giggled. They sighed, and continued their submersion into the digital environment.
Pop.
Scrolling the newsfeed.
drip.
Abigail twisted to share her screen with Cameron showcasing a “90-second documentary” on the predatory habits of jellyfish.
drip.
Something about the jellyfish reminded Cameron about the —
drip.
— food that someone had left in the refrigerator at work last weekend. Whoever had skipped cleaning duty had ruined the coffee creamers. Cameron had smelled the —
drip.
— milk on Monday morning to find the odour had permeated everything to the point that he couldn’t smell the dairy at all.
Cameron shivered.
Scrolling.
“Oh, did you see this?” Cameron was exasperated. “Try and guess who this--”
“Oh my gosh, yes-s-s-s!” Abigail interrupted, “I saw that earlier. I rolled my eyes so hard.”
“Does she think she’s convincing anyone that these memes are her original thoughts?” Cameron knew he was putting much more effort into this than it deserved, but why should he stop himself when it gave distraction to them both. “Is she just looking to be the centre of attention? Why else would she do this?”
“I have no idea,” Abigail raised her hands under the covers, “All I know is that sometimes the comments are hil-l-l-larious.”
Cameron was silent for a moment while he reread the post.
“Why are we friends with her again?”
“Because,” Abigail danced her head from side to side, making her hair brush across her slowly exposing shoulders, “A long time ago, she was nice to me in high school. She was one of the only ones that made it bearable. I’m not looking to cut people out just for the sake of it; besides, what do I lose by keeping her? It seems less valuable to cut her out than just ignore the things that do occasionally come up. The question isn’t why we are friends with her, it’s why you still are?”
“They don’t just occasionally come up, though; she posts six times a day.”
Abigail grabbed his phone and forced him to watch her go through the settings to mute all her posts.
drip.
They returned to their own worlds, connected by the thread of their physical contact.
drip.
The hair on the back of Cameron's neck was standing again.
drip.
Cameron sighed. “Okay, Abby, let me up… I am going to the bathroom.”
Abigail gave him a sideways glance. “Mhmm.”
She let him up, but instead of letting her legs back down, she got up with him.
“I'm going to help you.” She knew what Cameron was up to.
“I don't need help, Honey. I have been doing this for decades on my own.”
“Our last night out might have something else to say about it,” Abigail was laughing now, but she hadn’t at the time.
Cameron, too, was chuckling in spite of himself. “Look, you stay here and relax, and I'll send you pictures to update you on my progress. Deal?”
They both exited the bedroom. The living space was illuminated only by the struggling light of the streetlamps. Cameron made his way slowly through the dim room towards the toilet.
“See, I'm going,” Cameron bluffed. “You can go back to the room.”
“Oh, okay.” Abigail was nonchalant. As Cameron slowly opened the bathroom door, she said, “Ah, while you’re in there, I’ll go ahead and get a start on the fridge.”
“Abby, no,” Cameron said, “Come on, you don’t have to do that.”
Abigail stood akimbo, sheet still wrapped around her arms and back, but now her baggy pyjamas were exposed to the shadowscape, “And you don’t have to do it either. Like I said before, if you’re going to be miserable doing it, we are going to be miserable together.”
Cameron stepped forward and embraced his wife. She pulled the sheet around the both of them, and they stood there for a long moment, just holding each other in the dark.
“Alright, fine.” Cameron kissed her forehead. He failed to make out the time on his watch in the darkness, but was determined to make short work of this. For her sake. “Together.”
A meat package on the top shelf had been punctured by something, and the translucent, red cytoplasm had spread out over the shelf, been sucked into the tight spaces between the shelf and the racks holding it up, and run down the walls, spilling onto every other shelf.
Cameron handed Abigail shelves and produce for her to rinse and sort through, while he commandeered a whole roll of paper towel and cleaning product to sanitise the inside of the fridge.
They shared sad, tired smiles as they exchanged items to and from the fridge. Cameron worked fervently to remove the contamination. He was annoyed that it had been as simple just a bag of meat thwarting their attempts to dab away the problem.
But now the fridge was cleaned and they had saved most of the groceries.
Cameron looked sideways at his wife. “There’s one last thing, but you don’t have to do anything.”
The discussion was truncated by Cameron starting, pulling the draws out of the freezer. He placed them on the sink, rinsing the frozen cytoplasm off hard and soft plastics, and once again attacked the freezer and its door with the paper towel and cleaner.
With the draws returned to the freezer, and hands sanitised, the couple embraced again, leaving the turmoil of obligation behind. The rain kicked up again, slowly at first, but soon grew to a deafening roar.
Abigail softly tilted her head towards the bedroom. Cameron nodded, but signed for her to go ahead. She looked at him suspiciously, but knew there was nothing else to leave him to clean by himself.
As his wife waddled away, once again entwined with that blanket, Cameron pulled together something for her to eat. It took longer to prepare than he wanted, but by the time he followed her into the bedroom, the rain was still falling, and he had something he knew she would find appetising.
They sat like they had before, woven between blanket and legs, now with a bowl nestled in Abigail’s lap. The blanket was still wrapped around her shoulder, but now a crack exposed a path from the bowl to her mouth, and semi-wrapped hands ferried food through.
At this hour, their entertainment had changed and the rain now played with the peach colour of the streetlamp on the window; the greens were too dark to distinguish, grey skies had given way to black.
Cameron looked at his wife. He smiled. He no longer felt the restlessness of some other task waiting on him, breathing down his neck; everything else could wait for tomorrow. For the rest of today, he could relax and take care of his wife, and nothing else.