The woman’s shadow raced behind her as she swept hardwood floors, rushing from room to room, dusting and picking up discarded socks. Proper cleaning standards set forth by her husband required the woman’s full attention. And had she obeyed those cleaning standards, this never would have happened. But her only daughter was due to arrive shortly to celebrate Valentine’s Day and the house was not up to snuff. Her shadow tried to keep up as she frantically swept from the master bedroom to the living room, all while the woman’s thoughts were preoccupied with lunch recipes. Making lunch was no longer the easy task it had been a few years ago. The woman was required to prepare a well-balanced and nutritious meal for her carnivorous husband, gluten-free daughter, vegan son-in-law, and grandson who was allergic to peanuts and dairy and red food dye #5. No red food dye on Valentine’s Day, the woman thought, is going to be an impossible task. The woman was so flustered with the multitude of lunch combinations that incorporated proper portions from each of the food groups that she let the broom swoosh around without regard. She ran the bristles over rugs, around dust bunnies, nearly nicked her shadow as it slipped behind her. Eventually she ran the broom smack into a wall, knocking her wedding picture down. The sound of shattering glass pulled the woman from her food pyramid trance and she screamed. I am an imbecile! She quickly swept the broken shards and photo into the dust pan to hide the evidence of her indiscretion. It was then that she first swept away her shadow.
Sweeping away the shadow of her left arm was like a cold breeze passing quickly by, followed by a warm tingling sensation. It did not hurt, not in the traditional sense of hurt. The feeling was more like stepping outside into a cold winter morning from a hot kitchen. She stared at her remaining shadow, the long unidentified burden suddenly dissolved, and her shadow stared back. The tips of the broom bristles were dark with, what would it be called, shadow residue? Shadow remnants? No matter, she would wash the broom later.
The idea of losing an arm should have been terrifying. How would she make her husband’s Egg Benedict? How would she iron her husband’s clothes? How would she look standing at her husband’s side during company parties? But instead of fear, the woman felt something she had not felt in years: delight. She smiled down at her lopsided shadow. I can scramble eggs, I can iron with my other arm. And if my husband allows me to attend another company party – doubtful given my deplorable physical state – I will stand slightly behind him and no one will know the difference.
The woman threw the broken glass, picture, and frame in the garbage before picking up where she left off. Her missing limb had a strange effect on her mind, though. Proper caloric intake did not hold the same importance as it had before. Her missing limb slowly put things into perspective: there was no food combination to please her entire family, no matter how many Pinterest recipes she consulted. Perhaps she could serve red fruits, vegetables, and gluten free crackers in the sun room and call it a winter picnic? She would cut some cheese into little hearts and serve it all on the Cupid pattern plates. She could include a roast beef sandwich for her husband. It would have to be thinly sliced roast beef; her husband required his roast beef to be thinly sliced, thin enough to see through. Just like her skin.
Gripping the broom tighter, the woman studied her shadow intently. Her wedding ring dug into her right hand, giving a sensation not as pleasant as the shadow-sweeping-sensation. Yesterday she had moved her wedding ring to her right hand when she had seen her husband holding another woman’s hand. She’d seen them outside his office where the woman was waiting with a surprise anniversary gift – a personal turtle cheesecake with ‘25 Years’ written in white chocolate. She watched him remove his scarf and put it around the woman’s neck, kiss her on the cheek, then pull out his cell phone so he could text her that he was working late. He led the other woman toward a restaurant, their shadows tangled together on the snowy sidewalk. He called again later, probably after dessert – he could never say no to dessert, it had been one of his endearing attributes when they had first met. He called to say he was sleeping at the office. The Big Account needed some final hammering and he was not satisfied until it was polished off.
Her shadow pulled her back from the memory and asked what would happen if she swept away her leg shadow?
Standing alone in her living room, the woman fell into temptation. She needed to know how it would feel. She squeezed the broomstick until her knuckles paled and quickly swept the broom over her right leg’s shadow. As she slipped sideways, falling into the ottoman, she felt the cold breeze and warm tingles where her leg had just been. The tingling was not like the tingling of fear crawling over your body at the thought of your husband leaving after twenty-five years. The tingling was like standing outside during the first snow of the year, as the icy snowflakes chilled and melted on your skin. The hairs on her neck stood on end and she whooped out loud, laughing at what her daughter would say if she saw her one-armed, one-legged mother sliding down the ottoman, clutching to an old broom. It really is an old broom, she thought as she looked closely at the broken bristles and splintered handle. When she had asked permission to buy a new broom, her husband had replied, “This broom still works just fine.” The woman wondered if that was the reason he was with someone else; perhaps her husband had upgraded because she no longer worked for him. Now she was missing part of her shadow. The other woman had a full shadow.
Leaning sideways on the ottoman, the woman gripped the broom and with a swish, swept away her other leg. The stump of her now flat-bottomed pelvis thudded on the floor. Using the broom as a crutch, she balanced herself upright. This time she roared with laughter. She had not laughed like that in years! The kind of laugh that rolled from her toes through her belly. Well I cannot have a full body laugh like that again, she told the broom, flicking away little pieces of shadow stuck in the bristles. I no longer have toes to laugh from!
The phone rang from the kitchen and the woman remembered she had not finished the dishes. She hated leaving dirty dishes in the sink when company was coming over. But then again, she no longer had a left arm. Or legs. Her family would just have to understand. The answering machine clicked on and after the beep, her husband’s voice filled the room.
“Hon, I need to bang out another round of edits before I come home. Give our daughter my love. Do not allow the kid to eat all of my dessert. Happy Valentine’s Day.”
The turtle cheesecake was chilling in the refrigerator; cheesecake is best served cold with a cup of hot coffee. She had not started the pot of coffee yet, she should soon if she wanted it to be done percolating before her daughter arrived. But then she vaguely remembered her daughter saying that she no longer clouded her mind with caffeine.
The sun cast the remainder of the woman’s shadow across the living room floor, her curly hair sticking out around her head like a hat, one of those thick fur hats that women named Tamara wore with thick fur coats in winter. The woman carefully pulled the broom – holding it at its base – around her shadow head, sweeping away all her hair. Think of the money I’ll save on shampoo and conditioner, she squealed! Her husband said her hair was her only lovely feature, when it was straightened. She never liked her hair straight. She preferred her hair wild and free; the only thing wild and free in her life for the last twenty-five years had been her hair. And now it was gone.
A car pulled up in the driveway and shut off. It must be 11:00am, her son-in-law was never early and never late, he was always precisely on time. He was such a precise gentleman that he had only made love to her daughter once before she got pregnant, that is what her daughter proudly claimed. Why cloud reproduction with unnecessary emotions and feelings? That is what her son-in-law said. The woman’s husband had agreed. With precision in mind, the woman moved the broom back and forth, sweeping away her hips, stomach, ribs, breastbone, and left shoulder blade. All that was left was her bald head, neck, and right arm.
Can I sweep my shadow completely away, she asked the broom. When it did not answer her, she suddenly worried her hand would not survive without her brain long enough to finish the job. Bodies went on living long after the brain died. Her own mother was brain dead two days before doctors pulled the plug, and her mother’s hands twitched when doctors poked at them with metal instruments. She had also learned doctors quite literally pull a plug when told to do so. It was a plug behind her mother’s bed, so exposed. How easily it could have been accidently knocked unplugged by a careless janitor sweeping dust bunnies.
Yes, her hand would keep on living without her head, but it would not have a brain to tell it what to do. It would sit uselessly at the foot of the ottoman, holding the old broom filled with shadow dust. And her husband despised useless knick-knacks lying around the house. So the woman came to the conclusion she would need to use all her might and in one snap motion, she would sweep her entire shadow away. If she flicked her wrist just right, the momentum of the brush would sweep away her hand as it held the broom.
From outside, the woman could hear her daughter arguing with her son-in-law about how to properly carry the red-food-dye-#5-intolerant baby. As the little family walked up the sidewalk, their shoes crunching in the fresh snow, the woman hoped they would notice the new bird feeder she hung by the front door. To be perfectly frank, she told the shadow residue, I am proud of the feeder and even spotted my first Cardinal this very morning. The broom told her it was just a crow, not a Cardinal.
As her daughter knocked on the front door, the woman took a deep breath, oxygen filling the empty space her lungs once occupied. She waited for her daughter to impatiently ring the doorbell, then jiggle the unlocked door knob. Family is supposed to walk right into a home, but this place had not been a home for years. As the front door parted open, the woman pulled the broom with all the strength of her disembodied arm. She said a quick prayer that the baby would be too young to remember the mess he and his parents were about to walk in on. And as the cool breeze turned to warm tingles, she flicked her wrist. She was finally free, Happy Valentine’s Day to me.
A.M. Symes writes dark fiction with the intent of giving people nightmares. In a quest to summon Shirley Jackson’s writing muse, Symes earned an MFA in Fiction Writing and Publishing, and volunteers as a beta reader and editor. Her stories have infiltrated Crystal Lake Publishing, Coffin Bell Journal, Flash Fiction Magazine, NoSleep Podcast, and Sirens Call Publications. Symes lives in Minnesota with her best friend and a banshee.
Published 2/14/24