New Flash Fiction: Gaining Closure

As we come to the close of another year here on the Grievous Angel, what better than this story – Garbanzo Brain by Diana Rohlman – about gaining closure? Diana lives in the Pacific Northwest, invariably spending the rainy days inside, writing, with a glass of wine nearby, and her dog offering helpful critiques. You can find her at https://sites.google.com/site/rohlmandiana/
 

Garbanzo Brain
by Diana Rohlman


“Close your eyes, concentrate on your husband.” I close my eyes, hide a grimace, and curse my best friend Delia for tricking me into this. 
    
The fat lady sitting across from me tells me again to close my eyes. I struggle to keep my eyes closed, my eyelashes fluttering vainly.  I can smell the bitter, sharp incense; it burns my nostrils. I fidget. 
    
“Sugar, you have to believe in this for it to work.”
    
I don’t. I desperately want to, but my brain, that wrinkled, powerful organ, is betraying me. 
    
“What are you thinking about, Sugar?”
    
“Garbanzo beans. They look like little brains.” I hadn’t meant to say that.
    
I’d never seen a fresh garbanzo bean until a month ago. The bright green, wrinkled bean inside a dark green pod was strangely beautiful. 
    
The photographer in me itched to recreate that image. I purchased a small bag, and brought it home. Darryl laughed, asked what I intended to do with them after I took my photograph.
    
That bag of garbanzo beans is still sitting in the refrigerator, the green pods gone black with mold. My mind shies away from the obvious metaphor.
    
I shift uncomfortably. The woman across from me is perfectly at ease. The image, two women bracketing ancient garden furniture in a dark, overcrowded shop, should be compelling. 
    
Instead, I want to run away.
    
She speaks again, telling me to close my eyes. I don’t know why, but I do.
    
“Tell me about your husband.” 
    
“He was tall, had sandy-brown hair, grey eyes.” 
    
“No, Sugar, tell me about your husband.” Her voice is unexpectedly soft, a thread of warmth and comfort woven intimately between the words.
    
“There was love in his hugs.” I stop, a painful pressure point growing in my throat, choking me. It wasn’t how I meant to describe him, but as I said it, I heard the truth in it. 
    
“That’s good, Sugar, real good. What else?” 
    
The calm, incessant flow of words from this woman who insists on calling me ‘Sugar’ infuriates me. I want to shut her up. I want my husband. I don’t want to be here. But when I open my mouth;
    
“He didn’t say he loved me.” 
    
It sounds pitiful. My anger is suddenly gone. The bone-deep sorrow and fatigue are nearly crushing. I want to cry. 
    
I stare at the woman for a long time. She says nothing. I feel a need to explain, if just to fill the looming silence. “Darryl always said that, every morning. But that day, he was in such a rush, and in the hurry… he never said he loved me. And then the accident happened and he...” I can’t finish the sentence. She doesn’t make me. The moment stretches, and I can’t stop the tears. 
    
Delia said the pain would dwindle over time. I didn’t see how that was possible. A crazy, stupid accident, and my warm, loving husband was gone. The pain of his death was a white-hot spear in my side. And he hadn’t told me he loved me that day. It was a small thing, but my traitorous garbanzo brain wouldn’t let it go. That thought circled through my head every moment of every day, ricocheting amongst the furrows and grooves, tormenting me. I hadn’t known how important that little phrase was. I would do anything to hear Darryl say it one last time.
    
The woman watched me, her face inscrutable. Finally she smiled. 
  
 “Just hold your hand here, Sugar, just like that. Good.” Her plump fingers touch mine and withdraw fleetingly.
    
I sit passively, thoughts of my husband whirling through my garbanzo brain, tears still dripping off my chin. My feet are glued to the ground, my knees trembling.
    
Finally I stop. The pads of my fingers are white, pressed tightly against the wooden marker. 
    
Madame Gloria pushes a piece of paper towards me, across a tabletop worn smooth by hundreds of visitors. She sets it atop the Ouija board.
    
With inelegant script, she has translated my efforts. 
    
I gasp. I pick up the paper, read and reread the words. Tears blur the words. 
    
I love you.