“When are you finally going to kick the bucket?”
The words, muttered under his breath as he slammed the bedroom door behind him, were the last thing my husband, Greg, said to me. Beyond the door, I was left alone with the sound of my own relentless, body-wracking cough.
Just one year. In the single year of our marriage, I had withered from a vibrant, blooming young woman into a skeletal figure, my skin stretched taut over bones that seemed too sharp for my frame. Our small town of Havenwood had little to offer in the way of sophisticated medical care. We had a tiny clinic staffed by two men: a physician’s assistant and a veterinarian. The veterinarian was generally held in higher regard.
The PA, a well-meaning man named Mr. Abernathy, had simply thrown his hands up in defeat over my mysterious illness. He had tried everything in his limited arsenal: cough syrups, mustard plasters, teas made from plantain leaves, chamomile, and nettle. He’d even insisted I steam myself in the sauna every other day, a folk remedy for clearing the lungs. But nothing worked. I only grew weaker, frailer. The world, once a place of infinite possibility, had shrunk to the four walls of my bedroom.
“What do the city doctors say?” my best friend, Sarah, would ask, her face etched with worry. “You have to go see a real specialist.”
“They don’t know,” I would lie, the words tasting like ash in my mouth. “They say it’s probably some rare virus, that I just need to rest.” The truth was, I hadn’t been to a city doctor. Greg said we couldn’t afford it, and I was too weak to argue. I didn’t understand what was happening to me. I had always been healthy, cheerful, full of life. It felt as if marriage itself had poisoned me.
“It’s a curse,” the town gossips would whisper, their verdict delivered over bins of produce at the general store or while waiting their turn at the town’s single water pump. “She was too pretty, too happy. Someone put the evil eye on her.”
I had married at twenty, swept off my feet by a man who knew exactly how to turn a young woman’s head. Greg had arrived in Havenwood from the city like a whirlwind, claiming he wanted to inject some “fresh blood into this sleepy hollow.” He took a job as a driver for the regional bakery, delivering bread in a large panel van. He was charming, handsome, and full of grand pronouncements.
“Be proud of me, Rita,” he would boom, striking a heroic pose. “Your husband is an indispensable man! Without me, this entire county would starve! If something were to happen to me, everyone would be without their daily bread!”
I would just nod, playing the part of the adoring wife. He painted grand pictures of our future. “I own a condo in the city, you know,” he’d boast to the neighbors, puffing out his chest. “I’m just renting it out for now. Saving up to buy a bigger place, a real house for my wife. And for the kids, when they come along.”
The townspeople, especially the women, ate it up. “What a rare catch,” they’d sigh, looking at their own hardworking but less glamorous husbands with renewed dissatisfaction. “Rita landed a man of gold.”
I never wanted to leave Havenwood. My roots were here, in the quiet woods and familiar faces. This house, inherited from my grandmother, was my sanctuary. But my opinion hardly mattered, especially as the mysterious illness took hold. With each passing day, I grew weaker. The cough was soon joined by a constant runny nose. Some nights, I’d wake up gasping, unable to breathe through my nose at all, a terrifying, suffocating panic seizing me. My frantic movements would wake Greg, who would erupt in a storm of irritation.
“What is it now?” he’d grumble, his voice thick with sleep. “You’re jumping around all night. I have to get up early, and I can’t sleep with all your theatrics!”
His head would hit the pillow, and within seconds, a chorus of snores would fill the room, a testament to his untroubled conscience.
“Go… go sleep on the couch,” I’d whisper, my voice hoarse. I would stumble into the living room, collapsing onto the lumpy sofa. The rest of the night would be a little more peaceful, but I’d always wake with a splitting headache and a profound weakness that felt bone-deep. At least I could breathe.
I worked at the town library, a quiet, dusty haven where I issued books, filed cards, and managed magazine subscriptions. It wasn’t strenuous, but by the time I walked home, I was utterly drained. Greg, his bread deliveries finished by mid-morning, would be waiting for me, lounging on the couch, impatient for his dinner.
“Couldn’t you at least peel the potatoes before I get home?” I’d ask weakly, leaning against the doorframe for support. “Then you wouldn’t have to wait so long.”
“Are you serious?” he’d snap, his face a mask of indignation. “Do you spend all day hauling bread crates? I think I’ve earned the right to some rest!”
I knew he never touched a single crate. The women at the grocery stores unloaded the van themselves, and the bakery had its own loading dock workers. I knew, but I no longer had the strength to argue. The fight had gone out of me.
My symptoms worsened. By evening, the cough would become a violent, hacking affair that left me breathless. My eyes were perpetually red and watery, and then a strange, itchy rash began to appear on my skin.
“Listen, you’re not contagious, are you?” Greg asked one morning, recoiling as he saw the red dots on my back while I was dressing. “That’s all I need.” He slammed the front door and left without breakfast.
From that day on, he started “working night shifts.”
“They need the bread in the stores first thing in the morning now,” he’d explain, avoiding my gaze. Sometimes he wouldn’t come home for days, even weeks at a time. On those nights, when he was gone, a strange thing would happen. I would feel… better. My breathing would ease. The cough would subside to a manageable tickle. I could sleep through the night.
But then he would return, and the illness would descend again, heavier than before.
“You look like a walking corpse,” Sarah told me, her eyes filled with a mixture of pity and frustration as she walked me home from the library. “You have to see a real doctor. I’ll drive you to the city myself.”
“I’ll be fine,” I’d insist, leaning on her for support. “I just need to rest.”
Sarah hesitated, chewing on her lip. “Rita… I don’t want to upset you, but… people have seen Greg. With some girl from the city. She was here over the summer with a construction crew.” She rushed on. “Of course, people love to gossip, so who knows if it’s true.”
I offered a weak smile. The news didn’t surprise me. I had long noticed the changes in his behavior, the scent of another woman’s perfume on his clothes. I’d even found lipstick stains on his collars a few times, though he had strangely started doing his own laundry recently.
“You’re exhausted, honey,” he’d said with feigned concern. “I’m taking care of you. I’ll wash my own shirts.” My sweaters and pants, however, he was content to leave for me.
Then, I hit rock bottom. I collapsed and couldn’t get out of bed for two days. A raging fever consumed me. The cough tore at my insides, my entire emaciated body shook with each spasm, my eyes were swollen and weeping, and the rash covered me from head to toe.
That’s when he came into the room and uttered those final, chilling words. “When are you finally going to kick the bucket?”
The slam of the door echoed the final closing of a chapter in my life. Greg couldn’t stand the sight of his sick wife anymore. His new flame, whose existence I no longer doubted, was demanding more of his time. More than that, she was demanding a life in the city. But he couldn’t take her there, because his stories of a condo were a complete fabrication. He had nothing. He’d been fired from his last job for siphoning gas from the company truck, a dismissal that had blacklisted him from any decent work in the city. That’s why he had fled to a small town like Havenwood.
And I, the naive country girl, had fallen right into his trap. I had even signed over half of my grandmother’s house to him.
“Come in, man, this is your half of the house.”
I heard Greg’s voice from the hallway, followed by the deeper, unfamiliar voice of another man. “Nice place. Solid.”
“Who lives in the other half?” the stranger asked.
“Oh, just some sick old woman,” Greg replied, his voice dripping with casual cruelty. “She’ll be kicking the bucket any day now.” He wasn’t even trying to be quiet.
“So, you’ll take it?” Greg asked.
“I’ll take it.”
I heard the rustle of money, a hearty slap of hands sealing a deal, and then the front door slammed shut. They were gone. With a monumental effort, I tried to push myself out of bed. My legs buckled, and as I fell, my hand knocked a chair over with a loud clatter.
The bedroom door flew open, and the stranger rushed in. “She’s alive!” he exclaimed, his eyes wide. He gently lifted me from the floor and helped me back into bed. “Where does it hurt?”
“Who… who are you?” I managed to ask, my surprise momentarily silencing my cough.
“I’m the new owner of this half of the house,” he said, his brow furrowed as he looked at me. “And you are?” He had clearly been expecting the “sick old woman” the seller had promised. What he found was a young woman, albeit a rail-thin and desperately ill one.
“I live here,” I said with a humorless smile that turned into another coughing fit. “This was my house.”
“Wait here.” The man disappeared and returned a moment later with a glass of water. “Drink this. Small sips.”
I don’t know why, but I obeyed. The cool water soothed my raw throat, and the coughing subsided. “Thank you,” I rasped. “But it won’t last.”
“What’s your name, neighbor?” he asked, taking the empty glass from my trembling hand.
“Rita,” I told my coughing savior.
“Rita,” he repeated. “Like the flower. It’s a beautiful name. I’m Taras. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” He extended his hand. I started to raise my own but remembered the rash and quickly pulled it back. But he was too fast. He caught my wrist, gently turning my hand over to examine the red, inflamed skin. “How long have you had this?” he asked, his expression serious.
“Are you a doctor?” I scoffed.
“Almost,” he said with a wry smile. “I was a surgeon. This rash… does it get worse when the cough and shortness of breath are bad?”
I stared at him, stunned. “Yes. It started about a year ago. It comes and goes.” My head swam with dizziness. “Excuse me, I need to lie down.” I sank back against the pillows. “Where did you come from? I’ve never seen you in town before.”
“I’m not from around here. I came from the city.” He paused. “Do you want the truth, or the pleasant version?”
“The truth,” I said. “There’s not much left that can scare me. I have nothing to steal, I’m no prize for a predator, and my life isn’t worth anything to anyone. I’m probably going to die soon anyway.”
And so, he told me. He had been a promising surgeon, but a tragic mistake had derailed his life. A patient had a severe, un-diagnosed allergy to a medication he prescribed. The patient went into anaphylactic shock and died. The family demanded justice, and he was facing prison time. At the same time, his own wife died in childbirth, leaving him with an infant son to raise alone. He took full responsibility for the medical error, served his time, and when he was released, he found that inflation had devoured most of his savings. All he could afford was a room in a shared apartment. Then he saw the ad: Half a house for sale in the country. Second half available soon. The price was right. It felt like a stroke of luck, especially when the seller, Greg, spun a tale about a sick old woman on her last legs.
“And now I find this whole tangled mess,” he concluded, shaking his head.
I listened to his story, hot tears of shame and betrayal streaming down my cheeks. I had never imagined the depth of my husband’s depravity. “Where is he now?” I asked quietly.
“He said he was heading to the city with his fiancée,” Taras replied gently. “He left me a phone number to call… when you… well, you know.”
“Oh, I know,” I said with a bitter laugh.
Taras turned out to be more than a good neighbor; he was my salvation. He took a position at the clinic, replacing Mr. Abernathy, who was more than happy to retire from his post. With a real medical professional in town, Taras quickly earned the community’s trust. He helped me around the house, cooking simple meals I could keep down and ensuring I took proper fluids.
One day, he approached me with a thoughtful expression. “Rita,” he said. “I’ve been thinking. Come see me at the clinic. I have a theory about your illness.” He tilted his head. “Have you noticed you’ve been coughing less since I moved in? And your color… it’s much better.”
I had noticed. I hadn’t wanted to say it out loud, afraid of jinxing it, afraid it was just a figment of my desperate imagination. But it was true. In the weeks since Greg had left and Taras had moved in, the suffocating cloud of sickness had begun to lift.
Ultimately, Taras practically had to drag me to the city to see a specialist he knew, an allergist. After a battery of tests, the diagnosis came back. It was staggering in its simplicity and its horror. I had a rare, severe form of allergy—to my husband. More specifically, to his biological material: his skin cells, his sweat, his saliva.
“Your entire body was in a state of protest against your union with him,” the doctor explained gently. “If you had lived with him much longer, it’s very likely you would have experienced a fatal anaphylactic shock.”
“I never knew such a thing was possible,” I whispered, shaking my head in disbelief. My body had been screaming a truth my heart had refused to accept.
Life without Greg returned me to myself. My old energy, my joyful spirit, it all came rushing back. The cough vanished completely. My skin cleared. I began to forget I was even technically still married. Taras and I fell into an easy, comfortable rhythm, two wounded souls finding solace in each other’s company.
One evening over dinner, Taras slid a small, velvet box across the table. I opened it and gasped. Inside was a simple, elegant ring with a single, sparkling stone. I looked up at him, my heart pounding.
“It’s a ring,” he said, a wide, warm smile spreading across his face.
“But… I’m still married,” I stammered, spreading my hands in a helpless gesture.
“That,” he said, his eyes twinkling, “is a fixable problem. You have no children. The court will grant a divorce quickly, even without his presence. You just need to file the papers.”
And so I did. I had no idea where to find my former husband, so after he failed to appear for two consecutive court dates, the divorce was granted automatically. A month later, Taras and I were married in a small, quiet ceremony at the town hall.
“It’s so wonderful that I’m not allergic to you,” I laughed, snuggling against my new husband’s chest, feeling a profound sense of peace and safety I had never known.
A few months later, there was a knock at the door. “I’ll get it,” Taras said, giving me a quick kiss.
“Hey, buddy.”
On the doorstep stood Greg. He was a wreck. Unshaven, unkempt, wearing a tattered old sports coat, he reeked of stale liquor.
“Hello,” Taras said, his body language creating an impassable barrier in the doorway.
“So,” Greg slurred, trying to peer past Taras into the house. “Is the old hag finally gone? By my calculations, she should have been long gone by now. I need to get the paperwork for the other half of the house sorted so I can sell it. I’ve been waiting for your call. You didn’t forget, did you? Still want to buy?” He gave Taras a conspiratorial wink.
“I’ve changed my mind,” Taras said, his voice dangerously low. He was praying I wouldn’t come to the door, but it was too late.
“Honey, who is it?” I called out, emerging from the kitchen. I stopped dead in my tracks, my hand flying to my mouth.
“Rita… go back inside, please,” Taras said, his eyes fixed on me, his tone firm.
My ex-husband looked like he had seen a ghost. He stared at me, healthy, vibrant, and visibly pregnant, and he actually began to stammer. “How… how is this… but you’re… you’re my wife!”
“No, my friend,” Taras said, taking a step forward. “She is my wife. And if I ever see you within a mile of this town again, no one will ever find you. You know I have nothing to lose. I’ve seen enough in my life.” His voice was a quiet, menacing whisper. “I will bury you myself, and there won’t even be a mound to mark the spot. Do you understand?”
Greg, his drunken bravado evaporating into pure terror, shrank back. He stumbled backward off the porch and practically ran down the street, disappearing into the twilight.
I peeked out from behind the doorframe. “Would you really have buried him?” I asked, a happy, relieved smile spreading across my face as I wrapped my arms around my husband.
He laughed, a deep, rumbling sound, and pulled me into a tight embrace. “Let’s just say I’m glad I didn’t have to find out.”
