Anne's Choice, Part 7

ANNE'S CHOICE
by Richad
 
Chapter 7
 
 
One evening Anne and Martin were watching television in Anne's apartment when
the phone rang.  It was her mother, with the news that Anne's father had had
a heart attack and had been taken to hospital.  Anne's parents lived in the
north of England, some four hours' drive away.  Anne wanted to set off
immediately, but her mother disagreed.
 
"I don't want to think of you driving up through the night," she said.  "It's
blowing a gale here.  The medics are saying that the attack might not be
serious.  You can probably stay there until the morning, at least.  I'll call
you again as soon as I have any more news."
 
Anne sat by the phone, worrying about her father and fearing the worst.  I
ought to have visited them more often, she thought to herself; I just hope
it's not too late.  I hope he's okay.  Martin felt very sorry for her.  He
sat down beside her and put his arm round her.
 
"I wish there was something I could do to help," he said, unhappily.
"Anything at all?"
 
"Thanks, but there's nothing-  Well, yes.  There is something," said Anne.
She hesitated, and took a deep breath before continuing.  "I know you won't
like doing this, but what I really need is a cigarette.  I don't want to
leave the phone.  Please go out and get me a pack of Marlboro.  You remember
the ones I used to smoke, in the red pack?"
 
Martin stood up, taken aback.  "Are you kidding?" he exclaimed.  "I thought
that-"
 
"Please don't argue," Anne interrupted.  "I'm sorry, Martin: I just have to
have a cigarette.  It'll only be for tonight - honestly.  The supermarket
along the road will still be open.  You'll need to get me a lighter, too."
 
In the circumstances, Martin was not going to refuse Anne's request, but he
carried out his errand with a heavy heart.  This might turn out to be a
temporary lapse, but Martin was not at all convinced that it would.
 
For the first time in more than six months, Anne put a cigarette between her
lips and brought the flame of the lighter to its tip.  She drew the smoke
first into her mouth and then into her lungs, relishing the familiar sharp
taste and the sensation of the smoke inside her chest.  A tidal wave of
pleasure and relief swept through her body from head to foot.  She held the
smoke in her lungs for as long as she could, exhaling only when she needed to
breathe in again.  To repeat the sensation, she inhaled and held the smoke in
once more.  Memories flooded back of all of the most enjoyable cigarettes she
had ever smoked.  She remembered especially the day she had returned to
smoking during her unsuccessful athletics career.  After her long abstinence
the sudden rush of nicotine from her deep drags made her dizzy.  Reflecting
that she hadn't felt a hit like this since she was a schoolgirl smoker, she
smiled involuntarily and sat back with her eyes closed.  Smoke streamed from
her nostrils as she emptied her lungs again.  To Martin, observing, it
appeared that all of his suspicions had been quickly confirmed.  Anne looked
up and smiled apologetically.
 
"Thanks, love," she said.  "I feel better already.  You know, I really do
believe that he's going to be all right."
 
Two hours and six cigarettes later, the phone rang at last.  The news was
good: the heart attack had not been severe and Anne's father had received
prompt treatment.  She agreed with her mother that she would delay her visit
until the following evening.  "They think it's likely he'll make a full
recovery," she explained after she had rung off.  She was about to say
something else but stopped.
 
"What's the matter?"  asked Martin.
 
Anne continued, reluctantly: "They also said that if he hadn't stopped
smoking ten years ago it might have been fatal."
 
Martin could think of nothing useful to say in response to this, so he went
to the kitchen and brought back two glasses of wine with which they toasted
Anne's father's health.  Eventually he stood up to go home, and nodded
towards the red and white cigarette pack on the table.
 
"You won't need the rest of these now," he said, optimistically.  "Shall I
throw them away?"
 
"No, don't do that," said Anne, quickly.  "It would be a waste.  I might have
just one more tonight.  Then I'll give the others to the girls in the office
tomorrow.  I promise!" she added, catching Martin's sceptical expression.
 
After Martin had gone, Anne took a cigarette from the pack and contemplated
it for a moment before lighting it.  She had smoked the others to relieve her
worries; this one would be purely for enjoyment.  She inhaled deeply and lay
back on the couch,  wreathed in clouds of smoke which curled all around her,
savouring the pleasure which she had been refusing herself for so long.  I
ought to feel ashamed of this, she thought, but instead it seemed so normal,
so natural, to look down and see a cigarette burning between her fingers; to
touch the filter to her lips; to taste the smoke on her palate and to feel
its hot bitterness as she drew it over her throat and down into her lungs; to
watch another stream of smoke appear in front of her as it cascaded from her
nostrils.  She felt as if she had returned from a long and lonely journey in
a strange, cold country, and it was good to be home.
 
She finished the cigarette and stood up, yawning.  The tension and anxiety of
the night having evaporated, she suddenly felt very tired.  Time to go to
bed, she thought.  After just one more cigarette-
 
In the morning Anne woke with a familiar taste in her mouth.  Her hand went
out automatically to the bedside table, only to find it empty as usual.  As
she drank her breakfast cup of tea, she glanced at the pack lying on the
kitchen table, remembering once again the particular pleasure of the first
cigarette of the day.  She opened it and looked longingly inside.  But no,
she had promised Martin, and she closed it again, put it in her bag and left
to go to work.
 
 
*    *    *
 
 
It was mid-morning before she found time to visit the smoking area in the
office.  As she walked in with the Marlboro pack in her hand, the girls
looked up and smiled.  One of them said: "Welcome back, Anne.  We knew we'd
see you here again eventually,  although you held out a lot longer than we
all expected.  Like a coffee?"
 
"Well, actually-" Anne began.  She looked down at the pack in her hand and
the last remnants of her resolve crumbled.  From somewhere inside her head
she heard her own voice from the past whispering, quietly but confidently, "I
smoke".  With a small but determined nod to herself, she made her decision.
"Yes, please, coffee would be lovely," she said.  "Er-can someone give me a
light?  I seem to have left mine at home."

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