The Second Wife by Trish Bell, (c) 2005   Autumn Winterbourne was a study in contrasts. Her long, straight hair was mostly white with age. But it remained streaked with a few chunks of the stubborn, flaming red she’d flaunted in her youth.   The skin around her eyes was droopy and tired. But when she looked at you, her deep brown eyes burned with intensity so vivid, they seemed to swallow you in their depths.   Last year, Autumn finally followed the recommendations of her doctor and moved into an assisted-living retirement community. However, she could still be found most mornings jogging around the neighborhood.   She’d just celebrated her seventy-third birthday. If it could even be called a celebration. Nothing seemed worth celebrating anymore. Not without Sorel.   Autumn knew she probably shouldn’t be out running this morning. It was nippy out, and leaves crunched under the snow as she made a quick detour around the back of the community office building. If Jane was at work and caught a glimpse of her out here, she’d catch hell for sure.   Today, she wasn’t in the mood.   The early snowstorm had brought more than just cold to her old body. Autumn felt something else in the air. In her bones. A sense that she was about to lose her battle against the passing of time.   “Sorel,” she whispered, to no one in particular. Her breath left a frosty cloud in the air.   #   Autumn stepped off the bus. The DMV had taken away her driving privileges last year, at her damned doctor’s insistence.   No one knew when she might have another seizure, he told her.   Better safe than sorry, he told her.   She couldn’t believe she actually paid the man for his services.   Well, screw them all. No one would stop her from seeing Sorel.   The cemetery gate squealed as she opened it. Soon. The unspoken word filled the thick silence that followed.   Autumn shivered, moving quickly through the familiar graveyard, not pausing to dwell on the pristine, snow-covered beauty of the trees around her. She felt anxious. As though she were being watched.   Out of breath, Autumn fell to her knees in front of a huge headstone, topped by a statue of a heartbroken angel draping itself over the grave. When she picked it out for Sorel at the funeral home, it was because she thought it reflected her own wrenching despair at his loss. Looking down at the engravings, she could barely make out the words on his tombstone through her tear-filled eyes:        Sorel Bristow, 1912 – 1990, Beloved Husband.   Autumn didn’t take his last name when they married. It was a decision she grew to regret in the years after his death. Her brash, stupid salute to feminism. She’d told him she didn’t want to be the second Mrs. Bristow. Underneath it all, she knew that although Sorel was the one and only love of her life, she would never be able to take April’s place in his heart.   But then after his passing, she felt so disconnected. Like a ship adrift in a harbor.   She desperately wanted--no, needed--to secure her place at Sorel’s side.   Autumn wondered if Sorel knew what she’d done. When he died, she was so intoxicated with mind-numbing grief that she never paused to contemplate the consequences of her actions.   Sorel wanted to be buried next to April. Out of spite, Autumn had denied him his wish. If only that were all she had done.   Autumn thought of April’s grave, the one she had traveled to in Chicago while Sorel’s body was being interred. The gravesite that now stood empty and unmarked.   Autumn thought of the stories she’d heard as a child, stories of spirits wandering lost in purgatory because their bodies weren’t properly laid to rest.   She did it out of love. Or so she told herself.   Why, then, was she now paralyzed with fear?   Autumn always hated the photos that Sorel displayed in their home of the sweet, doe-eyed bride he’d taken at eighteen. The girl died young, and Sorel idealized her. Autumn felt sure April Bristow was no angel, but April and Sorel were never married long enough to get beyond the “honeymoon” phase of their relationship.   On Sorel’s deathbed, Autumn envisioned his inevitable reunion with his first wife in the afterlife, a horrible bitterness descending upon her. Realizing that she would, even after death, still be the second woman in his life. Forever.   So she did it.   It was only now, in the months and days closest to her own death, that Autumn had the clarity to recognize the flaw in her plan.   She was evil. And she was probably going to hell.   #   A sharp pain lanced through Autumn’s head as she knelt on the cold ground. She came back to the present with a start, her legs trembling and jerking.   Her mouth went dry. Another seizure.   Probably her last.   No! I’m not ready! Please! I want to fix things first...   She lost track of the thought. Another lancing pain at her temples caused explosions of white light to appear in front of her.   A single thread of hope, gleaned from years of forced attendance at Sunday school, was visible through the searing light.   Just ask forgiveness, Autumn. Everything will be okay.   But she knew it wasn’t enough. She’d never been a devout Christian.   Autumn tried to scrawl a message in the dirt. She didn’t know exactly when she toppled over, but she found herself staring up at the sky. Looked like snow again.   In his grave, she was sure Sorel was grinning at the thought of the heavenly menage a trois that he supposed was awaiting him. She stifled a groan as her spirit detached from her body. Men.   Then, for several long, terrifying seconds, she hovered in a disembodied state, in limbo.   Her last earthbound thought was of Sorel.   Her last earthbound vision was of April. Wielding a fiery sword.   And She looked pissed.   ###