Her Dark Night

“Jane…Jane!” Her eyelids snap open. Sleep is never deep anymore, she kind of floats along erratically, just below the surface, in a state of semi-vigilance. Her heart pounding, she fumbles for the light, rolling on Libby who squeezes out an irritated yowl. The clock reads 4:28, A.M. “Jane!” Oh God. What’s wrong now?

           “Coming.” Her creaky voice barely carries across the guest room. She heaves the covers off and doesn’t stop to put on a robe. Her feet thud against the faded carpet as she hurries to the front of the house, mind racing to the latest weather report. Did they predict snow? Did it snow? She doesn’t stop to check, but plows forward, shivering, praying that it hasn’t because then the ambulance couldn’t reach them.

She rounds the corner into his bedroom, their bedroom before the arrival of the hospital bed. She tries to brace herself for what she might find. “I’m here, I’m here,” she pants, her eyes searching his face for signs of pain. But she sees none. His breathing isn’t even labored. He’s sitting up, clear eyed.

“I want some orange juice.” Her knees stop shaking, but her heart hasn’t caught on yet. “Are you okay? Is something wrong?”

“No! I’m tired of water and I want some orange juice. I wish you’d stop carrying on.” She looks at the clock, which is clearly visible from his bed.

Her anger has been building slowly over the years, in fits and starts, kind of like that construction project that never seems finished. First you notice a solid gray frame, wind ghosting through its beams, rising from that the perpetually barren lot that used to be dotted with errant pieces of trash and the occasional stray dog.  Then one day you’re stuck at the light and you see that the big red trucks with the giant tires are gone and a completed building stands, punctuated with manicured green shrubs and a well stocked parking lot.

Fatigue, laced with a creeping depression serves as her daily sedative, but it hasn’t kicked in yet. She’s confronted him before for such blatant acts of selfishness, but it never does any good. She turns quickly and hurries to the kitchen to get the juice. Orange pulp splashes the counter, but she ignores it. She nearly races back around the corner to hand him the glass. She can’t get out of there fast enough. He looks into her once lively brown eyes.

“Oh, God, what’s the matter now?”

She flees the room. Tears smack her cheeks rythmically like fat raindrops before a cloudburst. She crawls back into bed and hugs herself under her old quilt in the small room with the low ceiling. The sobs knot her chest and try to fight their way out, but there’s so much in the way. She can’t believe she’s going through this again. She squeezes her eyes shut in an effort to contain herself, but the image of Bob’s gaunt face and unseeing murky eyes swims before her. She battles to forget that last day. Why can’t she remember his twinkling eyes and easy smile? The sobs break free and she rocks gently in the little bed.

This doesn’t last long.

No, no, she won’t go there. She can’t give in to these memories. Not today. She can’t afford to be wiped out by them. She shakes her head vigorously, searching for distraction like a junkie needing a fix. She focuses on the present, and latches onto her current husband.

His refusal to hire a nurse has not only baffled his family and friends, who know he can well afford one, but it has rendered her physically depleted. She strains her back nearly every time she tries to lift him to clean his vomit or change his sheets. God, how this has aged her. She hears that a lot lately, and the evidence is clear in those new lines that have carved their way around her mouth.

Resentment floods her system, diluting her grief. Its familiarity settles her down. For now, this is a safer place to be.

A bit about Dad

My father carried gratefulness around like a lucky coin. Maybe the seed was planted when he was adopted as a baby, but he was profoundly thankful for his family. He would have been lost without my mother and told her so in vibrant love letters that she continues to treasure. But he appreciated the smaller, sillier things, too, like peanut butter and mayonnaise sandwiches, having someone else (anyone else) mow his lawn, chocolate cake with caramel icing, and every episode of the Muppets.

He delighted in Judy Garland’s voice, a good vodka martini, heavy on the olives, The Far Side comics, and hurrying out with me to the open garage whenever a rollicking thunderstorm paraded down the block. (To this day I can still be found sky gazing at even a hint of a rumble.) I grew up watching my father flex his senses. As he soaked up everyday pleasures, they accumulated over the years, burnishing him with the warm patina of a contented man.

But although he may have been satisfied with his life in general, he was by no means apathetic when it came to those around him. Dad held opinions on everything from when I should be allowed to shave my legs (yup) to the state of world affairs. One of his favorite places to share these opinions was at the kitchen table, most notably at breakfast on the weekends. After finishing off a plate heaped with (never enough) scrambled eggs, he would lean his hefty, 6’4” frame back into the squeaking roller chair, take a deep breath, prop his fingers into a pyramid, look out the window and say “Well, girls. ” This was our cue that a history lesson, current events summation, or just plain advice was coming.

Occasionally, Dad would pull the morning’s topic from one of the books he was reading. We’d hear about the wisdom of Churchill or the foresight of Lincoln. Civil War history was his literary passion, though, so you can imagine his delight when I came home in fifth grade and announced that I had to give a speech about the War Between the States. Thrilled, he outfitted me with an authentic Union cap, a real Confederate canteen, a tape of period songs, and an abundance of facts. I was not quite as thrilled.

A WWII Veteran, Dad was a member of the 82nd Airborne. Although he rarely spoke of his own experience, I think he gained a sense of honor from being a soldier, along with pride. Unwaveringly thankful to be an American, he often reminded me how lucky we were to live in a country where freedom was our birthright.

Words got as much care and feeding in our house as our collie, Mac. Books climbed the walls in our family room, tumbled off nightstands, and stretched out on tables. I vividly remember him telling me that I could go anywhere in the world or embark on any adventure when I became absorbed in the pages of a book. But perhaps the most valuable lesson my dad taught me was that words can comfort and connect. That written down, they carry great significance, most importantly, to those you love.

Shortly after his death, I found this dog-eared note folded in half in the pocket of his daily planner. Apparently he tucked it into each fresh notebook.

“Dear Daddy,
Thank you for taking me out in the rain.
Yours truly,
Carol Ann”