“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.
