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That’s Life

Gloria Lauris

    “Did you take the garbage out? Today’s garbage day.” Emily suddenly exclaimed, breaking the silence.
    Her husband Tony had been reading the newspaper in a chair in her bedroom, seemingly deep in thought, his eyes closed. His sweater was disheveled, and his black trousers looked like they hadn’t been washed in weeks.
    He’s asleep, thought Emily. I shouldn’t wake him. He looks so tired.
    “What? Oh, yes, I did. How are you feeling?” He blinked, shifting and leaning forward, studying her face for signs of pain. “Do you need a sandwich?” he added, dutifully.
    Emily thought for a few seconds. “No, but a cup of tea would be good.”
    Tony folded his paper neatly, stretched and got up; his brow furrowed. She hadn’t been eating much recently. He knew how she liked her tea: two sugars, a bit of milk. Like she always had for the last 50 years. Such a creature of habit! He looked for her favourite teacup, the one with the provincial flowers of Canada, fumbling around the kitchen shelves until he located it.
    Emily studied the ceiling and sighed. She put her knitting down, and edging slowly downwards, she laid back gently against the double pillows on her single hospital-style bed, trying to find a comfortable position, arranging her nightgown. She rubbed the top of her head, feeling the soft fuzz of her downy gray hair growing back. How much time? she mused. Six weeks now since chemo? She winced remembering the cocktails of poison coursing through her veins and tried to think about something else. She reached for and lit a cigarette to calm her nerves. How did it come to this?
    After she had taken a few puffs, Tony came into the room with her teacup and a dish on a tray. “Here you are, hon. And here are your pain pills.”
    She nodded, put her cigarette down on the ashtray next to the bed, and took the cup and pills. She solemnly and obediently swallowed the medication.
    “What day is today?” she asked in a whisper, between sips.
    “Wednesday.” He frowned, noting silently that she had already forgotten it was garbage day.
    “Isn’t your birthday soon? I really should get up and make a cake.” She felt guilty, laying so much in bed with her husband waiting on her. Lazy. Totally useless.
    “No, rest a bit more. Let’s see how you feel tomorrow,” he insisted, with a twinge of sadness. He doubted she would be up anytime soon to make that cake. He sat on the edge of the bed and patted her hand.
    “Remind me, are you turning 81 or 82?” She was confused again.
    He looked thoughtful. “Forty-nine,” he offered, trying to lighten the moment and to avoid being reminded of his age.
    She chuckled and put the teacup down. “Remember that party when our son turned 49?” She smiled at the memory of the time when Billy came in from out of town, and they all went out to a fancy restaurant for dinner. She ate the chef’s special—was it chicken, no maybe it was beef. She shook her head, scowling. Why couldn’t she clearly recall events from the distant past, or remember what happened last year? Or last week? Or even yesterday?
    “Yes,” her husband murmured. “You wore that blue dress I like, the one with the flowers.” It seemed like a long time since she had worn it, now stuck forgotten in the back of her closet. Perhaps that will be what I will have to bury her in, he wondered, his mind wandering.
    Horrified at the thought, he changed the topic. “Betsy will love the jacket you’re knitting her,” he said, stroking the colourful yarn with his calloused hand.
    “I suppose so. But she is only four. They grow up so fast. I hope the jacket will still fit her by the time I finish it....” Her voice trailed off as the thought occurred that she might not actually complete it. Damn.
    Emily’s face then flushed when she thought of her son. Why didn’t he visit anymore? Perhaps he was embarrassed by her, by her illness? Kids these days. So ungrateful. And disappointing.
    “Well, do your best. If you don’t finish, well, that’s life,” Tony said awkwardly, suddenly realizing it was death that he meant, not life. He didn’t tell her that Billy had called to say he didn’t know when he’d come next to visit.
    Tony reached for her teacup, now empty. He patted Emily’s hand again and said, “You must be tired. Why don’t you have a little nap?” as he tucked her in.
    She nodded, absently, and he tiptoed out, closing the bedroom door behind him.
    In the kitchen, the husband put the cup in the sink and stood there for a while, staring at the cup and grasping the counter. God, why did she have to get sick? Why couldn’t he go first? He felt bitter. I’m too old to be alone. He brushed away a random tear which trickled down his chiseled cheek. He was tired of being the Stoic One, always putting on a brave front for her.
    Tony trembled, wondering how hard her death would be when the end came, as surely it would soon. He took a deep breath and went to the living room couch, stretched out his lanky legs and closed his eyes, exhausted.

* * *

    Emily tossed and turned, dreams melting in and out of her memories. Mother—is that you? Where are you going? To church? I’ll go inside and pray too; it’s been so long. Oh there’s the priest. ‘Bless me Father for I have sinned. It’s been...’. Hm, how long HAS it been? The priest’s eyes narrow. He doesn’t like my confession. But he’s reaching his hand out to bless me. No, wait, he’s touching my arm, my leg....
    She shook herself awake in a sweat. Her thoughts involuntarily went back to the priest, and to being 13, kneeling, tall and gangly in that prairie confessional and to when the priest reached through the curtain and touched her young, firm breasts. Emily froze. He told her to say six Hail Mary’s and not to sin anymore. She rushed home to her bedroom and pulled the sheets over her head, her religious life over.
    Still feeling shame, Emily reached for the inspirational book near her bed. After reading a passage about a ‘glorious eternity’, she turned the book over and drifted off while contemplating the afterlife.
    This time, Emily found herself floating, and back in church; however, she was not in the confessional, but rather observing from above. Someone appeared to be getting married. She hovered closer. With surprise, she realized the person she was watching was herself! Her young self, pretty and innocent. On her wedding day! But that’s not Tony . It’s.... Eddie! ‘Oh Eddie, my first love, how wonderful you look. Wow, I’m marrying YOU!’ Giddy with excitement and joy, Emily twirled around the church above them, like a happy ghost witness, while Eddie, face flushed and hair tussled, grinned at his new bride below.
    Then the unthinkable happened. A shot rang out and Eddie fell to the ground, clutching his heart and bleeding profusely, his blood spilling down the aisle. He’s shot! Someone killed my Eddie! Dear God, noooo!
    “Did I wake you? Sorry!” Tony had come into the room to get something from the closet and a hanger had fallen to the floor.
    Emily groaned and struggled to sit up; bittersweet otherworldly thoughts of Eddie dissolving into reality. “What’s the time?”
    “Time to eat something, it’s almost noon.”
    “Oh. I guess so.”
    Tony went back to the kitchen returning with a sandwich cut into small pieces so she could chew the soft bread and luncheon meat. She noted that he had even taken the crusts off.
    Leaving her to her thoughts and sandwich, the old man went back to the living room sofa. Picking up the newspaper, the page fell open at the obituaries. Tony read the column half-reluctantly: ‘Kerri T. passed away peacefully in her sleep at the age of 76 at the local hospital, due to complications of lung cancer... condolences, donations or tributes may be made at....’
    Tears welled up again, and he choked back the thought he would soon have to write something like that for his wife. Life was just too hard.
    After lunch, Emily smoked again, silently contemplating what dying would be like. This disturbed her, so she thought about the good things in her life. Her garden, for instance, grew wondrously huge white calla lilies in the spring and the thought of them brought her a smile. Life before children had been pleasant, as was life before cancer. Laying in the bed could be nice if she did not overthink things or move too much. Imagine: no pain, no illness, no worries. Heaven!
    With that, she fell into another troubled sleep, dreaming of redemption and eternity.

* * *

    “Would you like a luncheon sandwich?” Tina asked her new husband Tony.
    Tony was reading the paper. “What? Oh, yes, please.” He folded the newspaper neatly and placed it on the table, next to the vase with the vibrant white calla lilies, cut just that morning.
    Tina brought him a plate of sliced meat sandwiches with the bread crusts cut off, plus a cup of tea in his favourite china—the one with the Canadian provincial flowers. She remembered he liked his tea with two sugars and a bit of milk.
    Tina adjusted the table and looked at a framed photo of a smiling little girl in a colourful, knitted sweater. “Six now?” she asked, pointing to the picture. He nodded absent-mindedly, focusing on his sandwich.
    It felt like yesterday since the marriage, but they had been together already almost two years, meeting at the church support group for bereaved spouses. Tony was a quiet man, a nice change from her over-talkative late husband.
    It hadn’t been easy, caring for a sick partner, then losing him. And how unexpected and lucky to find another suitable companion after all the sadness and loss. Well, she thought, ?that’s life, and beamed at her new husband, who shyly smiled back.

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