The room was dim and cool, a shadowy contrast to the searing humidity outside.
Her son had left his car running while he took her upstairs. In the elevator she noticed he had sweated through his shirt and she felt guilty, once again. He had to get back to work, having left to drive her here, like he had done so many times this summer, like her husband had done and her daughter as well. Thank God he worked close by; thank God he lived close by. Thank God both of her children were close and involved: there was no chance she could get through this without them, no chance her husband could bear this burden by himself. She knew, even as difficult as everything had become, that she was fortunate.
She thought about her mother and how quickly everything had happened. Less than a year from diagnosis to death: they hadn’t caught it in time. Something else to feel fortunate about, at least they caught this the first time, then the second, and again. At least this gives you a chance, at least you can hold on to hope. She had kept her capacity for hope alive when her mother got sick. And then she saw her. Living in another state (something she could not help; something she had never been able to fully reconcile) she had heard the updates and listened to her mother’s voice, on the phone. It wasn’t until she saw her that she knew. Worse, her mother knew she knew, and then she knew. It was summer then, as well: stifling, unforgivable. Those months measured by hope, expectation and finally, acceptance. It was over so quickly nobody had time to make adjustments or contemplate alternatives. For her, it was a summer of silence: she had nobody who could comfort her (that was what her mother did) and nobody who she could talk to. She talked to God but it was a one-way conversation. Still, she prayed, she hoped and she tried not to believe the things she saw when she was alone and it was silent.
She sensed she was being watched. She looked over and the woman was indeed staring at her, an elderly woman who had been sitting alone when she’d arrived. She started to look back at her magazine and felt guilty, again. It was too late. Those eyes were on her and she could feel them measuring her, craving reciprocation.
“Hi,” she said, smiling.
“Hello,” the woman responded, a bit startled. Apparently she was unaware that she had been staring and seemed embarrassed at being detected.
She smiled and looked back at her magazine.
“…hot out there, isn’t it?”
“I’m sorry?”
“I said it sure is hot out there, isn’t it?”
“Oh, yes. Very hot.”
“Hot as blazes.”
“On our way over the car said it was ninety-five, and that’s without the humidity!”
“Was that your son who was here before?”
“Yes, he and my daughter help my husband get me to my appointments.”
“My husband passed away two years ago,” she said, and then she went on to say several more things. Finally, she asked a question that did not require a response because both of them understood she already knew the answer. It sounded like a question but it was actually a statement, a reminder for anyone who would listen. It was the simple truth she confronted every day that she needed to share with someone: she was still alive, and she was alone.
***
Against all probability, it seemed to have gotten even warmer outside. As he walks out to the car, it takes him several seconds to adjust his eyes to the glare of the sun. His body, which has been numbed by the cold air inside, now comes alive and quickens under the moving waves of heat.
He drives down familiar roads, sufficiently distracted by unfamiliar thoughts that he almost fails to notice the figure standing in the middle of the intersection. He reaches for his horn, more instinct than anger, and then realizes it is an elderly woman. He rolls down his window and speaks.
“Hi, is everything okay…are you all right?”
The woman, either unconcerned or oblivious to the fact that she had stopped in front of oncoming traffic, shrugs her shoulders.
“Can I help you? Would you like a ride home?”
The woman looks over hesitantly, then smiles, equal parts relief and gratitude.
“Yes, thank you…that would be nice.”
He jumps out of the car and opens the door for her.
“I live in the Fellowship House,” she says, easing into her seat. “It’s only a mile or so away…”
“Sure, that’s no problem,” he replies, dumbfounded that the woman had walked anywhere at all in this weather.
“This heat, I think we might break some records today. It’s already above ninety, and that’s without the humidity.”
He turns the radio off and drives slowly down the road. Feeling obliged to initiate conversation, he says the first thing that comes into his mind.
“People die in this weather you know. It happens all the time, and then you read about it in the newspapers.”
The woman says nothing at first, and then she nods.
“Well, you’re so young. God bless your youth, I’ll tell you.”
He flashes a smile, again unable to catch himself before he speaks. “I guess you never appreciate what you have until it’s gone.” Silently he curses his stupidity.
The woman nods. “I know what you mean and it’s true.”
He laughs nervously and tries to think of something meaningful to say. He looks at the woman and cannot restrain a feeling of vitality that made her frailty seem so foreign, so frightening.
You never appreciate what you have until it’s gone.
He starts, unsure if he had spoken aloud. The woman gives no indication either way if he had repeated himself, smiling at him with a maternal expression that indicates a lifetime of concerns and troubles, interests and solicitudes. Their eyes meet again and it is obvious the woman possesses a dignity that belies her infirmity. She was on her own but she was not helpless.
I am still alive, the eyes told him.
He feels a peculiar compulsion to confide in her, as thought it might somehow make amends for the disparity that so glaringly divides them. As he flounders for appropriate words, not at all sure what he means to say, the woman speaks of the one thing he realizes (too late) he did not wish to hear.
“The people at the Fellowship House are very nice. They take good care of us there.”
He says nothing, uncomfortable with the silence that now fills the car. His head feels heavy and he envisions the environment this woman lived in, the stifling sanctuary that confined her, giving regimented meaning to her identical days.
“You remind me of my son,” the woman says after a while.
He smiles.
“Although he is older…how old are you?”
He lies.
“Yes, he is older, but he’s still very handsome. And he has a wonderful wife.”
He nods his head politely, making a concerted effort to keep his eyes on the road.
“I’m very proud of him, as I’m sure your parents are of you.”
He nods and smiles, watching the yellow lines flash past his tires, thinking about things only he was capable of thinking of. He can sense the woman staring at him.
“My husband passed away two years ago,” she starts.
“I’m very sorry to hear that.”
“…and my son sold our house. He wanted to put me in this place, the Fellowship House, after my husband died. I told him I’d rather have stayed in my own house…”
He looks over quickly and it occurs to him that he was probably the first person outside the cautiously constructed world of doctors, orderlies and senior citizens that this woman had spoken to in a very long time.
“…but he said this was the best thing,” she continued. “So we sold the house.”
He listens helplessly and wishes he had not offered the woman a ride. And then he feels guilty. He wipes the single drop of sweat that flashes across his forehead, smiling and nodding although he does not hear what the woman is saying. He tries to suppress a surge of unease unlike anything he has ever experienced. He hears, or rather he senses that the woman continued to speak, and he is vaguely aware that he also is talking, but he does not know what he is saying. He attempts with great difficulty to concentrate on the road and speak at the same time. His movements are torpid and his mind, which had been racing, slows to the point that it seems—for a moment—that the woman spoke clearly and quickly, as though she were the much younger one. He forces himself to keep his eyes directly on the road: he is desperately afraid to look over at the woman for what he will see, so he looks up, ahead, and sees the top of the Fellowship House through the trees. In that moment the disorienting sense of recognition falls away and relief surges through his clear mind.
“…so I came here, alone,” the woman continues.
Almost alone, he thinks.
“My son said as soon as they bought the new house and settled in he would come and get me.”
He pulls up in front of the tall brick building and stops his car.
“That was two years ago,” the woman says quietly.
She starts to reach for the door and then speaks, almost to herself.
“Do you think he’s ever going to come?”
He meets her stare and blinks as another drop of sweat falls into his eye. It is still extremely hot despite the air conditioner.
“Of course he is,” he nods, and tries another smile. The woman seems to sense his effort this time.
“Thank you for the ride,” she says and slowly lets herself out of the car.
He watches the woman walk through the revolving door without looking back.
He drives off quickly, feeling sick and eager to escape. As he reaches down to turn on the radio he catches a glimpse of his face in the mirror and abruptly looks away.
It was not until he saw his reflection that he understood the woman had been telling him about himself.
*from a work-in-progress entitled Please Talk About Me When I’m Gone.
