by Judy Fischer
Being back home in Larry’s house was a relief. The scents of both men were everywhere, and I enjoyed the reminders of them.
I decided to call Irma only after my appointment, that way I would have more information about my pending plans to share. The house was empty and unusually abandoned.
Miss Grant, the real estate agent, had set up the appointment in the house in question. I drove over to meet her there at 7, as planned.
I liked the outside of the property, small, not requiring much maintenance. Inside was just as nice, the living areas were adequate for my parents, who would be the main occupants. I had no intention of ever making it my permanent residence. The newly renovated house had all the equipment to make the lives of seniors comfortable and manageable. There was a ramp at the side entrance, which could, if necessary, be used for wheelchair access. It was the perfect choice. Miss Grant had prepared all the papers. The offer to purchase was handed to me; all that was needed was for me to sign. I promised her to bring her the signed papers the following day.
There was no one home still when I arrived back at the house. It was already dark outside and after checking the messages, I realized there were none. When I looked at my watch and saw the time, I refrained from calling Irma or my parents. Instead, I crawled into my bed, tired and lonely. It didn’t take me long before missing René made me move over to his bed. Snuggling with his pillow and blanket somehow made him seem closer to me. I did fall asleep, but the sleep was not peaceful. I awoke several times to look at the clock and there was some strange and unexplainable sensation in the bottom of my heart.
The sound of our sprinkler system roused my sleep. It was a custom in Southern Florida to water the grass early in the morning to give it a coat of moisture before the scorching sun could destroy it. It had replaced the alarm clocks, for it was set to start the daily job at 5 on the dot. I stayed in bed waiting for a decent time to make my phone calls.
At exactly 8 a.m. on June 26, 1980, the phone rang and Irma, who was on the line, gave me news that shattered my life, took away all my future plans and gave me my death sentence.
She was so distraught that her words did not make too much sense. I heard “Larry”, “René” and “accident”. The rest of the news came from the mouth of Fred who became, unwillingly, the stronger of the two.
“Fred, my God. What has happened?”
“Missy, I am so, so very sorry. They did everything they could. He is gone, René is gone,” I heard his voice tremble and then he gave the phone over to a doctor who was standing there, supporting him through the ordeal.
“Are you related to the deceased?” he asked me. Using that description of my lover, my friend, my brother and the person who was my life, put a certain finality to my world.
“Yes, I am,” I proclaimed.
“I am so sorry, we did all we could to save him,” he muttered but I did not hear or cared to hear his apology.
“Please pass the gentleman back to me,” I asked for Fred.
“Fred, try to tell me what happened, please.”
“They ran off the road over a ridge, the tractor rolled several times before it burst into flames. They were trapped until the ambulance and first responders arrived. By then, it was too late, Missy. They both died on impact. We are devastated, Missy, as you must be. Please come, we need you.”
Before I could internalize the severity of the situation and before realizing the travesty of the implications, I booked a flight to Hampton. I did not stop to call my parents, I did not stop to tell Maria of my sudden departure.
The tears did not come. My brain had not yet understood my pain, only my heart started to feel the emptiness. The shock of the unexpected news was still in charge, forbidding my body and mind to react in the way it was going to, eventually. The strength and the adrenaline kept me from collapsing. I got to Virginia, arrived at the hospital, but how? I can’t, remember now.
Fred was waiting for me.
“There is nothing left for us do here, Missy. Irma went home with our son. Gary came, Tom could not.”
“I want to see him, Fred. I must see René. How can I get closure otherwise? For all I know, there’s been a terrible mistake. They have the wrong two people.”
“No. No, Missy, I am afraid it was really them. The officers retrieved their IDs. The bodies are here too. I haven’t seen them either but Irma has. She collapsed when she saw them. Please, Missy, you shouldn’t. There isn’t much left to see. The fire, the fire was terrible. Remember him as he used to be. Trust me, sweetheart. Come, let’s go to Irma. She needs us. She needs you.”
“Fred.” I was speechless. No words came to my mouth. I stood there beside him, stunned, speechless and horrified.
I looked at him then and I saw his despondent expression, it took great willpower to offer him my support. I needed the same support. We walked out of the hospital, arm in arm, giving each other the crutch we both needed to move forward.
I offered to drive. I mustered up enough strength to take us home to Irma who had lost her brother and an adopted son.
The minute, however, when I saw Irma’s face, I broke down. All the bottled-up pain, sorrow, emptiness and disbelief got the better of me. I collapsed into her arms and the two of us clung to each other for comfort. Neither one of us had ever thought life would deprive us of our loved ones so abruptly and so soon.
For the next few days, until the renters arrived, we walked around under a grey cloud that kept us from thinking, talking or finding peace.
I retreated to my room where Larry had once slept, and I rearranged it trying to place my own personal touch to ease the reminders of him.
Luckily, the cottage where René and I last spent our days and nights together was already transformed to meet the new renters’ requests. I didn’t go near it.
René Loves Missy
Father Williams was at the house every day, it seemed. I knew only because I came out of my room sporadically and saw him sitting in the kitchen with Irma. Consoling Irma was not coming easily it appeared; still, I never went near them. I could not bring myself to grieve with her. I had loved Larry too, in my own way, but I had my own demons to battle. And it was a terrible battle. I suspected I was not going to come out of it victorious.
My heart was supposed to be filled with love, whereas now I was looking toward a lifetime of heart ache. Where was the justice in that? Why was I being punished? Why was God so mean?
Oliver tapped gently on my door and called my name softly every time he visited with Irma. I snubbed his concern; I never opened my door.
I was furious with what God had done. Taking away René from my life was a low blow. Oliver was the go between God and me. As I was in a grave dispute with God, Oliver was not persona grata in my heart. There was nothing he could say to make me feel better.
Yet as stubborn as I was, I was still looking for a way to offset my despair. Occasionally, I listened with my ear glued to the door, in silence, when he was in the house. I was hoping to hear something that could possibly help me to cope with my own misery. There was nothing.
In the evenings, when Irma and Fred retired, I went to the kitchen or the dining room and, at times, I sat on the porch, staring out to sea. Solitude was my best friend and I felt some relief in its company.
Their door was closed, yet I heard their weeping. I heard their restless sleep and wanted to go in to comfort them. Inconsolable we were, the three of us.
To overcome my grief, I started to write another book. I locked my door, sat at a desk and the words cascaded onto the papers. When I composed, time stood still. Yet it did pass in spite of everything. When I arrived at the final page, I had a rough manuscript staring back at me. It was only a draft. I still had to refine and edit it.
The time must have been right; the melancholic mood was ideal and as always, the Anderson Estate was the perfect setting. Likewise, it was befitting to write the book where my life was once full of joy. It had taken two weeks of undisturbed concentration to
completely pour out my soul, divulging my secrets and validating my loss.
You see, I wrote the book about René and me. It was a chronicle of love and devotion. In a sense, it was my autobiography disguised as a novel of fiction and, in many ways, my life with him was an imaginary tale, almost unbelievable.
The two weeks had drained me immensely, yet I found myself exhilarated and more at peace. Writing every detail of René’s and my story made me feel grateful for having had the opportunity to love and be loved. Reliving our lives through prose was rewarding emotionally and spiritually too. I was almost ready to forgive God and to call Oliver when the unthinkable happened.
It was late at night on July 15th and I was sitting on the porch alone. Irma had started leaving me some food, her strength and will to live had finally returned. I was still in a self-imposed exile, but I started to appear in public more often than before.
With a better disposition, the hunger had also returned and I enjoyed the tuna sandwich she left for me on the kitchen counter. I sat, as usual, alone, absorbed in my own thoughts, when I heard Irma calling my name. It was not her usual voice, it was a voice thick with fear and panic.
“Missy, come quick. Call 911, call Oliver. Please, help me.”
I ran inside straight to their room, where Irma was standing over the lifeless body of Fred.
“Oh no. No,” I screamed and bent down to touch his head. I bent closer to feel his breath but there was none.
“Go, Irma, call 911. I will do what I can. I took CPR in high school. Go get help now.”
She left immediately and I started the resuscitation I had learned years before. I pumped and then I listened. I pumped and then I listened. I was exhausted by the time the ambulance arrived. I knew, however, my attempts had been in vain. It had taken too long for the paramedics to arrive and Fred had passed away before I had even started to help him. A massive coronary infraction claimed his life.
Father Williams arrived the following morning, bringing Irma back from the coroner’s office. She was a wreck. The doctors gave her very strong sedatives and she went straight to sleep.
“Now what do we do, Oliver. Is this for real? Is God playing a joke or a terrible prank? I was almost ready to accept my fate before Fred’s demise. Now, however, I may have to return to my room and lock the door forever.”
“Missy. I don’t know what to say. My heart cries for you and Irma. Please accept my condolences.”
“I can’t. I just cannot accept anything about this. I will never forgive you or your God.”
“Missy, you will. You’ll see.”
I left him alone in the kitchen. I went to my room and did close my door. The next day, however, I went to check in on Irma. She was frail and drugged. The only way for her to cope was to escape reality with the help of the heavy medication she was taking.
I made some soup and fed it to her spoonful by spoonful but her condition worsened and I called her eldest son who was in Hampton, attending to his father’s funeral.
I had to take a step back into reality immediately and regain my composure to supervise and attend three funeral ceremonies.
We had waited with the burial of Larry and René for too long and now we had a third person, another loved one to add.
There were many people gathered to say farewell to Larry and Fred, but I was the only person on earth, the only living individual who belonged to René. Although Oliver guided my way through those final moments, I had to stand alone to say my final goodbye to René.
At the age of 19, I lost my partner, my lover and my will to live.
In the darkness of my room, soon after the funerals, I contemplated on planning my own. I made a list of all the outstanding things I had to attend to and slowly started making my way through them.
I was alone in the main house, Irma was taken to Richmond to stay and recuperate in her son’s home. I had the freedom to endow myself with pity. And I did, royally.
I called an attorney to come to the Anderson Estate to meet with me. There were so many legalities needing a lawyer’s input.
Refining and updating my manuscript kept me somewhat planted on the ground but barely. I found an appropriate title for it, René Loves Missy. Rereading it before I packaged it for mailing made me weep for hours; my pain, my suffering and my tears finally found the avenue on which to travel freely. I reluctantly gave it to the mailman on his next visit.
I got violently sick in mid-July, days after the funerals. I was so sick that an ambulance was called to take me away. The man in the guest house found me lying on the beach unconscious. The paramedic called Father Williams and he was waiting at the hospital in Hampton when I arrived.
“I’m dying, Oliver, I know it. I feel it. I want it. I’ve been vomiting, I’ve been feeling faint and I’m losing weight. Please call my parents, they may wish to come and say a final good-bye.”
“You are not dying, Missy. I can’t let you do that. You are weak, you are in despair and you need help. Let us help you. Please. Missy, you must try to get better.”
I don’t remember anything past Oliver’s last words. I must have passed out, because when I woke up, a doctor, a nurse and Father Williams were standing over me. I was in a hospital bed.
“Miss, can you hear me?” a doctor in a white hospital gown was whispering to me.
“Yes, I can hear you. Am I dead yet?”
“No. You are fine. You need food and water, but you are fine.”
“Missy, I need to talk with you, are you up for it?” Oliver asked.
The doctor and nurse left the room, Oliver stayed. He pulled up a chair and pulled it close to my bed and leaned over to my ear. He whispered something. I started to cry profusely. I don’t know if I was sad or happy and the tears didn’t care. Either one merited the flow. He handed me some tissue and I wiped my face.
“Are you sure?” I asked.
“Yes, the doctor confirmed it just now. They did all the tests, Missy. You are going to have René’s baby.”
I lay in my bed. Oliver was holding my hand and, in a way, so was René.
I was in the hospital for one more week. They fed me and gave me instructions and some pills to keep the morning sickness at bay. I was numb however. The loss of René was a feeling I couldn’t dismiss, no matter what joy came into my life. How can a person mourn the death of a beloved and be happy at the same time for a new life? I was not ready to accept either reality.
The only thing I did know was I had to take better care of myself and somehow go on with my life.
Renée
On the drive home, Oliver had some disturbing news.
“Irma will not be coming back, Missy.”
“What do you mean, this is her home?”
“Without Fred, she can’t cope. There is too much work here. Alone, she will be lost. It was decided years ago that when one of them dies, the other will sell the property and he or she will move closer to the children. I am afraid the time has arrived.”
“When will this happen, Oliver?”
“Very soon, I’m afraid. Do you have an alternate plan, Missy?”
“I was planning to buy a house in Florida. Maybe I should reconsider.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, I love this place. I write here. My inspiration is rooted in the Anderson Estate. I can’t leave. My life is here. I want to stay.”
“How, Missy? The boys are consulting with an agent as we speak.”
“I will buy it. I have plenty of money. I will bring my parents here. I will make renovations.”
“Are you sure this is what you want? Won’t the memories haunt you here?”
“Haunt me? No, Oliver. My memories will be my lifeline; my memories here were the best.”
“OK. I’ll call Charles. I’ll tell him to come here and talk with you.”
Charles did eventually come and we made a deal. I was going to keep the property and he was going to help me with the renovations. He was an expert carpenter, he had built
the houses together with Fred years before.
I called the agent in Florida and cancelled the offer to purchase. She was disappointed but understood once I explained the details. She gave me her condolences and we parted ways.
I called my parents and told them my news, good and bad.
“Mom, I need you. Is it possible for you and Dad to come down to Virginia as soon as possible?”
“Well, your father is on the mend and I think we will be approved by the doctor to travel very soon.”
“Soon? In two weeks?” I asked, pressing for a firm commitment.
“I will try to make that happen. Melissa, I promise to be there soon,” Carla replied.
With all the converging issues I was facing, my healing took a positive direction. There was much to do and I had a definite schedule to follow. The nesting phase began.
One week after I returned home to the Anderson Estate, however, the mailman arrived with a letter. I was expecting a rejected manuscript. Instead, it was a plain white envelope. I opened it and read:
"Dear Missy Drake.
We loved your story however there are two minor changes we require.
First, rewrite the ending. Second, change the title to Missy loves René
Return it to us ASAP.
Yours sincerely
Anne Thomson
Thomson and Grove Publishers"
Seeing it was only a few paragraphs needing my attention, I resolved to take the time.
I didn’t reread the whole story; to mess with a hornet’s nest was not my desire. Instead, I wrote:
“The young woman on the beach was reading Candy, a romance novel by Terry Southern, while slouching on a lounger in the middle of a fine day in August of ’80. The lounger sat anchored in the sand, under a magnificent palm tree; branches reaching out shading her space. Her feet were aching and swollen, hence, one was resting on the seat in front of her while the other hung low to the ground. It was a hot day; skin melting, sweltering and crotch chafing hot. Her sundress was a cotton print loosely draped over her slender body. At 19, Melissa Drake kept a firm and slight physique. Her pregnancy was obvious but barely noticeable.”
