Late Fall

by Noelle Adams

  Dr. Martin’s brows draw together. “A pill? What do you mean?”

  There’s no choice now but to admit it. “We were … intimate, and he took a pill. Do you think that could have—”

  “Oh.” Enlightenment has dawned on his face. He smiles at me kindly. “I don’t think that would have done it. Who prescribed it?”

  “The PA at Eagle’s Rest. She seemed to think it would be fine for him.”

  “Yes, I’m sure it was.” He looks down thoughtfully. “I’ll make a note of it and check it out, but I really don’t think that’s what would have done it. He’s had these before, you know.”

  “I know. I just … I was just worried.”

  “Of course you were.” He glances back at the double doors. “He’s stable now, so you can go back and sit with him if you like. He’ll wake up in a little while, and I’m sure he’ll be happy to have you there.”

  “Yes. Yes, thank you. I would like to do that.”

  I feel much better as I walk through the doors with him and down a hall to a private room. Dave is in the bed. He looks very old against the pillow and covers, surrounded by all the medical equipment.

  My stomach churns as I sit down in the chair beside the bed.

  “Can I get you anything? Maybe some tea? Or would you like something to eat?”

  I’m about to refuse Dr. Martin’s kind offer when I realize that it’s late in the morning now, and I’m feeling quite weak. “Just tea would be wonderful. Thank you.”

  Dave is sleeping. I can see his chest rise and fall. One of his hands is resting outside the covers, and it looks very wrinkled and worn.

  I hate this. I hate that he looks this way now, when he’s always been so strong.

  Dr. Martin returns with my tea and a pack of crackers and cheese, which I accept. Then he leaves, telling me he’ll be back to look in on Dave later today.

  So now I’m alone with him. I drink my tea and eat my crackers and wonder why I’ve done this to myself.

  I would have been happier alone, without all this heartache.

  He might not be dead right now, but he has something wrong with him that they can’t diagnose and so they can’t treat. It can’t be good. Who knows how long he’ll hold out? We can’t even figure out things that trigger it, so there’s no way to try to prevent the episodes.

  I’ve been in the room more than an hour and have actually started to doze off when a motion on the bed brings me back to consciousness.

  I open my eyes to see Dave shifting under the covers. As I watch, his eyes open.

  After a moment, they rest on me. “Eleanor.”

  I make a foolish sound of emotion. “Hi. How are you feeling?”

  “I … I don’t know. What happened?”

  “You had one of your episodes. You’re in the hospital now.”

  He frowns, awareness and intelligence returning to his face, making such a drastic difference that it’s almost shocking. “How long have you been sitting here?”

  “Just an hour here,” I say, not wanting him to know how long I had to wait before I was let into the room.

  He looks to the tray table beside the bed. Seeing his watch, he lifts it up to peer at it. “You must have been here longer than that.”

  “I just got to the room an hour ago. I was in a waiting room before that.”

  “You’ve been here way too long. You need to go back.”

  “I do not. I need to stay with you.”

  He smiles tiredly. “I’m evidently just lying here.”

  “Does anything hurt?”

  “My head, a little. Not too bad. Has Kevin been here?”

  I try not to sneer at the name. “He was here earlier. He left once he found out you were stable and asleep. I’m sure he’ll come by later.”

  “Yeah.” Dave sighs. “You should go back.”

  “I’m not going to go back yet, and you shouldn’t expect me to. I want to be here with you.”

  His face twists strangely, and he reaches out toward me. I assume he’s looking for my hand, so I place it in his. He closes his cool fingers around mine and then raises my hand to his lips, pressing a kiss against the knuckles. “I’m sorry to worry you.”

  “What makes you think I was worried?” I’m deeply touched by the words and the little gesture. I’m feeling far too weak, far too scared.

  I don’t like feeling this way. I never have.

  He gives a huff of laughter. “I know you, remember.”

  “I guess.” I smile at him so he knows I’m teasing.

  “I love you, remember.”

  “I do remember. I love you too.”

  “Good.” He closes his eyes and lets loose of my hand. “I’m going to rest for a little while.”

  “Good plan.”

  I watch him as he falls asleep again, and I wonder if there’s any possible way to protect my heart.

  Life gives you things and then takes them away. If you’re lucky, the giving and taking mostly balance out.

  I stay with Dave most of the afternoon, but I’m so tired around supper time that everyone—the nurses, Dr. Martin, Dave—all insist I head back to the residence.

  I know they’re right, so I do it. I manage to eat a little bit, and I take a hot shower. Then I collapse on my bed and go right to sleep.

  I wake up much later than usual—proof of how tired I was. The first thing I do is call Dave, and I’m pleased when he answers the phone. He sounds much more like his regular self. He tells me they’ll probably keep him in the hospital today so they can run more tests, but he’ll likely be able to come home tomorrow.

  Then he tells me Kevin is coming to see him this morning, so I should take it easy and not come by until after lunch.

  It makes sense. I don’t really want to hang around if Kevin is there too. Plus, I’m still so tired I don’t want to get out of bed.

  So I have a leisurely morning, trying to talk myself out of having a panic attack about being in a relationship with a man who might die at any time, and then I drive over to the hospital around noon.

  I’m not going to let Dave see how I’ve been feeling. I don’t want him to know how scared, how uncertain I suddenly am. My reaction is probably natural, but it’s also unworthy. That’s not—and never has been—how love is supposed to work. So I’ll keep it to myself, and I’ll work through it soon enough.

  It’s more important for Dave to know I love him and get better enough to come home.

  He looks much healthier when I enter the room—at least physically. He’s not as pale, and it appears someone has helped him with his hair, since it’s not sticking out in all directions like it was yesterday.

  I smile cheerfully and ask him how he’s feeling. I’m surprised when he just mutters out a response.

  I realize his expression is that grumpy one, when he’s pulled back inside his shell.

  “What’s the matter?” I ask, sitting down next to him. I’d take his hand if he offered it to me, but he doesn’t.

  “Nothing. I mean, I don’t know.”

  “Well, something is going on.” My heart is starting to hammer—that tremor of warning that something bad is about to happen. I know it. I’ve lived long enough to recognize it when it comes. “Just tell me.”

  “Kevin wants me to move to Virginia Beach with him.”

  I sit up straight with a jerk. “I know. We talked about it before. You decided against it.”

  “I didn’t really decide against it.”

  “Yes, you—” I stop myself, knowing arguing about something so trivial isn’t worth the trouble. It doesn’t matter whether he decided against it and is now changing his mind or if he never decided against it and just made me think he had. “Are you thinking about doing it?”

  “I’m thinking about it. He makes a lot of sense.”

  “What kind of sense is he making?”

  “Just that the whole family is there, and there will be a lot of people around to help me. I’m not getting any younger, you know.”
/>
  Of course he’s not. None of us are. And I realize that this episode has scared him too—just like it’s scared me. This is his way of coping.

  The realization hurts so much I can barely speak, but I manage to say, with a degree of my normal composure, “I thought you said you weren’t going to leave me. You didn’t mean that?”

  “Of course I meant it.” He’s looking grumpy again, angry even. “How can you doubt it?”

  “I doubt it because you’re talking about leaving right now. What am I supposed to think?”

  “Well, you can come with me.” He scowls at me. “You can just come with me.”

  It feels like a slap in the face—an offer that’s nothing more than an afterthought, an invitation so ludicrously impossible.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” I snap, tired of trying to sound calm.

  “Why is it ridiculous?”

  “Because I’m not going to leave. I’ve been here my whole life. This is where I want to be. You know that.”

  “Maybe I thought you loved me enough to let it go.” He’s muttering now and sounds bitter.

  Probably about as bitter as I feel. “Right. I’m supposed to sacrifice everything because you can’t say no to your stepchildren.”

  “That’s not what this is about.”

  “Of course it is. You can’t say no. You’re too apathetic to put up a fight. And so you’re willing to give up everything you have here to do what they want. And now you expect me to do the same thing when you’re clearly prioritizing those spoiled brats who just take advantage of you over me. What? Am I supposed to find a new home there? What’s that going to cost me every month?”

  “I would—”

  “Don’t you dare offer to pay for me. You know better than that. I’m supposed to leave my family and everything I love here?”

  “I thought you loved me.” He’s sulking now, like a child. I’ve seen old men do that over and over again when they don’t get their way, and I’m tired of it. I’m tired of all of this. I’m supposed to be relaxing and taking it easy for my final years, and all I’ve had is angst and worry and frustration, and now this.

  Heartbreak, I guess you could call it.

  “This is not how love works.” I stand up, since if I stay here any longer I’m going to cry.

  He turns his head to glare at me coldly. “So that’s it? You’re giving up on us?”

  “You’ve already given up on us. I’m just agreeing to your terms.”

  I turn and leave after that, knowing it’s over, knowing it’s hopeless, knowing I was foolish to ever think this could work.

  We’re not young anymore, investing in a long life together. There’s not much left for us to even have, and the habits of a lifetime are simply too hard to break at this point.

  I drive home and lock myself away in my room.

  It’s funny how something so small can shatter what two people have worked so hard to build.

  I was part of a couple just an hour ago, and now I’m not.

  Now I’m alone again.

  When I was seven years old, I spent two weeks dreaming of a trip into town. Our parents had promised the trip to my sister and me. We were going to see a movie and go to an ice cream shop for milk shakes.

  I was so excited about the trip. The anticipation filled my head for days. I slept in rag curlers the night before so my hair would fall in pretty curls. And, finally, on the afternoon, my sister and I got dressed up in our best ruffled dresses and patent leather buckle shoes.

  We went to the movie first, and the whole family enjoyed it. Then we went to the ice cream shop for milk shakes. Sitting at the bar was a boy of about twelve. He wore a leather jacket and looked sour and rebellious. I’d seen boys like that before, and I didn’t like them. I always gave them a wide berth.

  I had to walk right past him to get to our table, though. I was holding my sister’s hand. The boy was looking right at me, and so—being me—I stared right back at him.

  Looking away would be a defeat, and I didn’t like to be defeated even back then, even by mean boys of twelve.

  As I passed, I heard the boy say under his breath, “Ugly cow.”

  I was sure he was talking about me.

  I was seven, and the words just decimated me. I spent the whole time at the shop trying not to cry, trying to figure out if I was really ugly, why he would have said something like that to me. I felt so sick I could barely swallow my milk shake. My mother was sure I was ill, but the truth was I was just so upset.

  People have sometimes thought that I’m unfeeling because I don’t openly show what I feel. They think I’m not as emotional as more demonstrative people, that I don’t feel things as deeply.

  And they’re so wrong.

  That whole day was ruined for me—because of that boy’s comment. Even the parts of it I enjoyed, that I spent so long looking forward to, were tainted for me.

  I sometimes wonder if I could have talked myself out of it, and I wonder the same thing again now.

  Because I’m feeling the same way as I go to bed—like I’m sick, like everything that’s been so beautiful here at Eagle’s Rest is now tainted, that I’ll never get it back, like I’m still that little girl, devastated by one moment that changed everything.

  I’m not a child anymore, however, and I tell myself it will be better tomorrow.

  I hope it will be. Right now, hope is all I have.

  fourteen

  I wake up the next morning with a heavy feeling in my stomach. I sense it immediately, even before my mind catches up.

  I’ve always hated that feeling—the sickening heaviness in your gut that’s emotional but has a profound effect on your body.

  I remember feeling the same way when I woke up after each of my little dogs died. I felt this way after Jeff and I broke up. I felt this way the morning after my mother died. It’s like the night has blurred the acuteness of the grief temporarily, but your body won’t ever let you forget that things are just not right with the world.

  It takes me just a few seconds to remember that Dave and I have broken up. As I lie in bed, staring up at a mostly dark room, I keep picturing the rest of my days passing by, one by one, without him.

  It’s not a good vision of the future.

  I manage to talk myself out of complete despair by reminding myself I’ve lived most of my life without him very happily.

  If he’s so selfish and spoiled that he thinks I’ll do anything he wants, without discussion, purely for his own convenience, then there will be no way of living with him.

  And if he’s so resigned to letting himself be bullied that he won’t even stand up for what will really make him happy—as both of us know staying here at Eagle’s Rest will—then he’ll never be able to make a real commitment to me.

  It makes sense. We’re both too old and used to our own routines to really change at this point, as you have to if you’re going to start building a life with someone else. At this stage of life, it works better to just have someone to hang out with, rather than trying to make life changes based on a fantasy of love.

  We’re too old and wise for that. At least, I am.

  I eat tea and crackers in my room rather than going to the dining hall for breakfast. I just don’t have the energy to face everyone yet. They’ll all be asking about Dave, and I’ll have to somehow tell them that we’re no longer together. There will be exaggerated sympathy and nosy questions and probably some secret pleasure at seeing us broken up.

  People are like that. I’m like that sometimes. We’re all, at heart, trying to fight our worst instincts and often not succeeding.

  When it’s light outside, I get dressed and go for a walk. It’s a clear, sharp, dry day—my favorite kind of all. I make myself enjoy it, since there aren’t that many days so nice in the year. The walk feels lonely and empty, but that’s to be expected.

  Each day, it will get better. I know it will. I’ve had plenty of experience to tell me that we slowly heal whether we want to o
r not. So I’m going to keep walking in the mornings to the bench, where I can look out on my beloved Valentine Valley. Dave isn’t going to take that away from me.

  I stay for about a half hour in a kind of numb state of resigned determination—if such a state of opposites can actually exist—and then I start to walk back.

  Dave is supposed to get out of the hospital today. I hope he’s had a good night. I hope he hasn’t had a setback that would keep him in the hospital longer.

  It will be harder when he returns to Eagle’s Rest, but he’ll be packing up and getting ready to move. We won’t have to share the community much longer.

  Then he’ll be gone and I’ll start again.

  Sometimes, I try to look back over my life and count up the number of restarts I’ve had. I always come to the conclusion that there have been far too many to count.

  As I’m walking back through the gardens, I see someone sitting under the arbor. In the spring, that seat must be beautiful, surrounded by fragrant blooms, but now it’s kind of depressing, covered by nothing but dying vines.

  It’s Gladys, I see. Something is wrong with her. I can tell even from the distance. It’s something about the way she’s hunched over on the bench.

  I walk to her, responding to an automatic spark of concern.

  When I get close, I can see she’s been crying. Her eye makeup is running, and she’s holding a crumpled wad of tissue. She’s wearing her normal high heels and a bright green pantsuit, and her hair looks particularly brassy in the rising sun.

  “Are you okay?” I ask.

  She looks up, her face reflecting immediate embarrassment. Maybe I’m intruding, but you don’t sit outside in a public garden and cry unless you secretly want someone to find you, comfort you.

  She clears her throat. “I guess so.”

  That’s invitation enough, so I sit down. Gladys and I have never been friends, but I know her. And you have to be pretty heartless to just walk away in such a situation.

  “What’s happened?”

  She looks up at me. “My daughter is getting divorced.”

  Those five words and the fact that she’s here crying about them tell me a lot about Gladys—a lot I didn’t know before. “I’m sorry. Is it sudden?”