Happy Family

by Tracy Barone

  This dire assessment takes a moment to sink in. What kills her the most is the timing: she’s been waiting for endless months to be exonerated and now the tablets are in lockdown, behind the doors of a closed museum, in a city being bombed and invaded. But at least she was exonerated; she is not going to lose this career ignominiously, as she lost the last one. She would have expected to feel not just relief but elation. Of course, her liberation comes with handcuffs. The committee’s report would be voluminous, quoting the university’s bylaws to justify the censorship they’d inflict on her. She can’t begin to think about the implications this has for her future as a professor. No time now to think about the news, good or bad; Michael is at the end of the end. Relief, when it comes, is a whisper.

  When Cheri goes into Michael’s sickbay, he’s sitting up in bed working on number three on Robyn’s to-do list: put your affairs in order. “What do you want to do with this?” Robyn holds up a striped cape.

  “Bertrand got me that for my birthday a few years ago. It’s a Tibetan snow cape. Mark that with a red sticker to give to Bertrand, please.” As Robyn puts a red sticker on the cape and sets it aside with a stack of other color-coded possessions they’ve sorted through that morning, Cheri remembers itemizing their wedding presents the same way. Back then they were deciding what to exchange and what to keep. Some of Michael’s friends have already made their journey to say good-bye, leaving with boxes and wet eyes. Filming for The Palmist has concluded, so Giaccomo wrapped his visit by pulling Cheri aside and asking what Michael had done with all his drug samples from the apothecary cabinet. For a moment, Cheri wished she had a few baggies to hand out to Michael’s loyal followers. Bertrand was the hardest one to watch make his final descent down the stairs. It made her throat clutch with sadness. “Thank you for taking care of him,” she’d said quietly as he leaned on her for support.

  “Okay,” Cheri says now, turning to Michael. “What’s next?”

  Ever since Robyn arrived, Michael seemed to be doing better. Cheri had been reluctant to taper off his G-tube feedings, despite Robyn’s explanation that Michael’s body wasn’t absorbing much of the nutrition anyway and stopping the feeding would decrease his bloating and make him more comfortable. But Cheri had done it, and Robyn had been right—the difference was notable.

  Today Michael has color in his sunken cheeks, and his eyes look clear. He’d felt rejuvenated enough yesterday to sit at his desk and edit the final footage of The Palmist. He moved around his office holding on to chair backs and other objects for support, calling out, “Dead man walking,” and he weakly suggested going out for dinner. “Twin Anchors,” he said. “Maybe I’d have a bite of ribs just for the taste.” Cheri smiled. Until Michael got sick, she hadn’t realized how attached she was to the cycle of meals. His inability to ingest pained her.

  “I’ll go out for my dinner break now and leave you chickens to it,” Robyn says. “While everyone’s feeling good, this is the time to do number four on the list.” Robyn taps her finger four times on the table. Cheri knows this is the number for funeral preparations. Years ago, when death was purely theoretical, they’d jokingly agreed that if either of them ever became more vegetable than meat, the other one would put him or her out to sea on an ice floe. “Careful, there, don’t get any ideas about committing senilicide when I’m just plain old,” Michael had said.

  “Whatever you do, I am not going in Sol’s plot.” Michael settles his back against pillows and rearranges his IV pole.

  “Wait a second. Do you honestly think, even in your wildest imagination, I’d suggest burying you in Sol’s plot?” Sol’s will provided for a family plot, with spaces reserved for Michael and Cheri; they had laughed at the notion of family members who didn’t like one another in life being confined together for eternity.

  Michael is about to say something flippant and then stops. “Forget it. I can’t get it up to Sol-bash. One thing being a dead man walking teaches you is that none of it matters. The petty bullshit, the squabbles.” He dismisses it all with a wave of his hand. “Burial is out. I don’t want the whole pomp and circumstance of marble and headstone unveilings. Sign me up for fire.”

  “Okay. So cremation,” Cheri says. “Do you want a rabbi or ceremony or any of that?”

  “No service, no funeral. Nobody reading poetry or eulogizing. Throw me a party and screen The Palmist. I’ve gone over my cut with Jonah and Bertrand, so when they say it’s ready, go with it. I made a list of the booze and food to serve; play Hendrix, and—it’s all written down, along with a list of who to invite. Make it an Irish wake minus ‘Danny Boy’ and the other maudlin crap. People should get loaded and have a good time.” Michael looks up at her. “That means you too, Cheri.” Their eyes meet for a long moment. Cheri offers him a sad little salute.

  Michael continues: “That’s all I want. The instructions are in the yellow file on the desk, along with the name of the place to do the cremation. There is something, though, that I need you to do, to promise me.”

  “Sure,” she says.

  “I need you to make sure that my body is really cremated and not dumped in a storage unit. This place has its own crematorium so it’s not outsourced. They all claim to be ethical, but who knows what happens when nobody is looking.”

  Cheri thinks that sounds a bit paranoid but bites her tongue.

  Sensing her skepticism, Michael adds, “Remember that cremation scam in Georgia last year? They found bodies in an ex-con’s garage, piled up like in the Holocaust.”

  “How would I check? It’s not like I can go in with you.”

  “You watch,” he says, “from behind a window or a partition. They let you if you request it in advance. It’s also good for you, by the way. Helps with closure.”

  “To watch your body go into the furnace?”

  “Since when are you squeamish? The door comes down so you don’t see the whole crackle-crackle-crackle, pop, pop, pop. Bit of a mess if he’s not quite dead.” Michael does a fair-to-middling Monty Python impression. Cheri exhales. In theory, this is something she can embrace, but looking at Michael now, propped up in bed, the leap to picturing his trip into the fiery furnace is too disturbing. “You know how they do cremations in Tibet?” he asks.

  “I think I know a thing or two about that.”

  “I don’t mean in the ancient past, I mean now, modern day. The villagers put the body in a coffin they’ve knocked together out of planks they find, no lid; they put the coffin on top of logs in front of their town hall or along the riverbank and light it on fire. Everyone comes and watches. It’s part of life, a continuation of the cycle. I’m dying, Cheri. That fact won’t go away. It will keep getting your attention in other, bigger ways. Pebble, rock, brick. Anything you keep hidden, anything that you don’t face, has power over you. Don’t let it.”

  “I’m confused. Is this about you being worried that your body will end up in some ex-con’s garage? Or is this about me not being as—accepting—of all of this as you are?”

  “Both,” he says, then pauses. “But I need you to know that acceptance is something I struggle with every day. There are times when I’m fucking terrified. Some days you eat the bear, some days the bear eats you.”

  “I’m sorry,” Cheri says, searching for how to define all that she’s sorry for. “I want you to know that I’m truly sorry.”

  “For what?” he asks.

  “For not seeing you. For pushing you into the whole baby thing. For everything…” He reaches out and touches her arm.

  “It’s okay,” he says. “I’ve forgiven you; I’ve forgiven myself. That was step one. You were right about how angry we’d become. Until you let go of your anger and resentment from the past you won’t be able to truly move forward. We’re stubborn fucks, you and I. Nothing comes easy. Whatever it is you need to find to live your life, go find it. And while you’re at it, give yourself permission to spend your money—and not just in an emergency.” Michael pauses, eyebrows raised, to make sure she understands
. She slowly nods her head.

  “Speaking of findings, I heard from the review board,” she says. “I’m out of jail.” Michael gives an ironic smile.

  “Just in time. I’m glad for you. Now you’ll be able to go to Iraq.”

  “If there’s an Iraq left to go to,” she says.

  “But that’s not what I was talking about,” Michael says.

  “I know.”

  “While I’m thinking of it, I have something for you.” Michael points to his desk. “Under that stack to the right of the computer, the big manila envelope. Can you bring it here?” Cheri retrieves the envelope and returns to sitting on the bed next to him. “This is for you. I don’t want you to open it until after I go up in flames. You’re going to do what you promised, right?”

  “I’ll do it,” she says, knowing however hard it is for her, she will follow through.

  “Okay. This envelope isn’t time-sensitive, so open it whenever you’re in a good place.”

  Will she ever be in a good place again? He is releasing her. They have traveled such a long distance just to get to this end.

  “Got it.”

  When the moment recedes, Michael says: “If we had a boy, I’d have wanted to name him Hank.”

  “Hank? You never said you liked Hank.”

  “He’d turn out to be a baseball player or a musician; either one is good in my book.” Michael moves his leg to give her more room. “Is it scary to be this close to me? I’m pretty fucking scared to look at myself. These can’t be my bony, veiny legs with the dry skin flaking off like Alligator Man.”

  “Oh, sure, it’s fine for you to laugh,” she says and lies down next to him, gently.

  “It’s okay. You don’t have to hold it together anymore. We loved each other. Not always well or in the way the other one wanted, but there was love. There is love.” She says, “Oh, Michael—” but he says, “Shhh. I want to lie here like this for a while. Just lie with me like this.”

  Does he reach to touch her hand or does she reach for his? It just happens. She listens to his breathing and thinks, You’re still you, Michael. Underneath the skin and bone and disease, you’re still you. On one of her support websites she read that one woman made love to her husband even when he was unable to talk or walk or eat. That had seemed far-fetched, but now she understands. She thinks of starting with a kiss, imagines parting his dry lips with her tongue, breaking into his mouth, inhaling the sour chrysanthemum scent of illness. She should be able to touch him, really touch him. What is she afraid of?

  “Do you want a blow job?” she says.

  “What? Did you just ask if I wanted a blow job?”

  “Yup. I’d like to if you’d want it.”

  “Where did that come from?”

  “Since we’re in truth-telling mode, I’ve been contemplating if I should kiss you, if maybe that would startle you. Then I thought that maybe I should do something for you where you don’t even have to respond.”

  “I can’t believe the answer to that would ever be no, but…I don’t think it’s possible. How about a dance instead?” Cheri rolls her eyes. “C’mon, one twirl. Let’s lighten the mood.” Michael tips the IV pole, making it bow. He slowly gets to his feet. His body is reedy, and his pajamas slip down on his sharp hips. He doesn’t notice. It’s ignoble, leveling. She feels an inner welling, a sadness forming inside of her she doesn’t dare show Michael.

  “The tall guy stands! C’mon, just once around.”

  “You shouldn’t,” she says.

  “Just let me lead. That’s the only trick, baby, let the man lead.”

  His hands are chalky and cold and she’s afraid he’ll fall over and she won’t be able to get him up. Of course they decide to get silly when Robyn’s out of the house. Michael sways a little and she steadies him. Her head rests in the snug of his arm, up against his armpit; he is her basketball player, her big galoot, an apparition who is somehow managing a one-two-three, one-two-three with his feet. His head tilts back and he’s calm. It’s hard to tell from the angle—she’s looking up at him, a position she remembers from the early days where they were in a constant embrace—but, yes, Michael is smiling. She holds on to him like he’s a flower and she’s the press, wanting to preserve him forever.

  “I’ve got to sit down. Dizzy.”

  Michael tips and Cheri catches him just as the IV pole crashes to the floor.

  “I’m coming undone.” He paws at the IV catheter in his hand. There’s blood in his line.

  “Easy does it,” she says, guiding him so he’s sitting on the bed.

  “It’s all messed up. My hand…” His voice trails off.

  Cheri rights the IV pole, does her best to straighten out the lines. Michael’s face is gray, ashy. When is Robyn coming back? It can’t take her that long to eat; why isn’t she back? Should she call her?

  Michael is fiddling with his hand, trying to undo the tape to readjust the line. “I can’t get it back in; it’s not working, Cheri, it’s not working.” His eyes are the color of streaked glass. She doesn’t trust herself to fix the IV line; she feels inadequate, useless.

  “It’s okay,” she keeps saying until she hears Robyn’s reassuring footsteps outside HMS Sickbay. “We need your help!” She means to call calmly but it comes out as a shout.

  Soon. Even the word, with its double o’s languishing like a hammock, lulls Cheri into expectation. It’s the inevitable child’s question: When will we be there, are we there yet? Soon means “not now. Not yet.” Before Cheri realizes it, the end of the end has crept in on tiptoes. Robyn told her that a burst of energy was typical right before the end. It has been two days since their dance. “Promise you will take the envelope,” Michael reminds her. “Do it for you, not for me. For you.” Then the slim cord that connected him to the here and now retracted, and Michael went dark. He slept most of the time. Once, he thrashed about, clutching the sheets, his mouth gasping, yelling at someone only he could see.

  “Troops have landed in Baghdad.” Robyn recounts the headlines to Cheri quietly as she sits by Michael’s bed. When Cheri’s eyelids get too heavy she drifts off, but never for long. Robyn takes breaks to watch the war on the TV in the kitchen. Cheri half hears the sounds of shock and awe like ambient action-movie noise. Is this a sign? An augury?

  Michael lies in bed, his hand loosely cradling a stuffed mouse that Cheri found among some old boxes in the garage. Robyn said that the dying often like to hold something from their childhoods and she’d fished this out from one of his boxes. She had no idea whom it had belonged to or if Michael recognized it. Maybe the way it felt or smelled evoked a memory? Is this what happens to all of us in the end—a return to our beginnings? Was he already crossing over, dipping into the other realm, part of his body already in the shade? People were dying every second—in Baghdad, Omaha, Basra, Darfur. Chicago.

  Please don’t take Michael.

  She is waiting, hoping for a reprieve, just one more day, one more hour. The house is outside of time, suspended by Michael’s rattling inhale and exhale, the click and hum of his morphine pump, which Cheri now controls. Is he agitated, showing signs of distress? She is an insect caught in the amber of waiting. All there is, is contained in this room, and everything—the musty air, the sunlight slanting through the window, the ratty mouse with its button eyes—is holy. She has promised herself that she will hold his hand until he dies. She will be there in his final moment as his shepherd, his guardian, his witness. She is vigilant, puts her head down on his bed to close her eyes, telling Robyn she’s okay, really, not hungry. “You have to let him go,” Robyn says, “tell him it’s all right for him to pass.”

  Hearing is the last sense to go. Speak to your loved one with words of comfort, the guide advises. She talks. About everything and nothing. She says, “It’s okay, you can go now,” even though she’s not sure she means it. Soon. She dreams she’s saying no, she doesn’t want to see the body and it’s really a turkey carcass, not a body. It gets up to run away and
the men with the black bag are at the door and she’s forgotten her slippers. She wakes up confused, having to pee.

  It happens when she’s in the bathroom. By the time she gets back, Michael’s eyes are open but vacant. She’s furious at herself for leaving. Exhausted. Relieved. Almost immediately, Robyn begins to take the next steps: She unhooks and rearranges. She tells Cheri she doesn’t need to be here for this, but Cheri doesn’t move. She feels nothing. When she is alone with what’s left—it is clear that Michael does not inhabit this body on the bed—she observes him as if in a dream state. He’s someone she once loved, she knows that, but she can’t quite recognize him.

  The room survives. The objects on his bed stand are exactly as she left them, safe and silent: medications, syringes, a box of blue rubber gloves, and the big white bottle of lotion Robyn used to rub his feet. Nothing has changed. Yet everything is different. The bottle of lotion is perfectly ordinary; she’d never really looked at it before. It’s white with blue writing. Baby colors, mashed potatoes, chipped porcelain white plates at Sam and Dave’s, half-dirty silverware on plastic blue chintz tablecloths, the white fleece lamb blanket she’d bought when she thought she’d get pregnant. Remarkable. Ordinary.