Michael leaned heavily against her, a hand around his throat like a wrap. His mouth opened as if to get more air. His breath wheezed and gurgled in his throat.
In desperation, looking for help, Nina glanced at Chris and Peter. The expressions on their faces reflected the horror she felt. She looked at Michael’s face—it had turned bright red. He sagged against her.
“Let’s lay him down,” Nina pleaded.
Together they lowered him to the grass. Mindless of the myriad of ants Nina sat on the ground, pulling him to her, his head cradled in her lap. Chris gave her a wet napkin, and she wiped perspiration from Michael’s face, his throat.
Groaning, Michael’s breath grew shallow and labored. Nina bent over him and saw confusion and fear reflected in his eyes. He locked his eyes on her, gazing for what seemed like a long time, before grabbing her hand, squeezing it hard. Then a film covered his eyes. She thought how strange that his eyes, usually so blue and sparkling, were pale, empty.
Brian pushed through with a doctor in tow. The doctor knelt beside Michael and listened with his stethoscope. He lifted the lid of one eye and shined a light in it, then the other.
Michael’s tongue protruded from his mouth, the lips pulled back from his teeth in a rictus. His face had a bluish cast that covered his throat and chest. His head was so heavy on her lap.
He’s so still. Nina couldn’t understand why he was so still.
The doctor, through with his brief examination, stood and asked who was next of kin.
Brian made a sweeping motion. “We all are.”
“It seems to me your father,” and stooped to speak to Nina, “your husband had a heart attack.”
“No!” Brian said. “I told you on our way here, my Dad swallowed a live wasp along with his champagne. The wasp must have stung him in the mouth or the throat, and now he’s having trouble breathing. Can’t you open an air passage to help him get more air? What about something against wasp stings?”
“I’m afraid it’s too late. I can’t find a pulse or a heart beat.” The doctor looked at each of them in turn. “He’s gone. There’s nothing I can do. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
For a brief moment Nina was his future wife. Then there was nothing. There was no future. There was no Michael.
She fell from blinding heights where she had played with the beams of the moon and counted the stars at her feet. She fell smashed to the ground, crushed and broken. All the life that was hers, that should have been hers—theirs—to live was spent in the short span of time when they were Michael and Nina.
Michael was gone. Her love.
Chapter 40
One of the sons, Nina didn’t know who, called Samantha to give her the news about Michael’s death. Accompanied by Cindy, she rushed over to be with Brian and the others. After Michael’s body was taken to the ME’s office, Brian and Samantha drove Nina home. As she was about to enter Brian’s car somebody handed her the bunch of ‘Nina Brochard’ roses Michael had given her only a short while ago. During the drive to her home they rested on her lap, a dead weight, their invasive scent making her nauseous.
Walking through the front door into the living room, she felt Michael’s presence, heard his laughter and his gentle voice saying, “Nina, my Nina.” The smell of lemony after-shave together with his natural body odor hung in the air. She only needed to close her eyes to touch him.
Her grief was so powerful it nailed her to the spot. A violent, indescribable pain made her knees buckle. No coherent thoughts registered on her brain. Through the confusion and incredulity and bottomless unhappiness she knew it was impossible to stay in this house. She couldn’t sleep in this bed, sit on these couches; she couldn’t breathe this air that she’d once shared with him.
Nina heard him say, “This is the last time we’ll sleep apart. I promise,” and knew she had to get away.
Packing an overnight bag with some clothes and other necessities, she keyed in the alarm, which she usually never used, pulled the blinds, and locked the doors. She put her things in the car and crossed the street to Brian’s house. Samantha, tired and disheveled, her eyes red from crying, opened the door.
“Nina, I’m glad you came. Brian told me Michael proposed to you.” Samantha was crying, fat tears rolling down her cheeks. She grasped Nina’s hand. “Come in. Cindy’s upset, she’s resting.”
“Thanks, Samantha. I came to tell you, I can’t stay in my house. I’ll check into a hotel.”
Brian joined them, his face white, his shoulders sagging. He’d aged since this morning—new furrows, like brackets, went from his nostrils down to the corners of his mouth. Both Brian and Samantha tried to persuade her to stay with them.
Brian touched her shoulder. “We have a spare bedroom. Just for tonight, Nina.”
“Thanks for the offer, but I can’t.” Not knowing why she couldn’t; confusion clouded her thinking. She’d decided on a hotel and stuck to it, unmindful whether it made sense or not.
“Then check into the hotel, but come back here for a while. Peter and Chris, their wives and the boys will be over later. We need to be together, and there are arrangements we have to make. You have to be in on the decisions. You’re part of us now.”
Please, she wanted to say, don’t be kind to me. Please, don’t talk about arrangements, as if he’s gone for good. But of course he was gone. Her mind couldn’t grasp it, and there were moments when everything was like before, when she thought nothing had happened to Michael. Any minute now he would walk through the door, smiling, blue eyes sparkling. Then reality hit her, it brought a pain so fierce she almost passed out.
I should cry. Why don’t I cry?
Immediately after checking into the hotel Nina called Danny. She had no idea what time it was in Annecy, but from the sound of his voice, he was groggy when he answered.
“Danny? Danny—can you hold a minute?” Sitting on the edge of the sagging bed she dropped the cell phone in her lap and buried her face in her hands, almost panting. When she thought she could talk again, she picked up the phone. “Danny, I’m coming to Annecy sometime soon.”
“You are? What’s happened? You sound so … I don’t know, are you sick, Mami?”
For a long time she cried, deep hulking sobs, unable to answer.
“Mami, what’s wrong? What’s happened? Tell me?”
“Michael—”
“What about him? Talk to me.”
“He’s had …” She couldn’t say it. How could she say it? “He’s had an accident.”
“An accident? Is it serious? How is he?”
“Dead.” She caught her breath. “He’s dead! Danny, he died!”
“What? Mami, what are you saying?”
With words wrenched from the bottom of her soul she told him. “He asked me to marry him. Then a wasp stung him in the throat.” She sobbed. “I can’t say any more. I’ll call you later.”
“Don’t call me. I’ll get on the first available flight to Florida. You don’t have to go through this alone.”
“I don’t know, Danny. I’ll think about it, call you back.” Without waiting for his response, she hung up.
Standing from the bed, Nina went into the bathroom to wash her face with cold water. When she thought she was calmer, she phoned Lillian, relieved that her daughter answered.
“Mami, I’m glad you called. Danny told me about the Rose Festival. Isn’t it today? How did it go? Did you get to baptize the rose?” Lillian sounded excited and vibrant, a smile in her voice.
“Yes, Lillian, but something terrible happened.” Having said that, Nina had to go through with the rest—tell Lillian, as she’d told Danny, her soul ripping apart with each word.
Like Danny, Lillian wanted to come over right away. Nina repeated what she had told Danny.
“I’ll make my travel arrangements a
nd come to Annecy as soon as … as soon as I can.” Her mouth refused to formulate the word “funeral.”
“Call me, Mami, please. Promise to call me any time.”
“Sure, I will.”
Because Nina couldn’t think, was bewildered and had no will of her own, she did as Brian suggested; she returned to their home in the evening and sat quietly in an easy chair and listened to them discuss the funeral.
“What do you think?” somebody asked her.
The question hadn’t registered, her response was automatic. “Sounds good to me. You know best.”
Nina spent most of her days before the funeral in Samantha and Brian’s home. Sometimes she stood by their living room window, looking at her own house across the street. It looked abandoned with all the blinds pulled, like eyes closed in sleep. She spent most of the nights walking the floor in her hotel room, bearable only because it was so anonymous. Catching her reflection in the bathroom mirror she leaned closer to inspect her face. How is it possible that I look the same? I feel so different.
A couple of days later Nina called Danny again. He was frantic, so was Lillian, he said. They had both tried Nina’s home phone several times, but only got the answering machine, and she hadn’t thought of turning on the cell phone. Immediately, she felt guilty for worrying them. This time she was calmer, able to explain about the accident, as they’d come to call it.
“I’ve made arrangements to come over,” Danny said. “I’ll be there for the funeral. I don’t think you should go through this alone.”
“Oh Danny, it’s very good of you. But it’s not necessary. At the moment, we don’t even know when the funeral will be. It depends when the ME’s office releases .” She couldn’t say the words. It was all so unreal.
“I’d like to help. This must be so tough.”
“Thank you, chéri. Don’t worry, I’m not alone. Michael’s family is wonderful to me, particularly Brian and Samantha. I’ll get through this, somehow.”
“Are you sure you don’t want me there?”
“Lillian suggested the same thing, but I prefer it this way. Then, after the funeral I’ll come to Annecy. I’ll let you know my flight arrangements. Will you meet me at the airport if I arrive in Geneva?”
“No problem. I’ll be there. Let me know when you arrive.”
Should I have accepted their offer to come to Florida? She didn’t know. Everything was so confusing. She’d lost all of her landmarks. For reasons she couldn’t explain she wanted to keep Michael separate from her life before they met. It really makes no difference; Michael is gone
Sophie was a constant presence. Every day after work she came over to Brian’s and sat quietly by Nina’s side. She was mute in her compassion, empathizing through her silence when Nina had no words to speak. If she allowed it, Sophie accompanied her to the hotel, making sure Nina ate, insisting on taking her for short walks in the muggy evenings.
“You need some air or you won’t be able to sleep. It’s somewhat cooler now, let’s go to the park.”
Nina complied, too numb to argue.
Sophie parked by the river and, shoulder to shoulder, they strolled along the winding gravel paths under a canopy of leaves.
“We came here once, Michael and I. To the restaurant, over there.” Nina pointed. “That’s when he asked me to work at the clinic.” She stopped in her tracks. “I’m sorry, Sophie, all I do is talk about Michael.”
“Talk all you want. It’s good for you.”
Nina was quiet for a moment. “Something’s been bothering me. Michael asked to read the novel I’m working on. I was thrilled and flattered that he was interested. Every now and then he’d ask if I had some pages ready for him to read.
“I was selfish, wanting to finish the rewrite and give him the entire manuscript in one go. He never read a single page. I regret it; it would have been so wonderful to share my work with him. If only I’d known that we had so little time …” A sob took the rest of the sentence and turned the words into an incoherent murmur.
Sophie squeezed her shoulder. “You don’t need to feel guilty. If we knew what awaits us, we’d do a lot of things differently.”
The autopsy report—when it finally arrived—revealed that Michael had, indeed, been stung in the throat by a wasp. The throat swelled and closed, cutting off air with amazing rapidity, the autopsy report said. Michael died from suffocation.
So they were told.
As if the cause of his death made a difference.
The doctors said Michael must have been exceptionally sensitive to wasp venom because the reaction had been so strong, and the end came so quickly. Nina wanted to argue he wasn’t allergic to wasp stings. He’d told her so himself. But to argue would have been pointless.
He was gone.
The funeral was held on the Sunday two weeks after the Festival—a simple, beautiful service. The chapel was filled with the scent of Michael’s rose. Nina couldn’t call it by name; it was simply “his rose.” Reverend Oren Jones stood behind the casket, his head bowed, taking leave of a treasured friend. In the background, a flute played softly “Nights in White Satin.” Discussing the selection of music, they agreed on this piece when Nina mentioned that she knew Michael loved this ballad. A woven blanket of the “Nina Brochard” roses covered the coffin and cascaded all the way to the floor. This had been Nina’s only request; she didn’t want the casket to show.
Those who came to pay their last respects were so numerous most of them didn’t find room in the large chapel, but had to stay in the courtyard. As the ceremony began, they were drenched by a tropical shower, as brief as it was violent.
The sons had placed Nina in front with Brian on one side, Chris on the other. Cindy sat next to Brian, and the grandsons sat at each end of the pew.
Cindy had been very considerate of Nina, quiet and unassertive.
While they were having dinner one night in Brian and Samantha’s home, Cindy had placed a hand on Nina’s. “I’m only Michael’s ex-wife—you were his future. He talked about you constantly. He told me he hoped you would agree to marry him, make him a happy man. I’m glad you said yes, and I want you to know we’re all grateful that you made his last days so sunny and filled with hope.”
Embarrassed by the ungenerous thoughts she’d sometimes had about Cindy, Nina patted her arm. “Thank you for saying that.”
Nina brushed away a tear. “It was important to Michael that you be comfortable here during your stay. It must be so difficult to live far away from your children—I should know. We have that in common.”
Throughout the days when they had discussed and planned this ceremony, they’d insisted that Nina was family, and she was very grateful for their generosity in including her. Their shared grief bridged any awkwardness they might have felt from being thrust together so abruptly. They were all joined now, Michael’s closest family. Only Samantha was absent. Midweek following the Festival, she gave birth to her first child, a little girl.
They named her Michaela Rose.
Nina’s attention returned to the ceremony. Oren Jones spoke of Michael’s work, of his dedication to provide good medicine for all. He spoke of Michael’s commitments in the community, his efforts to make it a safer place, cleaner of drugs. He knew Michael well, and Nina was pleased that somebody Michael had respected and loved spoke of him, the person, the man, not mouthing trivialities, as was often the case. The bond between Michael and Oren was their love of nature, music, and people; both followed the spiritual path.
The organist played Beethoven’s “Ode to Joy.” A vocalist sang Gabriel Fauré’s “Après Un Rêve … After a dream.” It was very beautiful, so in keeping with Michael, simple and dignified.
His family, Nina included, stood to receive the silent condolences of those paying their respects. She knew hardly any of them. Those she recognized, who
knew her, patted her arm or squeezed her hand. Barry was there. Without a word, he took her in his arms. Sophie looked distressed, her face mottled from crying. She kissed Nina on the cheek, mumbling something Nina didn’t catch. Marley stopped in front of Nina, holding up the quiet procession. His face was wet with tears. Taking her hands, he held them against his cheeks. And she saw Michael’s face so clearly. Peter felt her sway precariously and helped her sit down. Nina saw Michael put to rest.
Chapter 41
In the weeks after Michael was taken from her, Nina’s days were filled with a blinding absence of light. Darkness inhabited her. She arose in the morning and went to bed at night, but was hard put to account for the hours in between. Michael was gone, but it was too much for her mind to grasp, her heart refused to believe it was true. She waited for him, smelled his scent, heard his voice. He was present with her, night and day.
The days before the funeral were lost in a haze—she was only aware of an abyss ready to swallow her, and a pain that defied description.
On the Tuesday of her scheduled session with Marley, Nina had pulled herself together enough to drive to the clinic. Once there, she was been glad she’d come; Marley had waited for her, sitting outside the front door in the heat. When she got out of the car he sauntered to meet her.
He placed his hand on her heart. “M’am Nina, I’m glad you come. Afraid you feel too much hurt.”
“I do hurt, but I figured you do, too. I wanted to come. Perhaps we can help each other a little bit.”
Nina rang the bell. While they waited for the buzz to open the door, Marley stuck his hand in hers. Inside, they found that Wanda had been replaced by an older receptionist Nina didn’t know.
“I’m Nina Brochard. I have a session with Marley.”
“Yes. Doctor Hamilton’s office is available.”
“Doctor Hamilton” sounded strange to Nina. For a moment she felt disoriented, then it struck her; the new receptionist didn’t know Michael. To her he was just a name.
Life Is A Foreign Language Page 28
