“Good night, lightweight.”
While Marcie slept the sleep of the drunk, Ian paged through the album of baseball cards. He imagined Bobby’s fingers on every one. Tears ran out of his eyes, washing the remorse and pain out of his soul. She might never know how much this simple gift meant.
Twelve
W hen Marcie finally opened her eyes, there was a marching band on parade in her head—a dull thumping that seemed to have a beat. Whoa. She’d sipped her way through twelve or fourteen letters. Bad idea. But she knew where Ian kept the aspirin.
She sat up carefully. The room was in order, as Ian always left it. Even the letters were tucked away; the baseball card album still on the table where she’d left it. The coffeepot rested on the woodstove, which needed a couple of logs. She fed the stove first, then put on her boots and took a trip out back, and when she returned she just about chugged the thick, black coffee even though it wasn’t quite hot enough. A glance at her watch told her that Ian wouldn’t be back for a while, and having now learned the ways of stoves, she decided to take advantage of his absence to freshen up. She heated the water for her hair first, then the tub. Then she went through the tedious process of emptying the tub, which was more trouble than filling it. By the time she was done with all that, she was actually tired, which had more to do with staying up late and drinking than the flu. In fact, she had hardly coughed at all. After washing her hair and bathing, she took her manicure scissors to her damaged bangs and managed to snip away the charred ends, combing it into some order. Her small makeup mirror showed she had a slight, healthy glow; the burn was healed, or nearly so. She applied a little makeup, something she hadn’t bothered with since arriving. But she’d forced her presence on Ian over and over again—it wouldn’t hurt to be presentable. She gave some attention to her eyes, lined her lips. She opened one of those cans of stew, ate about half, then she settled on the couch with her book, a new woman.
Without warning, the new woman vanished. Suddenly she knew—it was a year ago today. Funny, she hadn’t thought of that even once while she was reading through all those letters—not even the one with the date of Bobby’s passing in it. December 17, a week before Christmas.
It had been a very odd experience. Once she’d known Bobby was gone, she stayed right where she was, holding him. She didn’t cry; she didn’t call for a nurse or aide. And while she held him she communicated with her heart, telling him to be happy where he was. It was at least an hour before anyone came into the room—a sixty-year-old nurse’s aide, bringing around linens for the morning shift. “You’re here late,” the woman said.
And Marcie was stroking Bobby’s cheek, running her fingers through his hair, holding him close. She didn’t respond. She knew once she let go of him this time, she wouldn’t be able to hold him again. Something about the way she was touching him must have tipped off the aide because she came over to the bed and put her fingers to Bobby’s neck. “Mrs. Sullivan,” she said gently.
“I know. I’m having a little trouble letting go…” Marcie murmured.
“I understand. I’ll call someone for you. That usually helps. Someone will come and—”
“Could you put that off for just a little while? Could you give me just a little more time with him?”
“I’ll finish my rounds with the linens and then I’ll have the charge nurse make a call. Would you like it to be to his parents? Or maybe to your sister?”
“Call his parents,” she said. “They should be the first to know. Then would you please call Erin?”
“Sure.” Then she smiled sweetly and gave Marcie’s brow a loving stroke. Surely she’d seen every bizarre reaction to death in this place. “Take your time here. Take all the time you need.”
And when the aide left the room, Marcie had picked up the book she’d been reading to Bobby and continued to read. She read aloud to him for almost another hour—his body had grown cool to the touch. He was so completely lifeless, it rather amazed her. She would have thought there wouldn’t be much change in him, in his body, since he was so still even when he was alive, but the change in him was remarkable. She had never sensed tension in him until he passed, and then a complete relaxation settled over his facial features and he looked positively beautiful. Ethereal. Complete peace took over. And then he became so quiet. Cool. Hard. Still. Gone.
Mr. and Mrs. Sullivan came into the room and rushed to her. They found her with Bobby in her arms, the book open on her lap. “Marcie? What are you doing?”