Two nights before Mike’s return from Florida, I spent the night at Carmichael Oaks. There was still much to be done at the house, but the C.O. apartment was put together. Two accent walls were painted, the one in the living room was a “burnt caramel,” in the bedroom “sage green.” All of the boxes that contained things to be moved to the apartment had been unpacked and recycled. Pictures and mirrors were in place, fresh flowers were on the table that divided the kitchen from the living room. Clothes were hanging in the closets, towels and sheets in the little linen cabinet. The bed was made. It did all have a familiar look. Anyone who had been in our house more than once or twice could have come in here and thought, “Mike and Marilyn live here.”
Two chairs, a little table, and a few plants were on the balcony just outside the living room sliders. The balcony overlooked a broad driveway that divided Carmichael Oaks from a large acute care facility. It wasn’t a pretty view, but if one looked in the right direction, from the right angle, there were oak trees and sky to be seen.
Mike’s desk fit easily opposite our bed, as did the small rolling file cabinet from my downstairs office. All but the most current and immediately necessary files would go to storage. That hadn’t been done yet.
A little before 10, I took Sunny for a walk through the courtyard and down to a grassy area outside the assisted living section. She sniffed around with great interest—nothing like new scents to fascinate a dog. She found the spot that would become her toilet. I cleaned up after her and dropped her package in a nearby container. Back at the apartment we settled in for the night, she in her familiar bed beside the desk, and I in my familiar bed on the opposite side of the room.
I slept surprisingly well that first night. It probably helped that I’d been working nonstop from early in the morning until late at night since the morning I’d seen Mike off to Florida. I woke early, walked Sunny, and tried out the shower in what would become “my” bathroom. There were two bathrooms in this apartment, a luxury neither of the more upscale places we visited could offer.
Breakfast at 7. I was greeted cheerfully by Ronnie who asked my name, told me of breakfast options (plenty) and took my order. I had grapefruit, one poached egg, bacon, toast and coffee. It was all good. Halfway through breakfast Janice came into the dining room, greeting people by name. She brought a cup of coffee to my table, asked how things were going and if there was anything I needed. The dining room quickly filled up. There was lots of chatter. Most of the people looked to be 10 to 20 years older than I. That was okay. I’ve always liked old people.
After breakfast I went back to the house and continued packing. No one room was completely empty yet. The guest room was totally intact. Matt and Leesa would be taking the queen-sized bed and the linens and pillows that went with it. The chest that was Sharon and Doug’s to begin with would go back to them. The clothes it contained— extra bathing suits for the grandkids from years past, assorted winter things, extra pajamas—all could go to Goodwill. I boxed it up and labeled it.
Friends arrived to pack more dishes and crystal. Those boxes would go to the barn. In the afternoon Felicia, a local musician friend with whom Mike had happily worked for many years, dropped by with her adult son, Barry. When she’d told me that Barry had sold rocks from his garden on Craigslist, I asked if I could hire him to sell some of my things. I didn’t know the first thing about maneuvering such sales, but I had a number of things that I thought might be sold in that way. Felicia arranged for Barry to come over the next day to check things out.
As we went from room to room, Barry jotted down notes and I identified what I wanted to sell. I’d already talked with each of the kids about what they wanted. The wrought iron and glass coffee table plus patio furniture to Cindi. The guest room bed, martini couch, Mike’s black leather chair, washer dryer and assorted smaller pieces to Matt and Leesa. A few decorative items and the dining room set to Sharon and Doug. Occasional chairs, bar stools, side tables, a few lamps, more patio furniture, vases, pots, a file cabinet, a rice cooker, large pots and pans that I expected never to use again, a coffeemaker with bells and whistles, footstools, a printer, hoses, garden tools, so much of our lives—all to Craigslist.
Barry arranged a time to come back with his van. He took everything to his place and sold it from there. I offered him a 50/50 cut. He said he didn’t want anything. We haggled. I was so overwhelmed with the moving process and all that went with it, I knew that left to my own devices I’d probably end up giving it all away. Anything he brought in was more than I’d have had without his help. We agreed to disagree for a while and work things out later. He loaded his van.
That night, before Sunny and I went back to the apartment, I took a nearly full bottle of Chardonnay and a blue plastic cup upstairs to our almost empty bedroom. The little portable stereo was still there, sitting on the floor, as were a few CDs. I got cushions from the sofa bed in the bedroom we’d called Mike’s office and piled them on the floor. I opened the shutters on the window that looked out over Promontory Point. I started Emmylou Harris’s “Stumble Into Grace” album, poured wine into the cup, sat on the cushions and stared out the window at the familiar scene. The tops of redwood trees, the moon bright and full—a clear, crisp night, like so many other clear, crisp nights had been. One of the things we’d both loved about this upstairs bedroom was that even with the windows wide open and uncovered, we were in a private space, breathing in the scent of pine that filtered in through the open windows.
I refilled the plastic cup and scooted down so I was resting my back against the cushions. I let my mind wander to happier times in this room, the window open, a mild breeze freshening the air, us curled together under a light sheet, laughing maybe. Loving maybe. Loss washed through me, hollowed my inner being. The plaintive voice of Emmylou sang that even though her lover was standing on the other side of the river, he could still see her face. She will be standing there forever. The verse ends with the plaintive question, “Why won’t you look at me?
Here I am. Here I am.”
We’d bought this album shortly after it was released, back when Mike was fully Mike. For a while it had been one of our go-to albums when we were in the car. At the time we simply enjoyed the music and appreciated the poetry of the lyrics. Now, though, I was struck by how strongly I identified with the person who was standing by the river, her love on the other side. Why wouldn’t he look at her?
It seemed Mike had been on the other side of the river for such a long, long time. It’d been such a long, long time since he’d looked at me, since he’d truly seen my face, since he’d heard my plea. I lay there sobbing, catching my breath and sobbing. I turned my face into the cushions and surrendered to the force of grief. I felt Sunny inching close to me, until she was lying next to my stretched out legs, her head resting against my thigh.
The Mike with whom I bought “Stumble Into Grace,” with whom I listened to it in the car, the Mike who did once see me, and hear me, and love me, was gone. I knew that. I’d known that for a long time, but maybe the certainty of that knowledge came in stages—at first knowing, but not believing. Then knowing, but still hoping. Then knowing, but not feeling. Finally, knowing, believing, feeling, hopeless.
I reached for Sunny and rubbed behind her ears. She scooted closer. The wine. Emmylou. I knew I was becoming maudlin. I didn’t give a shit. I’d not cried, really full-out cried, for months. I poured the rest of the wine and let the next song wash over me, the one that imagines her love as her “dear companion.” Imagines that “I’m the one you cling to/And your voice still calls my name …”
I cried over that, too.
Sunny still at my side, I lay propped against the cushions, half-listening to the rest of the album, half-seeing what was beyond the window, half-wondering what would become of us.
After a while in silence, I rose and walked to the double sinks and vanity that formed the short leg of an L off what was our bedroom. Only what we would need in the apartment had been taken from these cabinets. I grabbed an empty box and pulled out a wide variety of unopened travel shampoos, conditioners, lotions. I added an unopened package of four rolls of toilet paper and several plastic bags collected from trips to the dentist. Those all contained one toothbrush, one container of floss, and one small tube of toothpaste. All but one of those bags went into the packing box. I took a new toothbrush and tube of toothpaste from the remaining bag and brushed the aftertaste of wine from my mouth. I taped the box closed, labeled it “Loaves and Fishes,” then, with Sunny following close behind, I carried the box, and the plastic cup, and empty wine bottle downstairs.
It was over. So much was over.
November 21, 2014
Dear Mike,
The mornings are cold now, 51 degrees when I got up—not cold to someone in Rochester, NY, I’m sure, but to an old Southern California girl, it feels like Siberia. These days I’m more cold-blooded than ever. This morning I woke up around 6 and lay in bed, clothed in my makeshift pajamas, jersey workout pants, a long-sleeved turtleneck shirt under a short-sleeved T-shirt, heavy socks and fingerless gloves, under the bedspread comforter and both of Aunt Ruth’s quilts. You would laugh, if you could.
I lay there all warm and toasty, dreading getting up to the cold, remembering how you were always the first one out of bed, getting the house warmed up, starting the coffee. Remembering how, when I was pregnant with Matt, you would go out and start my car five minutes before leaving time, so it would be warm by the time I left for Wilson High School.
How happy you were with that pregnancy. I was barely three weeks late and yes, because I was regular as clockwork, it was likely I was pregnant. We had, after all, been “trying” for two months.
“We’re going to have a baby!” you’d said, beaming.
“Maybe, but let’s not say anything until we know for sure.”
You just stood there, smiling.
My first pregnancy, with the other guy, had ended in a miscarriage—a spontaneous abortion was the official term. It was propitious. I was pregnant again, six months later, and it was Baby Sharon who came down the chute. There would be no Sharon if the first pregnancy had lasted. It makes me sad just to think of a Sharon-less world.
You knew the first pregnancy story, and I reminded you that the first trimester could be iffy.
“We shouldn’t tell anyone until after three months. Okay?”
“Okay,” you said.
It was a Sunday and we were having dinner with my mother. We walked into a house smelling of pot roast. Lace doilies on the backs and arms of every piece of upholstered furniture. With only one foot through the door, before even saying hello, you called to my mother, ”Marilyn’s pregnant!”
My mother got teary-eyed; the girls jumped around, hugging me.
“When are you due?” my mother asked.
“In about 10 months,” I told her, but the cat was out of the bag, and there was no putting it back. And I was indeed pregnant, and we got Baby Matt.
With Sharon and Cindi aged 10 and 9, I’d not been eager to add another child into the mix. The girls were at good ages, easy to care for and fun. As much as I enjoyed those earlier stages, life was easier with them half-grown. Being the quintessential late bloomer, at 33 I was in my first year of teaching, not eager to interrupt that hard-won career start. Fair was fair, though—nothing you ever tossed up to me, but what I knew in my heart. You’d generously and willingly taken on the father role, officially adopting Sharon and Cindi shortly after we married. I owed you a baby. And then there was Matt, the gift that goes on giving.
But I was talking about the morning temperature, wasn’t I? I was thinking about the small comforts that I sometimes miss. The warming of the house while I’m still in bed. The coffee ready for me when I stumble into the kitchen. The gentle laughter at eccentricities such as my sleeping attire.
Last week when I was in Walla Walla, I walked to town—all sorts of bright-leafed trees showing off in the yards of old fashioned homes. My first stop was that delightful little independent bookstore, the one you walked out of when my back was turned and we didn’t find you for over an hour. That was our last visit there together. But I’m talking about a recent trip, when no one got lost.
I must have been in there for over an hour, browsing literary fiction, the YA section (no Marilyn Reynolds books there), biographies and memoir. I felt guilty not buying, knowing that I’d gone to the dark side of ebooks on my iPad. I will be sad when that corner becomes vacant, as it surely will within the next decade or two, but, as with the greater selection/lower priced supermarkets that drove small, independent stores out of business in the ’50s, including Daddy’s market, such progress seems inevitable.
I did buy something, though. Unlike Ann Patchett’s bookstore in Tennessee that is only a bookstore, the front part of the Walla Walla store has turned into something like a variety five and dime, only higher priced, with toys and calendars, greeting cards and gadgets. I bought a “bear claw” backscratcher for $7. It has a shiny chrome, five-pronged claw-like top with a telescoping handle that allows for an extension of from one to three feet. It’s to manage that lost small comfort of your back scratching talents.
It’s only been within the last two years that I’ve been able to spend $7 on an unnecessary item without breaking into a sweat. The one silver lining to paying nearly $40,000 a year for your care is that all of our withheld income tax dollars come back in refunds—an enforced savings that provides a cushion for inevitable car repair bills and the occasional trip to Southern California or Walla Walla. Last summer I joined the rest of the family on vacation at a resort in Oregon—not cheap, but as the American Express ads say, priceless. For over 20 years I had one of those no limit American Express cards. No more. No more credit cards at all. I like that, though I know it’s a good idea to have at least one card for emergencies.
On my last Alaska Airlines trip I filled out a form for a Visa card. They were offering thousands of bonus miles plus a free round trip to anywhere in the world that they and their partner airlines fly. I expect to get the rejection in the mail any day now. It seems bankruptcy doesn’t look good on the credit reports.
Ramble, ramble. It’s as if I were truly talking with you, relaxed in front of the fireplace, or on one of those long drives between here and Woodacre. That’s another of the small comforts I’m missing—someone to take pleasure in my rambles. Someone to fasten the clasp on my necklace, zip up the back of my dress, check the bump on my butt that I can’t see for myself, pick me up when I take my car in for repair, change the audio book CDs when I’m driving or drive while I manage maps and CDs.
It’s time to put up Christmas lights, get a tree, drag out the wreaths and the choristers, the photo albums of Christmases past, all of those things you did with such great enthusiasm. Or to be more accurate, overdid with great enthusiasm. As you once could have predicted, without you my decorations will be minimal and there will be no special color scheme. I didn’t keep all the ornaments from the purple Christmas, or the gold Christmas, or the silver Christmas, and I won’t be buying new garlands and fresh wreaths. But even though my minimalist approach suits me, I miss your enthusiasm. The place would be decorated by now, though I can’t really imagine you in this new place. This new life. I can only still imagine you scratching my back, or picking me up from the car repair place, or fastening the clasp on a necklace. Really, though, I don’t wear necklaces anymore anyway.
It’s getting harder to write to you. The you I write to, the old you, is becoming more and more distant—our lives together slipping further away with each passing day. I will always appreciate those times and who you were, but dwelling in those times doesn’t fit with the necessary reinvention of myself. You will show up when the Christmas lights come out of the box tangled in such a way that it would be easier for two to untangle, or when I can’t reach the top of the tree to place the gaudy star up there. I did keep that gaudy star. And you’ll show up tomorrow morning, when the house is cold and the coffee’s not ready. You’ll never be forgotten. You’ll continue to show up often. But, forgive me, you don’t get to stay long.
Marilyn