Ruth awoke suddenly at three a.m. and couldn’t get back to sleep. For the better part of an hour, she lay in her bed at Twin Pines, staring at the ceiling as the sounds of the dormant facility washed over her: the custodian trundling his cart down the corridor, the clock on the wall, the metronomic tick of the second hand, the distant drone of muted conversation as an idle female staffer engaged in a personal call at the darkened reception kiosk. Though she was hopelessly awake, Ruth’s thoughts were neither excitable nor numerous. More than the dire deliberations or worries she’d come to associate with insomnia, she was plagued by sensations: a heaviness of chest and limb, an aching of the spirit, a yearning, palpable but vague, which Ruth soon recognized as loneliness. Was there a lonelier place on Earth than a hospital bed at night?
The television might have served as a welcome distraction, as it had for much of the past two weeks, particularly in those hours when Abe was not occupying his post at her bedside. But TV was strictly prohibited at this hour. Even a reading light was forbidden. She thought about journaling by the paltry light spilling in from the hallway, and almost reached for the old leather-bound notebook, but she knew it was useless. All the verse in the world could not buffer her from this loneliness. Beyond sleep, there was no occupation left but the life of the mind and body. And so, Ruth had no choice but to dwell in this desolate state.
God, how she wished Abe could have been there beside her in the darkness, to talk in whispers, about the future, or the past, insurance, taxes, anything at all, just so long as she could hear his breathing and know that he was there, that she was not alone. Lying there in the stillness of Twin Pines, Ruth felt like the last person alive. Was this perhaps a taste of the emptiness that awaited Ruth in the beyond?
When Ruth could abide these thoughts no longer, she pushed the call button, if only to intrude on this oppressive mood.
The phone conversation at the kiosk ended abruptly, and the squeak of rubber-soled footfalls followed, approaching down the hallway. Soon the night nurse appeared at the foot of the bed, a young woman whom Ruth did not recognize.
“You’re new,” observed Ruth.
“Yes. I’m Annabel,” she said.
“Hello, Annabel.”
Her scrubs were a pale pink and baggy. Ruth strained to discern her features in the dim light but couldn’t quite do so.
“Come closer,” she said.
“Is everything okay?” said Annabel, stepping nearer.
Annabel was perhaps thirty. Pretty, round faced, and heavy through the middle. Her voice was even but warm, friendly but professional.
“Yes, I’m fine,” said Ruth. “Thank you.”
“Did you push the call button?”
“Did I?” said Ruth. “I must have pushed it by accident, I’m sorry, dear.”
Annabel smiled. “It happens,” she said. “Since I’m here, do you want to try to go to the bathroom?”
“No, no,” said Ruth.
“Is there anything else I can do for you?”
“No, dear, I don’t think so, thank you.”
“All right, then,” said Annabel. “You get some rest, okay?”
“I will,” said Ruth.
“Good night,” said Annabel, turning to leave.
But there was something else, though Ruth couldn’t say what. With no immediate cause to keep Annabel at hand, Ruth wasn’t ready to let the young woman leave.
“Actually,” said Ruth, “would you mind terribly staying for a minute?”
“Of course,” said Annabel.
“Have a seat, would you?”
Annabel seemed ambivalent on this matter. Perhaps bedside vigil was discouraged by her professional credo, or maybe she had other duties to tend to. It might have been that the possibility simply made her uncomfortable. But after a brief hesitation, Annabel circled the bed and sat in Abe’s spot, where she lingered in silence, and no doubt anticipation. But Ruth did not pursue the interaction straightaway.
Finally, Annabel broke the silence.
“Is there anything in particular you wanted?”
“Just company,” said Ruth. “Just for a few moments, dear. We don’t need to talk. Unless you want to.”
They both opted for the tick of the clock, the faint rumble of the wheeled custodial cart, the hushed but steady rasp of Ruth’s breathing. The stillness must have been agonizing for poor Annabel. How to explain to someone so young this desolate sensation that threatened to pull Ruth downward like an undertow?
Ruth felt she owed her something in the way of conversation.
“You know,” she said at last, “there’s a poem called ‘Annabel.’ I wish I could remember it.”
“I’d like to hear it,” Annabel said.
“Google it on your phone sometime,” said Ruth. “It’s by Poe.”
“I will,” said Annabel.
Before it could settle in once more, the silence was disrupted by the distant buzz of the switchboard at the reception desk.
Annabel rose to her feet. “Well, I’d better…”
“Yes, you go now, dear, I’m sorry I kept you.”
“You’re sure you don’t need anything? I can come back after—”
“No, no, I’m sure,” said Ruth.
Watching the young woman leave, a crushing isolation beset Ruth once more. Though ostensibly in her best condition since the surgery, her vitals stable, her cancer in remission, she was nonetheless certain she was going to die, that her blood pressure was going to plummet without warning at any second, and there would be no saving her this time.
To ward off this anxiety and keep death at bay, Ruth turned to the only place left to turn.
God, please spare me long enough to go home.