November 7, 2001
I am fixing to get drunk. Skunk-drunk.
I can’t take it anymore, that’s all there is to it. First, there was all that business with Hannah up there in the woods with a man who has lived with wolves and might do no telling what all to her, then Emily called and said, “I can’t get Hannah to answer her phone… Jake and I are thinking of driving down to see her…he’s never seen her place,” and I made a total fool of myself.
“Wait. You can’t do that,” I shouted, and when she asked, Why? I said, “Just because.”
Like a child. What was worse, I couldn’t think of anything else to say. As if I’m the one in the coma.
I never could think of any adequate excuse to give her. I just kept saying, “Hannah’s too busy right now, is all,” and when Emily hung up she was miffed at me.
Which turned out to be the least of my worries, because when I got to the nursing home I discovered a bunch of complete strangers in Michael’s room singing “In the Garden”…if you can call what they were doing singing.
It was dreadful the way they were carrying on. Mournful. Dirge-like. Exactly as if they were conducting a funeral.
“What’s going on here?” I asked. “What are you doing in my husband’s room?”
I guess I was shouting, and I must have scared them all to death because they stopped their caterwauling. Thank God. Michael hated that song, anyhow.
Hates. Hates. I must think of him in the present.
Well, a wormy-looking little man separated himself from the group and said, “Hi, I’m Ron, and we’re from Mt. Pisgah Baptist Church.”
He looked so earnest and apologetic I felt like patting him on the arm and saying, “There, there, it’s all right.”
I didn’t, though, because just when I was getting my manners back a large woman in tight yellow bell-bottoms that cupped under said, “I know this is hard for you, Mrs. Westland, but he’s going to a better place.”
I wanted to slap her. My upbringing was all that saved her.
“My husband’s not going anywhere, but you are. Get out of this room. All of you.”
I know, I know. That was rude. But I didn’t care, not even when two nurses poked their heads in to see what was all the commotion.
Larry Baird himself came down to smooth things over. When he asked me what was wrong I said, “They didn’t even get my name right,” then I started bawling. I could tell I was headed for a real crying jag because I could feel my nose getting hot and swelling. It always does when I cry really hard.
“These groups do come here from time to time. Most of our patients and their families enjoy them.”
That dried up my waterworks fast, I can tell you.
“Well, I don’t, and neither does Michael. He likes Blues. Keep them out of this room.”
He lobbied so hard for them I asked, “Are you their agent?” It just flew out of my mouth, and I guess I’ll have to think of some nice way to take it back because I certainly don’t want Michael to suffer the consequences.
Maybe Clarice can come up with something clever. She’s good at that.
Anyhow, when I got home I got in the shower and scrubbed myself hard in case any unctuous residue was still on my skin from that time I’d let Larry Baird hug me.
What in the world ever made me think he was sexy?
Oh, I’m going to make it up to Michael, I can tell you.
But not tonight. I’m afraid to see him, afraid I’ll start crying all over again and not be able to stop.
They say don’t drink alone, especially when you’re in this kind of mood, but I don’t know. Clarice would come over if I called. Or Jane. Still, I feel the need to be alone with this misery. I need to look at it from all angles, to figure things out.
Maybe to learn.
I know what Michael would say to me. “Precious, you have to have tears in your eyes in order to have rainbows in your soul.”
When I was cleaning out his office I saw a book in his shelves with a title something like that. A book of Native American wisdom. Michael loved that kind of thing.
He loved books of all kinds—poetry, history, science.…
Loves. He loves them.…
Oh, God.…