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Shirlene
Stan never relaxes in the hospital. Who does? But now that he’s home and in his own bed, he’s asleep, propped up on pillows to avoid coughing. I made up the bed in our guest room for myself. It’s right across the hall, but I don’t want to leave him. I watch him from the old cricket chair. The only light comes from the streetlamp in front of our house.
I’m not sure when Arlene will need me, but I’ll stay with Stan as long as possible. I hoped to be more comfortable once I got Arlene and Cameron settled in downstairs and Stan in his own bed up here, but I’m on a balance beam, trying not to fall off. I wonder if I made the right decision bringing everyone together under one roof, but there didn’t seem to be any other choice. At least I’m home.
It’s a miracle to be in the house I never thought I’d see again. When there’s time, I’ll touch every object and relish the wonderful memories attached to them. Between the cleaning service and Hattie’s fresh flowers, the house looks a bit more as it did when Stan and I were well and able to keep up with it.
This moment to myself is a treat, but with it comes time to brood about my choice to resist the light. Was leaving Danny the right choice? I can’t predict how long Stan and I will have together, but he’s always been stubborn. I hope it will be weeks instead of days, but when Stan does die, I won’t be waiting to greet him with our son at my side. I’ll be left here, for who knows how long, without either of them.
Hopefully, it was the right decision for Stan. He begged me not to go, didn’t he? It’s difficult to recall how it all happened, but now, at least, Stan can find comfort in being surrounded by familiar things. I will hang onto the fact I’m in a body that’s able to take care of him in his last days. Otherwise, he’d be alone in some facility. I shudder at the thought. I’ll make sure everything is perfect for him—as perfect as it can be when you’re dying.
I need to distract myself, so I go to my vanity and open my jewelry box. The streetlamp provides enough light to go through things without waking Stan. My engagement and wedding rings are on top of my clip-on earrings. Stan must have taken them off my body before I was buried.
Buried. My body is really gone. I wonder if I’ll ever feel completely myself in this new one. I’m blond and so much taller. Not to mention seventy years younger. I try to put my rings on, but my new fingers are larger. I remove a pendant from a chain and slip the rings on. When I hang it around my neck, I catch my unfamiliar reflection in the vanity mirror. It’s eerie to be looking at someone else, but it’s me inside. Hopefully, the numerous holes in my ears, over my eyebrow, and in my nose will heal over without scarring.
I remember Rain’s sandwich bag of jewelry that I decided to bring with me. I tiptoe into the guest room, where I’ll be sleeping, and find the bag in my partially unpacked suitcase. Everything is for filling some hole in my body. Fortunately, she restrained herself when it came to her nipples. As I sort through trinkets—a variety of studs and balls, a dragon, and some pointy things—I find a pretty gold heart on one end of a slightly curved bar with a simple ball at the other. Because of the curve, I assume it’s for the holes in the top of my belly button. My cheeks heat up, but I need to find out how this looks. I sneak into the bathroom and close the door before switching on the light. The gold ball doesn’t slip off like an earring backing. I toy with it until I discover it screws off. I open my bathrobe, lift my pajama top, and hold the bar with the heart hanging down in front of my navel.
It's sexy, and my libido bids me hello. What the heck am I going to do with it at my age? I laugh loudly and tone it down to a giggle before waking everyone up. Then I wash my hands and put rubbing alcohol on the holes and the jewelry. After I slide the bar up through the bottom hole and wiggle it around, it pops out the top. I screw on the ball, and voilà—my mother would refer to me as a hussy.
On the baby monitor in the guest room, I hear Arlene waking up downstairs. I hurry to turn it off so the sounds don’t bother Stan. I’ve situated the two people with the most potential to upset my husband at the other end of the house. I hope it’s far enough away that never the twain shall meet. Experiencing a little schizophrenia, I scurry down the stairs. One minute, I’m watching my ninety-three-year-old husband at death’s door, and the next, I’m a young mother with an infant and a belly button piercing.
I go through the den door closest to the crib and farthest from the sofa bed. I found an old folding screen in the attic and situated it so I can’t see Cam’s bed. He needs some privacy.
I lift Arlene, attempting to ignore the fact that Cam is asleep—or awake—on the other side of the screen, and carry her into the living room to nurse. I settle on the couch, cuddling her, and she latches on like a pro. I curve my body around her. I can pretend she’s still inside me where I can protect her. If only I could have protected Danny. No, don’t think about that. I concentrate on this miracle who is Arlene. It’s quiet except for her satisfied gurgles. A refreshing summer breeze travels through the open windows.
I worry Stan will wake and need me, but he hasn’t. So I give myself permission to indulge fully in my baby. I run my fingers across her brow as she concentrates on sucking. This precious little thing is mine.