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Shirlene
During the week following our dinner at Tre Famiglia, Stan has slept more and stopped eating. Now he is becoming nearly unresponsive.
“Don’t you dare die now! Fight it!” Tears stream down my face. “Please fight it.”
Stan gently pats my arm. It’s light as a feather. He musters a smile. I can tell it takes a great deal of effort.
“Why didn’t you let go when you had the chance?” he whispers.
I bite back the anger that roars to be released. It’s his fault I’m stuck here for another sixty or seventy years without him and Danny. I lay my head on his chest, giving in to the sobs. I feel more pats on my back now, soft and otherworldly, like he’s reaching from far away, but I can hear his heart faintly beating.
After a moment, he says, “Shirlene.”
I adjust my head to stare up at his face.
He speaks with a surge of presence. “Tell me. Why did you come back?”
“Because you begged me to.”
“I did no such thing!” His face gets some color.
“Yes, you did. You said, ‘Shirlene, don’t leave me.’”
Stan’s eyes become clear again for the first time in days. “My love, I didn’t say that. I called your name, but I never said not to leave me.”
My cheeks burn. “You must have thought it, then.”
“I most certainly did not. Do you think I’m capable of that level of selfishness?” He pauses, looking as if he’s recalling the moment when I died.
I open my mouth and close it. I’m speechless. Did I imagine it or dream it? Was I so codependent I thought he couldn’t survive without me?
Stan runs the backs of his fingers along my cheek. “Don’t try to make this my responsibility. You chose to come back. Now make the most of it.”
His thin body shudders with weak coughs, and his eyes close.
“No!” I shout.
He opens his eyes and gestures across the room to the bedroom door. “Tell Joey to sit down, and give him a drink.”
I examine the room, expecting to find my brother. Stan must be seeing the dead.
Forcefully, I grab his face in my hands. “Stan! Don’t go to Joey. Stay a few more minutes.”
I am that selfish. I was the one to go after what I wanted. Stan let life happen. His lack of decision was his decision, but in the end, he was more selfless than I.
“Red?”
My fingers relax, and I run my thumbs along his temples. “I’m sorry. Did I hurt you?”
“You returned for the baby, not for me.”
“But I had no idea I’d take over a pregnant body. Danny tried to warn me, but I didn’t understand that I couldn’t reoccupy my old body.” I kiss his forehead. “I couldn’t leave you, Stan. You’re the world to me.”
His eyes search my face. “You saw Danny?”
I can only nod. Tears drip down my cheeks.
“Why didn’t you tell me he was there?”
“I’m sorry. You stopped talking about him many years ago, so I was trying to avoid upsetting you.”
“I’ll be with him soon.”
“Yes.” I blow my nose in a tissue.
Stan starts tugging at the top sheet. “Listen, I have something to tell you. I made a selfish decision after Danny was killed.”
“Don’t upset yourself.”
“No, I have to say this. You longed for more children.” Stan grabs hold of my hands. “I kept you from having another child. I’m sorry I denied you that joy again.”
“I don’t understand. We tried. I couldn’t become pregnant again.”
“I thought you were drinking when the accident happened.”
The ancient torture of our marriage beats its drum again. “I told you a million times I was sober. I would never drive drunk with Danny.”
“Nevertheless, on some level, I was punishing you. I blamed you for our son’s death. Forgive me.” He thrashes around in the bed.
“Stan, try to calm down. It doesn’t matter now.”
“Shirlene, I have a confession.”
“Try to relax, my darling.” I stroke his arm in an effort to soothe him.
“I had a vasectomy.”
He’s not making sense. “What?”
“I wasn’t able to trust you.”
I yank my hands away. “You had a vasectomy?”
He speaks rapidly. “It was the only way I could touch you again. To love you, to be with you again.” He has to stop to catch his breath. “I love you, Shirlene, but I had to be sure there’d never be another child to lose.”
“You had a vasectomy without talking to me?” Anger burns in my belly. “Without telling me?”
“It seemed the only solution at the time.”
His confession burns clear the landscape of our marriage. If I forgive him, he’s free to die. I can’t forgive him.
“I’m sorry, but I’m telling you now...” he mutters. “So you can...” He stops speaking and seems to doze off, but I comprehend what this really is. His breath becomes labored with a disturbing gurgle.
I savagely wipe my wet cheeks. “Damn you, Stanley Foster. How could you?” I stride away from the bed. “Without telling me.”