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Authors: Elizabeth Berg
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hair was in a falling-down bun that was lovely. There were violet-colored smudges under her eyes, and I wondered when she’d last slept through the night. When was the last time she’d worried over something at work, over the cost of groceries? What luxury most of us enjoy, complaining about the things we do: long lines, uncomfortable weather, the numbers on the bathroom scale. I couldn’t imagine being Laura, waking up at night to someone you loved and knew was dying. Surely she watched, sometimes, in the moonlight, for the rise and fall of his chest. Surely she rose up on one elbow, full of fear, to look, then fell, relieved and aching, back onto her own pillow. Usually people die at night, late. Three A.M ., four-fifteen. They are being polite, I suppose. They mean not to grieve everyone so much.
I thought about when Laura went with Richard to hear about what was wrong with him. I knew they’d been told in his doctor’s office, with its pale colors and diplomas on the wall and pictures of the doctor’s children tanned and smiling. I saw them hearing the news and then getting back in their car, very different peoplefrom the ones who’d left it an hour ago. They’d locked their doors. Things would never be the same. They’d buckled their seat belts. Things would never be the same. What anguish there is in knowing that things will really never be the same! Once, when my daughter was seven, I came into her room to tell her dinner was ready. She was standing at her window, looking out at the sunset. “Time to eat,” I said. And she said, not turning around, “There will never be another day exactly like this one ever, ever again.” I only swallowed, full of a mother’s regret for the necessary lessons of childhood. I only said, “It’s fried chicken, honey. Wash up.”
“Who is it?” I heard Richard yell. Laura stood, ground out her cigarette. “Wait here,” she told me. She went into the bedroom and I heard her say, “It’s the nurse. The one who came to the hospital to see you yesterday.” There was a silence then, and Laura came out and nodded. I wasn’t sure, suddenly, and I stood there until she said, “Go ahead. He’s waiting.”
The bedroom was dark, filled with bookshelves. The one over Richard’s head held hardback volumes about theater. I looked at them quickly, then at him. “Are you the one interested in theater?”
His look was one of contempt and astonishment mixed. He was lying on a bed that had been neatly made. There was a beautiful quilt, rose colors and greens, folded back at his feet. He pulled up his T-shirt to reveal his dressing. “Do it,” he said.
“Well, I need to ask you some questions first. I have to take this … sort of … health history.” In my armpits, I felt the deep tickle of perspiration starting. I opened my bag to pull out his chart.
“I’m dying,” he said. He meant that was all I needed to know.
I looked at him. “I know. And I need to tell you that I don’t have any particular way of being about that, Richard. I know it’s unfairwhat’s happened to you. I know you have a lot of pain. We can talk about it, if you want to. But I come in here and I see your books and my inclination is to try to get to know other parts of you. There are still other parts to you.”
He looked around me, yelled, “Laura!” She came into the room and he gestured angrily toward me. “Get her out of here.”
She sighed. “Richard—”
“Get her the fuck out.”
“Fine,” she said. “Then I’ll do your dressing.”
“No, you won’t.” He struggled to sit up.
“Look,” I said. “I’ll do it. I’m sorry, Richard, if I offended you. I’ll do your dressing and that’s all for today, okay? I’ll just do it and go. All right?”
He sat, swaying slightly from side to side, as though remembering a dance. I noticed the scent of lilacs coming through the open bedroom window, that bold, little girls’ perfume smell. I regretted myself, my too
I thought about when Laura went with Richard to hear about what was wrong with him. I knew they’d been told in his doctor’s office, with its pale colors and diplomas on the wall and pictures of the doctor’s children tanned and smiling. I saw them hearing the news and then getting back in their car, very different peoplefrom the ones who’d left it an hour ago. They’d locked their doors. Things would never be the same. They’d buckled their seat belts. Things would never be the same. What anguish there is in knowing that things will really never be the same! Once, when my daughter was seven, I came into her room to tell her dinner was ready. She was standing at her window, looking out at the sunset. “Time to eat,” I said. And she said, not turning around, “There will never be another day exactly like this one ever, ever again.” I only swallowed, full of a mother’s regret for the necessary lessons of childhood. I only said, “It’s fried chicken, honey. Wash up.”
“Who is it?” I heard Richard yell. Laura stood, ground out her cigarette. “Wait here,” she told me. She went into the bedroom and I heard her say, “It’s the nurse. The one who came to the hospital to see you yesterday.” There was a silence then, and Laura came out and nodded. I wasn’t sure, suddenly, and I stood there until she said, “Go ahead. He’s waiting.”
The bedroom was dark, filled with bookshelves. The one over Richard’s head held hardback volumes about theater. I looked at them quickly, then at him. “Are you the one interested in theater?”
His look was one of contempt and astonishment mixed. He was lying on a bed that had been neatly made. There was a beautiful quilt, rose colors and greens, folded back at his feet. He pulled up his T-shirt to reveal his dressing. “Do it,” he said.
“Well, I need to ask you some questions first. I have to take this … sort of … health history.” In my armpits, I felt the deep tickle of perspiration starting. I opened my bag to pull out his chart.
“I’m dying,” he said. He meant that was all I needed to know.
I looked at him. “I know. And I need to tell you that I don’t have any particular way of being about that, Richard. I know it’s unfairwhat’s happened to you. I know you have a lot of pain. We can talk about it, if you want to. But I come in here and I see your books and my inclination is to try to get to know other parts of you. There are still other parts to you.”
He looked around me, yelled, “Laura!” She came into the room and he gestured angrily toward me. “Get her out of here.”
She sighed. “Richard—”
“Get her the fuck out.”
“Fine,” she said. “Then I’ll do your dressing.”
“No, you won’t.” He struggled to sit up.
“Look,” I said. “I’ll do it. I’m sorry, Richard, if I offended you. I’ll do your dressing and that’s all for today, okay? I’ll just do it and go. All right?”
He sat, swaying slightly from side to side, as though remembering a dance. I noticed the scent of lilacs coming through the open bedroom window, that bold, little girls’ perfume smell. I regretted myself, my too
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