This Is Not How It Ends

by Rochelle B. Weinstein

  Most days, I hadn’t bothered to dress or wash my hair. The doorbell would ring, and it was one of the nurses from hospice; other times it was a sympathetic friend brave enough to visit Mom and her withering frame. So when I swung the door open, a rush of crisp air jolted me awake. I’d been sleepwalking for weeks.

  “Charley!”

  I pulled the bathrobe tighter and stuck a greasy strand of hair behind my ear. I couldn’t recall the last time I bathed.

  “Charley, what on earth?” Philip was pushing past me with a large crate in his hand. He dropped the container, and I sank into him, letting out a lengthy cry. The sobs were deep and animal-like. So much so, I hardly noticed the similar sounds coming from the crate. When I finally caught my breath, Philip dabbed at my face with his sleeve.

  “Philip.” I pointed at the box. “What is that? And what are you doing here? I thought you were in San Francisco.” Or was it LA? I had a hard time keeping up.

  “Aren’t you pleased to see me?” His tired eyes shifted. He’d probably spent the night on an airplane, though you couldn’t tell by his crisp suit. His formality soothed me. I’d grown accustomed to incessant wailing and whimpering. To hear language and complete sentences was finding a loaf of warm bread when you’ve been starving for weeks. I devoured it, and I devoured him, falling into his arms.

  “I’m here, darling.” I let the last few weeks and months melt away. I didn’t want to remember my mother’s broken, emaciated body as I stuck a bedpan beneath her bottom. I didn’t want to hear her crying for her own mother in profound despair. The horror of imminent death.

  When my legs gave out, Philip held me up. “I can’t do this anymore.”

  “I’m here, Charley.” His grip was extra tight.

  “I want her to go,” I cried. “I can’t watch her suffering like this anymore.”

  The minute the words slipped off my tongue, I felt the regret. As though a higher power would hear them and render a crueler punishment. But what was worse than this? “Is it wrong? Am I wrong?” My words were drowned in sobs. The thing in the crate was yelping in desperation.

  I stepped back and opened the lid. A tiny golden-haired puppy leaped out, pinning me to the ground. He wriggled on top of me, licking my lips, tasting my tears. His breath smelled like his mother’s milk, and his tail wagged furiously back and forth. “Philip,” I began between sloppy kisses, “you’re crazy. There couldn’t be a worse time . . .”

  “He’ll be good for you, Charley.”

  The puppy’s innocence and joy depressed me, tearing at my defenses. “I can’t. Not now. I can barely take care of myself.”

  Time. It was everywhere. The right time, the wrong time. I glanced back and forth at the adorable creature, one I’d craved since I was a young girl, but my father had forbidden it. His eyes latched on to mine, and I turned away.

  “Please, Philip. You have to take him back.”

  “I can’t do that, Charley. No refunds. Besides, you need each other.”

  The puppy with the large tummy full of life was a sharp contrast to my mother’s withering body. He symbolized hope when there was very little left. Not in me, not in her. I couldn’t love this furry animal. There wasn’t enough room in my heart.

  “Philip, I have to care for Mum.” He liked when I used his words. “I don’t have time to train a puppy. He’ll make a mess. I can’t even care for a plant.”

  The doorbell chimed, and I knew at once it was the hospice nurse. They came around on shifts, with names like Martha and Janet and Cheryl. Robust names for women with considerable jobs. Martha smiled at Philip and found me on the floor by his feet. Her presence signified the end. No matter how many brochures I’d read, no matter how many social workers traipsed through our door and reassured me this wasn’t about dying, but quality of life, their presence was a flock of black birds surrounding their prey. Martha bent to greet the puppy, who excitedly jumped up to meet her. She knew before I did. They both did. And then it clicked. The puppy was a consolation prize. An exchange of sorts. One heartbeat for another. I instantly detested the dog and turned away. Martha sensed my annoyance and scooped him up in her plump arms, where he proceeded to lick her brown cheeks.

  “He’ll never replace her, Philip.”

  “Charley . . .”

  I shook my head. “How could you think he could?”

  “Charley, please, let me explain . . .”

  My body was more alert than it had been in weeks. My cheeks blazed with heat. “You can’t expect this to be okay . . . You don’t understand . . .” The tears burned my eyes, and I tried to hold them back. “It’ll never be enough . . . Do you get that?” Pity washed over his entire face. “It’s not going to make it easier. It’ll only make it harder . . .”

  By then I was full-on weeping. Tears were everywhere, streaking my cheeks, sliding out of my nose. Martha carried the dog into the other room, toting the supplies Philip had left by the door. I could hear its cries from down the hall. Philip dropped down beside me and took me in his arms. Resistance was not an option. My body had gone limp, and he was the only thing keeping me from flattening against the cold, hard floor.

  He cradled me, rocking me back and forth. “Charley, I’m here. It’s okay, my love. You’re not alone. You’re never alone . . .”

  Seeing the woman he loved battered and broken had to be difficult. “It won’t always be like this.” He reached for my hair and stroked it lovingly with his fingertips. The gesture made me cry harder. His presence loosened the coils that had held me together. Now they were unraveling.

  Cupping my chin, he forced me to face him.

  “We will get through this, Charley. Together.”

  I leaned in to find his lips, savoring the peppermint toothpaste, tasting memories spanning miles and months. If I inhaled hard enough, his strength would revive me.

  And like most things Philip offered, it did. Succumbing, I let him hold me hard, providing a promise I didn’t yet fully understand.

  Wresting myself from Philip, I rose from the ground in search of Martha and the four-legged problem I would have to deal with. They were playing on the flowery rug, and the puppy was wagging his tail ferociously. When he saw me, he dropped the pull toy and crashed into my feet and ankles. He licked and nibbled and tried to catch my eyes. He was smart. He knew if we made eye contact, I’d be his prisoner. Sort of like what Philip had done to me.

  Martha said, “He’s sweet, Charlotte. Look at this face.”

  I knew what that dog signified. Philip’s prescience gutted me. Mom moaned from the adjacent room, and Martha stood up. “I’ll go to her.” I didn’t know if I was relieved or scared. The window by my bed was open, the pink curtains spread wide, revealing a heavenly sky. A ray of sun pierced the gray clouds, beaming through the open space and ricocheting off the mirror. Light fanned out across the room, and the puppy tried to catch it in his playful jaws. For a second, I admired his spunk.

  Philip stood nearby, hesitating to intervene.

  “Martha,” I called out. “Wait. I’ll go.”

  Swooping down, I took the puppy in my hands and headed toward my mother. The puppy wiggled, and his sharp teeth clamped down on my fingers.

  Entering her room was a nostalgic trip through childhood—a blend of fabric softener and Calvin Klein’s Eternity. As a child, it had shielded me from nightmares and creepy monsters living under the bed. As an adult, it weakened me, and I inhaled, to ingrain her scent into memory. My mother’s smell would forever tempt and torture, as she slowly slipped away, echoing all that I had lost.

  Her head lay flat against the pillow. Hospice had brought in one of their beds, allowing her to lower herself down with the flip of a switch. Against the pale sheets and blanket, she looked tired and small. Mom had shrunk to half her size. Her eyes followed me to the side of her bed, where I took a seat, the puppy in my arms. At once, he leaped from my hands and perched himself atop her belly. He was golden brown, with large chocolate eyes that drew her in.

/>   It had been weeks since I’d seen Mom happy, but her eyes widened, and the corners of her mouth turned up. Philip stood beside me and watched as the puppy circled around, collapsing against her in a compact ball. The exhaustion set in, and he let out a sweet sigh. Mom stroked his fur, while warmth flooded her face. It wasn’t the burst of sunshine sneaking through her window brightening the room. It was something else.

  My fingers found the puppy’s head, and I rubbed the soft ears. Mom rested her palm on mine, and I knew the puppy was officially mine. I also knew his name. Sunny. I’d name him Sunny.

  CHAPTER 11

  July 2018, Present Day

  Morada Bay; Islamorada, Florida

  The sun’s rays cast a burst of light upon us as we approached the restaurant.

  The flicker reminded me of the first time Philip brought me to Morada Bay. It was January, and temperatures had been mild, though I hardly noticed. I had adjusted to the climate with a wardrobe of flowery sundresses and tops with thin straps. The balmy weather turned the once-pale hue of my skin a buttery brown, and my hair fell longer and lighter. For months at a time, the inclement KC weather had concealed parts of me beneath turtlenecks and bulky jackets. By shedding my winter clothes, I’d shed a second skin—equal parts physical and emotional. Liberty insisted they went hand in hand. She said, “It’s the vitamin D. But love does that, too.”

  That afternoon, we’d parked in the circular drive and walked beneath the trees toward a stunning beach. Philip led me through the property, eagerly pointing things out—the brightly colored tables edged against the rocky shoreline, the swaying palms framing the picturesque Gulf. This had surprised me, since he was a man who had frequented some of the finest restaurants. Dropping his anchor on a remote, modest island made little sense, but when I had stepped on the golden sand that first day, I understood natural beauty, the contrast between high-end and natural high. When he spoke of this part of the country, it was as though he were describing a lover: luscious, exquisite, something to be savored over time.

  Morada Bay’s two restaurants shared a beach, though one side was for shorts and flip-flops, and the other, Pierre’s, was a roomy plantation house reserved for formal dining. We preferred the former. That first night, we’d sat at the table that would become ours—me without shoes, sinking my pink-polished toes in the sand. Philip had fed me cedar-planked Scottish salmon, and we’d shared a bottle—or two—of Far Niente. The food was everything he had promised. “Of course, I’m partial, Charley. I know the chef.”

  If someone had told me a renowned chef would settle here in Islamorada, I’d question the motive, but sipping wine and watching the magical scene—the mystical sky unfolding and folding for the night—I understood. It was a feeling. When you walked onto the property, a sense of belonging emerged, as though you were absorbed by the natural beauty. The pull was something I couldn’t deny. And long after the sky erupted with color, after the sun slowly vanished in the sea, and long after the crowds thinned out and Philip and I were left bathed in candlelight, I fell deeper in love.

  Tonight I wondered if we could recapture those earlier days.

  Tonight I wondered why the safe, familiar aura that once felt like home eluded me.

  Tonight I wondered if the table we once called ours would ever be ours again.

  “I’ve missed this,” he said. We were walking along the sand, Sunny by our side, while my favorite music filled the air.

  “Me too,” I said, though I was fairly certain we were referring to different things.

  I’d taken extra care in dressing. Not because I needed to impress Philip’s friend, but because I wanted to impress Philip. I needed to figure out a way to bring him home—and not solely in the physical sense. We needed to connect. Loneliness had pervaded me, though it was far more than being alone. The dress was soft blush and fell down my legs. My hair was gathered in a loose bun at the nape of my neck. He liked it that way.

  Arriving at the table, he pulled out a chair for me to sit. Sunny took his usual spot by my feet. He always enjoyed a good people watch. “You look lovely, Charley,” Philip said.

  The pale button-down showed off his bare chest, and matching chinos accentuated his trim figure. He took the seat beside me overlooking the gorgeous view. “Where’s your friend?” I asked.

  A whistling wind circled around my shoulders. “He’s on his way.”

  The waitress dropped a bowl of water nearby for Sunny, and Philip ordered us a bottle of pinot noir. After my first sip, I broached a delicate subject. “What did Natasha want?”

  “Oh, Charley, you know Natasha. There’s always some drama in her life tangling her knickers.”

  I inwardly smiled at the memory of her calling Philip from London when the valet brought her car, though it wasn’t hers, and she decided to take the fancy sports car for a spin before being arrested. “It seemed . . . important.”

  “Crazy,” he dismissed me. “She’s always slightly crazy, darling.”

  His gaze traveled past me as though he were searching for someone in the distance. “Philip, look at me.”

  I was serious, which made him uneasy, and he took a long sip.

  “Is there something you’re not telling me?”

  He chuckled. “For goodness’ sake, Charley. Of course not.” Then he gave me his hand, which I didn’t need. I needed answers. I needed understanding. Because he was holding back, the gesture a diversion.

  “What are you in the mood for, darling?”

  “Not this . . . not you trying to change the subject.” I flung his hand away, disliking the abruptness of my tone.

  “Is this about the wedding again?”

  “I’m not sure,” I relented, disappointment seeping out.

  “It’s just this time of year, my lovely. A few more domestic trips and then Hong Kong. After that, things will slow down. I’ll be all yours.”

  My glass dropped on the table at the announcement of another overseas trip, and it made a sharp sound.

  “When’s that?” I asked.

  “Beginning of September.”

  It wasn’t that far away, but I already knew the tumult to expect. International trips meant weeks apart. There was a time when news like this wouldn’t have affected me. Our unconventional love provided a fluid space for joining together and coming apart. But when we moved down south, I had a different expectation. And when he slipped the ring on my finger, I thought, perhaps, we were ready for something more. Yet it turned into something less. Something far less than we had before.

  Disguising disappointment was a challenge. “I didn’t know about the Hong Kong trip.” Nor did he ask me to come along.

  But then his phone rang, and he slipped on his we’re done with this conversation face. He was on his feet, talking rather firmly, and I couldn’t make out what he was saying. Deflated, I sat, staring at the water and the birds frolicking. Their squawks sounded like cries. I ached for our old life, my old life.

  And then Philip shouted, “Aye, mate!” and I refused to turn.

  Sunny was on all fours, and a series of barks filled the tepid air.

  I heard them hug and slap each other’s backs like grown men do. Sunny tugged, but I tugged harder, forcing him to sit. I didn’t want to meet Philip’s friend like this. I didn’t want to meet anyone like this. How could I sit beside them and pretend to be happy when inside I was beginning to feel that I was not?

  “Charley, darling,” Philip’s voice strummed through the air. “Come meet Goose.” And then in this teasing voice that mocked me, “Any chance you’re a notary, my friend? This lovely is ready to tie the knot . . . Did I tell you I’m getting married? Trust me, lad, this one was worth the wait.”

  Ever so slightly, I turned. Philip stopped talking, and his friend stared me in the eye.

  “Charley, meet the man behind this delicious establishment. My dear, dear friend, Goose.”

  Their affection stung, but not more than my surprise.

  Goose was Jimmy’s dad.<
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  CHAPTER 12

  November 2017, Back Then

  Kansas City, Missouri

  Surprise catches you off guard in the most vulnerable moments. Shock pools before quietly seeping out. When my mother succumbed to her death, I wasn’t by her side. The guilt stalked me for some time.

  Philip had dropped into town for a night. We’d only had a few hours, and I’d thought it would be good to get some fresh air. She’d slipped away while we’d been curled up in a booth at a bar near the airport. As I walked through the door, Janet relayed the awful news. I’d forgotten to turn my phone on. Philip did that to me. I was distraught. Janet talked me off the ledge, but I couldn’t get past the voices in my head reminding me I was giving my devotion to someone else while Mom was leaving hers behind. It was a regret I would have to live with.

  Numb and heartbroken, I didn’t dare speak the words aloud, but I wished whoever pulled the strings up there could have chosen somebody else. My mother would’ve done anything to watch her only child walk down that aisle in a white dress. She would’ve doted on grandchildren and spent hours playing with them on the floor. She would’ve laughed at every one of Philip’s stupid jokes.

  Those first few days after her death, I heard her voice trickle in my ear. All the Momisms I’d collected throughout the years. “The best grandparents are those who don’t mind getting their knees dirty. Don’t ever underestimate the power of eye contact, Charlotte.” I was lying in my bed with the sheets pulled over my head, trying to remember everything she’d taught me. I was petrified to forget, so I started an actual list. “Keep a pair of flip-flops in your car so you don’t have to drive in high heels. And wear them in public showers. Especially hotels. Do you have any idea how dirty those floors are? Wash your face every night before you go to bed. It’ll save you thousands on plastic surgery and Botox. Be prepared for someone to barge into the bathroom stall. Those locks are never foolproof. Cover yourself!”

  There were so many Momisms, I wept myself to sleep for weeks. I didn’t know how I would cope. I didn’t know how to live without her. When the person who gives you life disappears, how do you go on living? I was an orphan, and the word made me ill.