The Cabin

by Wilder Jasinda

  “Hold me,” she whispers.

  I hold her.

  i love you, for the millionth time

  If I close my eyes and focus, some days I can almost pretend we’re just on an extension of our Paris vacation.

  We sleep in late, stay up late watching movies and bingeing all the shows we used to talk about watching but never got around to. We just sit together in the living room and listen to entire movements of classical music. Sometimes just sit and breathe together. He cooks, when he can. Or we cook together. Or I cook. Some days, neither of us has the energy, so we just order a pizza.

  My favorite, though, is reading together. It’s approaching winter in Atlanta, now, so the days are cooler. We turn on our gas fireplace and sit on the couch and Adrian reads to me. At first, it was just once in a while. But gradually, it becomes our Thing. We stopped watching TV. I’d buy books on Amazon, print or e-book, depending on the price, and he’d read to me. Sometimes when his voice got tired, I’d take over, but I’m not as good at it as he is.

  He reads to me for hours. We read everything together. We go through the entire Little House on the Prairie series in a week. We read Nora Roberts, Stephanie Meyer, Harry Potter, we even start on the Game of Thrones series. Sometimes he reads from one book in the morning and a different one in the afternoons, after lunch.

  But as the days crowd together, one after another, never leaving our house for much of anything, it becomes harder and harder to pretend that what’s happening isn’t real.

  I want to keep pretending.

  Pretend the days reading on the couch are just a magical interlude before our regular lives resume, me working in the ICU, him writing and researching.

  But I can’t.

  He needs more and more pills to keep the pain and nausea and everything else at bay, and then it gets to the point of diminishing returns, where the drugs take away his lucidity along with the pain. And he hates that, more than anything. Says he’d rather be present with me and in pain than lost in narcotic la-la-land.

  I try to make him promise that when it’s bad enough, he’ll take what he needs to be comfortable, but he refuses.

  “We’re doing this your way,” he says. “And I wouldn’t have it any other way. But I’m going to live out my remaining days on my terms. And I’m going to be here, with you.”

  A month after his reveal, his doctor makes a house call. Wonder of wonders—but then, Adrian has always had a way with people. After a checkup, some poking and prodding and questioning, the doctor says there’s no point going in for MRIs and all that. Meaning, don’t waste your time learning what you already know. He prescribes what he calls the nuclear option, some kind of strongest-possible opiate.

  If you just want to float away, he says. I’m sure I’d know what it is, but my eyes are too blurry with tears to read, and it doesn’t matter. He won’t take it.

  Not yet, anyway.

  * * *

  I read to him, now.

  * * *

  Tess shows up. Adrian does his dead-level best to get me to go out with her, just for an hour, just to breathe. Begs me, pleads, tries ordering, demanding.

  I won’t.

  I can’t.

  I fucking can’t.

  So Tess brings a spread of food from our favorite restaurants in town. And every day after that, every single day, Tess brings us food. Carryout Chinese, Thai, Indian, Mexican, homemade casseroles and pots of Spaghetti bolognese and lasagna and platters of hot grilled PB&J and boats of tomato soup with triangles of grilled cheese.

  One day, she brings over a bag of marijuana and a pipe, and we get Adrian stoned out of his head. Where she got it, hell if I know, but it helps him in some ways more than even the narcotics. So she keeps bringing it.

  I’ve stopped drinking almost entirely. I want to be lucid, to remember.

  The pain is too much to bear, and I know no amount of alcohol will help.

  I smoke with him sometimes, but mostly just so he doesn’t feel alone in it. “I hate partying alone,” he says, with a tired smile.

  Tess, god, what would I do without her? Adrian falls asleep around three in the morning most days, and when I let it slip to her, she starts sneaking in at 3 a.m. every fucking day with a bottle of Josh and her iPad Pro and a big bag of Skinny Pop, and she makes me sit outside with her on our back deck covered in a huge, thick blanket she got on Etsy, and we drink wine from the bottle and watch mindless comedy and action flicks and cheesy romances. So much for not drinking, right? But it’s the only way I manage to find space to breathe.

  Every other moment of my day is consumed with…It.

  We don’t use the word. We don’t talk about death.

  Tess never asks how I am. She’s just there.

  * * *

  We’re a few days shy of three months from when he told me.

  He’s been in bed more often than not, and I just sit with him and we keep the TV on, or I read to him until I start to lose my voice.

  We’re halfway through Casablanca.

  Play it, Sam. Play it like you did for her.

  Adrian turns it off, and his head swivels slowly, heavily over to me. “Nadia.”

  I swallow hard. “Yeah, baby?”

  “I need you to help me move to the guest room.”

  “What? Why?” I sit up. “This is our bed.”

  He closes his eyes. Even that seems hard for him. “I’m not going to die in our bed. I won’t do that to you.”

  “Adrian, goddammit. No. I’m not, I won’t. This is our bed.”

  “Nadia—”

  “No. Not a fucking chance.”

  “I will not haunt this room for you. This bed. I won’t do that.”

  I blink, but the tears win. “Adrian, you big dork. You’re going to anyway. You think you’re just…written into my life on this bed? You’re in everything. Every room in this house, Adrian.”

  “We have christened just about every horizontal surface there is, and quite a few of the vertical ones, too.” He smirks, and for a second he’s the old Adrian, wry and provocative, and horny all—the—damn—time.

  I laugh through the tears. “Exactly. You being in the guest bed isn’t going to make a difference.”

  “Yes, it will.”

  “You promised me we’d do this my way. This is my way. Here. Together. Our room, our bed.”

  He grimaces, and after a few minutes, whatever it is, it passes.

  He squeezes my hand, and that’s all there is to say.

  * * *

  I’m glossing over the details of taking care of him, especially as he gets too sick to do certain things for himself. Or loses control over things. He wants to hire a hospice nurse, but I tell him I’m professionally insulted by the suggestion. I’m a nurse, dammit. It’s what I do.

  No, he’s not my patient, he’s my husband.

  I’m going to take care of him my damn self. No matter what it requires.

  * * *

  The last days are slow.

  An hour passes like taffy being stretched out.

  Sometimes it begins to feel like I’ve always been here, like this, with him. Sitting in our room, on the bed next to him, holding his slack, cool, dry hand. Pretending to read a book and really just listening to him breathe.

  It’s slow, his breathing. Rattling.

  I call the doctor, and he comes, and his face confirms it.

  There’s no one to call, no one to tell.

  When we first met, in college, we bonded over the fact that both of our parents died young, and we were only children. The Lonely Club, we jokingly called it. Orphan humor—you wouldn’t get it, unless you get it.

  So tThere’s no one to notify that the end is nigh. He tells me he’s made arrangements through his attorney to inform his publisher and agent and all those people, after he’s gone. He doesn’t want anyone to know till after.

  So…there’s no one to tell. Not now.

  Except Tess. She comes—she packs a bag and moves into our guest ro
om.

  She cleans for me, reminds me to shower once in a while.

  Tries to get me to eat, but it seems pointless.

  Even going to the bathroom is too much time away from his side.

  * * *

  He wakes up. Takes my hand. “I love you, Nadia.”

  I can barely get the words out. “I love you more, dork.”

  He tries to laugh. “I’m not a dork, I’m a nerd.”

  “Oh, right.”

  “I think it’s time for me to…to float away, Nadia.”

  I try to say okay—my mouth forms the word-shape but no sound comes out. I nod, blink the tears away. “I love you,” I whisper. “I love you.”

  “‘Don’t cry for me, Argentina,’” he murmurs, referencing one of my favorite musicals. “‘The truth is, I never left you.’”

  Even now, he’s trying to make me laugh. He gets me. He’s always just gotten me. Who else ever could, the way he does?

  I want to be grateful about this. But it hurts to goddamn bad.

  I squeeze his hand so hard it must hurt. “Don’t leave me, Adrian. Please. You promised you’d never leave me.”

  “I’m not leaving,” he says. “If I could stay, I would. I’m trying. I’ve been trying. I’m not leaving you, Nadia.”

  “But you are.” These are not words; they are sobs that sound like words. “And I don’t know how to live without you.”

  He’s suddenly fierce. “You make me a promise, Nadia Bell. And this promise, you keep. After I’m gone, you remember this promise, and you fucking keep it. Swear.” His eyes blaze.

  I’m startled by the ferocity. “Okay, I—I swear.”

  “Live,” he snarls. “You don’t stop living. You don’t fucking give up. Mourn me, as long as it takes. Remember me.” He clutches my hands in his, so hard my joints and bones throb. “Love again. Don’t spend the rest of your life alone.”

  I shake my head. “I can’t—you’re my husband, Adrian. How can I…?” My voice cracks, breaks, and words fail me.

  “Promise. You have to promise, and not just to get me to shut up. Promise and mean it.”

  I can barely see through the tears. My head drops, touches his chest. I’m wracked, shaking. “I can’t, Adrian. You’re it.”

  “No. I’m telling you. Promise me. Please, Nadia. It’s what I want for you. As your husband, as your best friend. I don’t want you to be alone. Promise me.” His voice crumbles. “Please.”

  I can’t look at him. “Okay. Okay, Adrian. I promise.”

  “Look at me.” He touches my chin. “I know when you’re lying.”

  I look at him—it takes everything, but I do. “I promise.”

  He nods. His head goes slack against the pillow. “Thank you.”

  “I love you.”

  “I know.”

  “Don’t you quote Star Wars at me, mister.”

  A soft huff. “Fine. I love you too.” A long, long, long silence. “I’m ready, now.”

  “Don’t you lie to me.”

  “You…you know me too well, don’t you?” Another silence. “Fine. I’m not. I never was and I never will be. But…I think I’m as ready as you can get.”

  It takes me several minutes to compose myself enough that I can see what I’m doing. I find the pills, the Nuclear Option. Whatever the fuck it is. I still don’t look.

  He takes it.

  Clutches my hand. “I love you more than fucking life itself, Nadia. Never forget that. Wherever…wherever I’m going, I’ll love you there too.”

  I hold him.

  Cling to him.

  His arms are around me, clutching.

  “I love you,” I whisper, for the millionth time.

  For the last time.

  How long, then?

  An hour? Five minutes?

  * * *

  His arms go weak. Slack.

  His breathing slows.

  I start to shake, trembling like a leaf, like I’ve been outside in -20 degree weather for an hour.

  No, no, no, no, no.

  It’s so subtle I barely notice it, for a moment.

  I look at the clock: 3:33a.m. He always called three in the morning “zero hour.”

  Figures he’d choose that time.

  * * *

  I cry, and I cry and I cry and I cry.

  Until I’m dry, and hoarse.

  Tess comes. Tries to pull me away, but I refuse. Fight her off, even though I know it’s her.

  * * *

  Stronger hands, stronger arms.

  A pinch to my arm, because I won’t leave him.

  Darkness, blessed darkness.

  * * *

  Can I just stay in this place? This quiet? This solitude, where there is nothing, and so much of it?

  The world is cruel, and I don’t want to go back.

  * * *

  Take me with you, Adrian.

  * * *

  You promised. I almost hear him.

  * * *

  I promised.

  Part II

  Drowning

  72 hours

  “The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want. He makes me lie down in green pastures; He leads me beside quiet waters. He restores my soul; He guides me in the paths of righteousness for His name’s sake. Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I fear no evil, for You are with me; Your rod and Your staff, they comfort me. You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies; You have anointed my head with oil; my cup overflows. Surely goodness and loving kindness will follow me all the days of my life, and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.”

  The minister’s voice is what Adrian would have called mellifluous.

  Why is it always that Psalm? What does it have to do with death, and mourning, and funerals? I admit I’ve not really read much of the Bible, but I feel there has to be a more appropriate passage to read at funerals, but it’s always that one.

  I’m numb, at the moment. I’m like a gourd that has been scooped out until it’s hollow. That’s me, the hollow pumpkin lady.

  A murder of crows perches in a giant spreading oak tree behind the minister, seven or eight of them all in a cluster on three branches. They’re silent. Watching us. As if paying their respects.

  Then one of them leans forward, caws raucously, once, and takes wing. It shits on the minister’s shoulder, and for some reason this just strikes me as almost unbearable funny. I have to bite my tongue until I taste blood to keep from snickering at my own husband’s funeral.

  This isn’t grief, or sadness, or mourning. This is a void. Emotional emptiness. All of my sadness has been burned through, all my grief used up. There is no more panic. No more desperation. I feel nothing, and I wallow in it like a sow in muck.

  It will break, and soon. I know this. I can feel it coming, the tide of sorrow. I feel like someone standing on a beach, watching the water recede, leaving fish flapping and crabs snapping and fronds of seaweed laying limp…watching this means a tsunami is coming.

  If you see the waters recede, then it’s usually already too late to run.

  So it is with me. There is no stopping what’s coming.

  But it’s not here yet.

  He’s been dead three days. I have no clue what happened after he breathed his last breath. It’s not even a blur. It’s nothing. Vacant. A bare dirt patch in the landscape of memory.

  I remember lying in our bed, feeling his warmth recede from the sheets.

  I think Tess was there, maybe she spoke to me, maybe she simply sat next to me. I don’t know.

  I haven’t wept. I wonder if I will.

  7 days

  A week.

  I’m still numb.

  But now the numbness is not a comfort, not a balm of nothingness, not a balloon of calm in a world of pain and chaos and grief.

  Now, numbness is…a sickness. An inability to cope. To accept.

  I recognize the stages of grief within me, I know where I am in the process. I’m stuck.


  Grief is building inside me. To continue the tsunami metaphor, Adrian’s death is the earthquake far out at sea, a mile under the surface. Right now, the tsunami is racing toward the shore, maybe only a foot high, but moving with jet-plane speed, with monstrous energy.

  At the funeral, my mind saw the waters pull back.

  Now is the seconds or minutes before the freight train smashes into shore. I’m waiting for it.

  I’m pregnant with a demon of grief and sorrow.

  Grief, and Sorrow. In this, they deserve the title, the capital letters.

  I cannot do anything.

  I’ve barely slept since he died. I cannot eat. Tess has to force me to sip water.

  What do I do with the hours? I don’t know. Sit, or lie facing the window in our bedroom, watching the sunlight travel in an arc across my bedroom floor. It’s abstract, the passage of time. Not a real thing. It feels like a movie montage, where the widow lies in bed and the camera remains still, a time-lapse of sunlight moving across the floor—it’s real. It’s me. I’m that widow.

  A widow. I’m a widow.

  Then it begins—I feel something, at that realization.

  In my rotation in the ER, a gunshot victim said he didn’t feel pain at first, more of an impact, a physical blow but not pain.

  This feels like that. The first blow, the impact before nerve endings have a chance to kick in and relay the existence of agony.