My Famous Brain

by Diane Wald

  Don was stretched out on his bed, smiling at me. I wasn’t really surprised. It had already been such an extraordinary, reality-shattering day that I suppose all my normal disbeliefs had been suspended.

  “Donald,” I said, choking a little. “This is wonderful.” I could see him perfectly; he had a small bandage on the side of his head, but otherwise he looked just fine. He held out his arms to me, and I went and embraced him. He was as warm and real as anyone I’d ever held. Finally, we released each other, and I propped myself up next to him on the pillows. He passed me a handkerchief. He gave his old laugh-cough.

  “Here, sport,” he said, sniffling a bit himself. “Clean yourself up, will you?”

  I blew my nose, and I stared at him. I noticed that he was wearing a robe I’d never seen before.

  “New duds?” I asked him.

  He pulled at the blue satin lapels. “This old thing? Certainly not, Mac. Maybe you just never looked at it before.” He chuckled.

  “Very funny,” I said.

  “Sorry,” Don replied, “I actually don’t know where this thing came from. Maybe there’s a wardrobe angel or something. Listen, Mac, I haven’t got much time here, I don’t think. I guess we really shouldn’t waste it fooling around. Today’s been really hard on you, I gather?”

  I heaved a great sigh. “To put it mildly,” I said. “Do you know all about it?”

  “Pretty much. Not everything, though. I wish I could have helped you with the book, or advised you against thinking too much about Sarah, but I can’t interfere. I’m only here now, I think, to comfort you a little. Maybe it won’t really do any good, but I thought I’d try.”

  “Are you kidding?” I said, “This is the only decent thing to happen to me all day—well, almost. You know I contacted Eliza?”

  “Yes, I’m glad about that. It made you feel better?”

  “Very much better. You know I never talked to you all that much about her, but she’s never been out of my mind.”

  “Curious phrase,” Don mused. “‘Out of my mind.’ Do you feel like you’re out of your mind now?”

  I looked at him. It was so precious to see so clearly. I did notice, though, that when I turned my eyes away from Donald my vision was as poor as ever. “No,” I said, “certainly not. But I do know that whatever is happening is, to put it mildly, highly unusual. For one thing, I know that I actually have an abominable headache that I can’t feel at the moment. Do you know about that too?”

  “Not really,” he said, shaking his head. “I don’t have a good grasp of physical reality at all anymore. I guess I haven’t been dead long enough to know much. A lot of things bewilder me. For example, isn’t it kind of funny that I have this Band-Aid on my head, when I don’t really even have a head?” He laughed and poked me in the arm.

  I laughed too. “Well,” I said, “It’s a whimsical touch. What are you, anyway, Donald, an angel or something? A ghost? Are we in a movie?”

  He continued smiling. “Don’t know that either. But it sure is great to be here again. How’s Tillie?”

  “Tillie’s perfect,” I told him. “Shall I call her?”

  “No, that’s okay. I’m glad she’s well, and that she was here for you when I …” He paused, then went on again slowly. “You know, Mac, you were right about M. G. of course; I never should have gotten so involved with that case. I don’t know why I didn’t listen to you; I was vain and stupid. I thought I could cure the devil himself, I guess. Have you forgiven me yet?”

  I had to be honest with him. “Only recently. For a long time, I had so much anger I thought I would die of it. But I forgave you, and I eventually forgave myself for not trying harder to stop you.” I paused. “But Don, you know, I never forgave M. G. Just like I never quite forgave Sarah, you know? It’s the sickening truth, but there it is. I’m just not up to it.”

  Don turned to me and gave me an earthshaking look. His eyes were as deep and bright as a snow-covered chasm: I would have fallen into them and been lost had he not spoken. “Mac,” he said, in a tender but commanding voice. “Forgive them. There isn’t much time. It’s only an act of will, that’s all—you don’t have to ‘feel’ it. That comes later. Forget about using that famous brain of yours—don’t reason so much. Just do it. For me, okay? It’s very important now.”

  His voice reminded me of the time he’d commanded me to get into the bathtub and listen to Vivaldi to soothe my pain: it could not be challenged. I looked down at my hands, which were just fuzzy forms, then back at his clear and beatific face. An act of will: of course. I’d never thought of it quite that way. I reached out and took his hand.

  “Then I forgive them,” I said, “for your sake, Donald.”

  Even as I said the words, he began to fade away. It did not surprise me, nor was I saddened. To the contrary, I felt a bit relieved. All this communicating with living and dead souls was beginning to take its toll on my brain, and it cried out for rest.

  At Don’s disappearance, my headache came back with an almost audible “boom.” I felt along the dresser top until I found the bottle of pills. I put it in my pocket. By this time Tillie had come into the room and was rubbing herself around my legs (she’d probably heard me talking to someone and come to investigate), and I carried her out to the kitchen to give her a snack. I kissed the top of her head and the tip of her tail and told her what an excellent girl she was. Then I called Mrs. O’Neill, told her I was going to New Jersey for a few days to visit my sons, and asked her to drop in on Tillie. She was overjoyed to hear my plans and agreed to care for Tillie for as long as I wanted. I thanked her and told her that in that case perhaps I would prolong my visit by a day or two. She and Tillie were the best of pals, so there was really no reason to worry.

  Then, while Tillie was eating, I took the little bottle of pills and a glass of water into Don’s room and sat down on the bed again. I closed the door, for Tillie’s sake. I was terribly tired, and I could barely sit upright for the pain. I knew that years ago, when my headaches were at their worst just before my operation, it had taken only two of these super strong tablets to numb my aching brain. I made a little indentation in one of the pillows and poured out the pills. There were twenty-six. I swallowed twenty of them one by one, leaving six in the bottle so it wouldn’t look suspicious. I took the glass and pill bottle back to the kitchen, put the glass in the sink, and the pill bottle in the cabinet with all my other medications and vitamins. Then, quite happily, I made my way back to Don’s room, crawled into his bed, and covered myself with his antique crazy-quilt (a psychologist’s pun of a present I’d given him on his last birthday). Strangely, although some time had elapsed since Donald’s visit, his side of the bed was still rather warm. I drifted off into dreams of some unfamiliar vivid rural landscapes for a while, and then I guess I died. No brilliantly lit tunnels or sensations of floating along the ceiling looking down at myself or anything. I’m not even sure when the life ebbed out of me. Sorry I can’t remember more about it.

  Oh, yes, there was one most remarkable thing. Just as I was sliding out into my final slumber, the entire gorgeous text of The Age of Innocence came back to me. Although I was too far gone to try to recite it, its appearance, whole and exact, was a gift for which I was truly grateful. Apparently, it had been there all along: my lack of faith had hidden it from me. In that sense, I had failed, but I was delighted to know that, to the very end, my best-loved talent had not really forsaken me. So, as the saying goes, I went out happy.

  Mrs. O’Neill, the dear woman, discovered my body the next day, and while I was sorry to have left her that burden, I knew she was strong enough and wise enough to understand that all had happened for the best. My dear little Tillie went to live with her, as I knew she would.

  My sons were saddened by my passing, no doubt, but they had known of my illness and were not too surprised. No autopsy was performed, and that pleased me: it would have upset them. I was able to view my funeral not too long ago, and, curiously enough, I had the distinct
feeling that among those who attended, only Frances had guessed how I had died. She was there with the boys, looking sad and stylish. I hope she’s kept my secret.

  I still have not told Eliza about my suicide; perhaps one day I might give her a hint at least—I’m not so sure. I’m a little ashamed of taking my life, I suppose, though there isn’t any reason to feel that way. I know I probably would have died in a matter of days anyway, judging by the severity of my last symptoms, and my passing seemed natural to those who knew me. I’d made as much peace with my life as anyone is likely to make, and I’d wanted to die. I didn’t want to call anyone or be taken to a hospital. It was my life for the taking.

  And it seems it’s a life I’m still living somehow. I can’t explain it. And I don’t know what, if anything, will happen next, but nothing would surprise me.

  Epilogue

  As Clear as the Sky Above the Fog

  Eliza liked the ordinary days. She woke up very early, before anyone else, pulled on a thin old army-green sweatshirt and some shorts, slipped her feet into some raggedy sneakers, and crept down to the dock. She untied the small rowboat, climbed in, and rowed out to the middle of the pond. The fog was so thick she had no idea where she was going, but just above her head she could see a faraway clearing. It was going to be a good day. When she arrived at what she thought was the center of the pond, she pulled in the oars, and sat there. It was silent, except for a few trilling frogs. The air was cool and damp and silver. The boat smelled of fish. The boat was rocking slightly. She thought it was perfect.

  Out on the lake in the mist and calm, all sorts of things would run through her head. She loved to sit there and sway gently with the boat and let her mind wander. She thought about a strange phrase from the religious school she’d attended as a child: “assumed into heaven.” She assumed she knew what “assumed” meant: that one day her body would die, and her soul would fly upwards in a spiral of clouds. Sometime later someone would knock at the door, receive no answer, peer in the window, and see her body lying there. They’d know she had been assumed. But, she said to herself, that sort of thing just never happens.

  Then for no reason at all she was suddenly vividly aware of a beautiful sentence from one of her favorite books, The Age of Innocence. She didn’t even know she’d memorized those lines but there they were, as clear as the sky above the fog: “Seated side by side on a bench of the half-empty boat they found that they had hardly anything to say to each other, or rather that what they had to say communicated itself best in the blessed silence of their release and their isolation.”

  It was going to be a good day.

  End

  Acknowledgments

  My most affectionate thanks to my early readers: Robert Wald, Ellen Wittlinger, and Donna Reid. And especially to Carey Reid, as always, for his love and unwavering support across the years.

  About the Author

  Diane Wald’s novel Gillyflower was published in April 2019 by She Writes Press and won first place in the novella category from the Next Generation Indie Book Awards, first place in the novella category from American Book Fest, first place in Fiction: Novella from International Book Awards, and a bronze medal from Reader’s Favorite. You can read more about Gillyflower at www.gillyflowernovel.com. Diane has also published more than 250 poems in literary magazines since 1966. She the recipient of a two-year fellowship in poetry from the Fine Arts Work Center in Provincetown and has been awarded the Grolier Poetry Prize, The Denny Award, The Open Voice Award, and the Anne Halley Award. She also received a state grant from the Artists Foundation (Massachusetts Council on the Arts). She has published four print chapbooks (Target of Roses from Grande Ronde Press, My Hat That Was Dreaming from White Fields Press, Double Mirror from Runaway Spoon Press, and Faustinetta, Gegenschein, Trapunto from Cervena Barva Press) and won the Green Lake Chapbook Award from Owl Creek Press. An electronic chapbook (Improvisations on Titles of Works by Jean Dubuffet) appears on the Mudlark website. Her book Lucid Suitcase was published by Red Hen Press in 1999 and her second book, The Yellow Hotel, was published by Verse Press in the fall of 2002. Wonderbender, her third poetry collection, was published by 1913 Press in 2011. A fourth poetry collection, The Warhol Pillows, was published in 2021 by Finishing Line Press.

  SELECTED TITLES FROM SHE WRITES PRESS

  She Writes Press is an independent publishing company founded to serve women writers everywhere.

  Visit us at www.shewritespress.com.

  The Geometry of Love by Jessica Levine. $16.95, 978-1-93831-462-9. Torn between her need for stability and her desire for independence, an aspiring poet grapples with questions of artistic inspiration, erotic love, and infidelity.

  A Cup of Redemption by Carole Bumpus. $16.95, 978-1-938314-90-2. Three women, each with their own secrets and shames, seek to make peace with their pasts and carve out new identities for themselves.

  The Belief in Angels by J. Dylan Yates. $16.95, 978-1-938314- 64-3. From the Majdonek death camp to a volatile hippie household on the East Coast, this narrative of tragedy, survival, and hope spans more than fifty years, from the 1920s to the 1970s.

  The Velveteen Daughter by Laurel Davis Huber. $16.95, 978-1-63152-192-8. The first book to reveal the true story of the woman who wrote The Velveteen Rabbit and her daughter, a world-famous child prodigy artist, The Velveteen Daughter explores the consequences of early fame and the inability of a mother to save her daughter from herself.

  Tzippy the Thief by Pat Rohner. $16.95, 978-1-63152-153-9. Tzippy has lived her life as a selfish, materialistic woman and mother. Now that she is turning eighty, there is not an infinite amount of time left—and she wonders if she’ll be able to repair the damage she’s done to her family before it’s too late.

  Things Unsaid by Diana Y. Paul. $16.95, 978-1-63152-812-5. A family saga of three generations fighting over money and obligation—and a tale of survival, resilience, and recovery.