Well

by Matthew McIntosh

  A door closed and the car drove away. Soon I stopped, and lay still. The ground was hard beneath me. Something wet fell on my face. The sky opened, spread rain over all the ground.

  Maybe not. But I remember clearly that it took awhile to recognize that I was there, somewhere, in-between.

  I waited patiently for the Lord;

  and He inclined to me, and heard my cry.

  He brought me up out of the pit of destruction,

  out of the miry clay…

  PSALM 40:1–2

  GRACE (SO LONG! PART II)

  First, Helen’s hands had begun hurting. It happened in the morning—and that night they hurt so badly that she called her daughter Mary. She could barely hold the phone. She was scared. Mary came and took her to the hospital. Helen didn’t know what was wrong with her and none of the doctors knew either. Does she always look like this? they asked Mary and Mary told them, No. Helen was retaining water—in her hands, her arms, her face, her stomach. She lay in the hospital bed and listened to the people talking about her. They seemed very far away. She says she’s very tired, Mary said, and she doesn’t know why. We’ll have to keep her for awhile, the doctors said. They gave her diuretics and pain pills.

  And she was very tired. And she could barely keep her eyes open but she was aware that the walls were shifting. The light was on in the hallway, she could see a sliver beneath the door. If this is my time Lord, let it be quick. She didn’t want it to take a long time. She’d seen many of her friends go slowly. She’d seen the way their bodies had failed them, slowly, the ways their minds had left them. She’d taken care of these friends of hers— she’d brought them communion, taken them out on drives around the lake. She’d always prided herself on her resilience—she’d raised four children alone—lived on her own since Claire had left, thirty-five years ago—she’d worked at the library to support them, she’d retired, she went to Mass, drove her friends around. She’d had a blessed life. But if this is my time, Lord, let it be quick. I’m ready—someone was moving outside in the hallway. Or was there something else to do?

  And weeks passed and Helen was still tired. Her hands hurt. She stopped taking the pills that made the walls move but even so, even without them, sometimes she would forget where she was, whom she was talking to. Come closer. I can’t see you. The doctors said there wasn’t anything more they could do—they’d done tests, made her as comfortable as they could. She shouldn’t be alone in her condition, they said, and they sent her to live with Mary in Federal Way. Mary had always been a good daughter, a good friend—Helen was proud of all of them: Tom, Anne, Claire—but she hated to be an imposition. She told herself that if it wasn’t going to be quick, then she would have to get better. In three weeks, she told them all, she would be back in her apartment in the city, back going to Mass every day, back taking care of her friends. Mary and Dick rolled her into the guest bedroom and lifted her into bed. They’d put flowers in a crystal vase on the nightstand. She had to go to the bathroom. How could she tell them?

  When it would become unbearable and she’d have to take the pills that made her more tired, more confused, and the walls would bend—when the pain was too much—when she was afraid—when she still couldn’t lift her legs or walk or go to the bathroom by herself—when she couldn’t turn the pages of her Bible—when she missed Mass for the eighth week—when she couldn’t remember the rest of the song she loved so much (it began:

  This day God gives me strength of high heaven),

  finally—although she told them all that she was going to get better—she had her children check her into St Joseph’s Senior Care Center, and in all truth, though it was her own decision and the best one to be made, in all truth, it only seemed to make her more tired.

  St Joseph’s was in the city, closer to her friends, closer to her apartment, her car—and it wasn’t like a hospital, exactly—they called it a home—there were lots of old people walking around—and the bed was comfortable, not as comfortable as her own in her apartment, of course—it wasn’t a bad bed by any means—

  But there was something else.

  The black ladies were from Mississippi and they brought her meals and helped her with her wig and going to the bathroom. She hated anyone to see her like this, but they were humble people, themselves, and she tried to take it all with good humor, and she was too tired to take it with anything less. Helen didn’t want anything in her room because she was going to go home soon. But Anne and Tom came one day and brought old pictures of the family, of Helen’s husband and herself in front of the cathedral in St Paul, dried flowers, a painting of the Virgin from the dining room wall.

  The doctors couldn’t find what was wrong with her. Why do her hands hurt so much? Anne asked. What’s going on inside her? None of them knew. They brought in specialists, looked in books. Helen forgot the beginning of the song one night and she listened to her heart beating in her ears for a long time, staring at the strip of light beneath the door, this other door (though it looked so much like the last one—and the room looked like—where was I then? Where is—) and she rang the bell, finally, when she couldn’t be sure that she was breathing.

  They took her back to the hospital. Don’t fill the bed, Mary told the people at the home. They said they wouldn’t.

  She’ll pass away within the year, the doctors said.

  When her family visited, a nurse propped Helen up in her bed and Helen smiled and read the cards that said Get Well Soon and she thanked them, and smiled and listened to the news. She had grandchildren all over the country and a new great-grandchild was on the way—someone was getting married, she had the most difficult time figuring out who. Other things were happening and it was difficult to keep up—why was that? Why was she always so confused? She’d been ready. She hated for them to see her like this.

  And wasn’t it sad, really? Sad to not go quick?

  Claire came to the hospital one afternoon and sat down next to her mother. She read aloud a section from a Trollope novel and when she had finished, Helen closed her eyes.

  It’s not that the road is steep, she said. It’s that it’s so long.

  Claire listened and touched her mother’s hand. She put the book on the bedside table. Her mother’s eyes were closed tight and Claire could hear her breathing in short, quick bursts through her nose, her lips closed tight. Claire asked her Christ for the right thing to say. What is the right thing to say? What do we tell each other in these conditions? What do we say when we’re falling apart?

  You can go, Mom, Claire said. You know it’s all right for you to go.

  Helen didn’t say anything for a time. Claire waited. Helen said:

  I want to go. I’m afraid I can’t. She looked into the dark. She began to cry.

  Why can’t you? Claire said.

  Helen shook her head. She covered her face with her hands.

  Why can’t you go?

  She didn’t know.

  Why do you think? Claire said.

  I think— Helen said.

  She thought she hadn’t suffered enough.

  You don’t need to suffer, Claire said.

  I haven’t suffered. Not enough.

  You don’t need to suffer.

  I do.

  No, Claire said. You don’t need to suffer. Not anymore.

  They talked together more. They remembered things. Claire’s father, Helen’s husband; they remembered the good things. They remembered together, and finally, when it was getting late, Claire had to leave; she would come back tomorrow. She would read more Trollope. Open the curtain, dear, before you go. Claire walked to the center of the room and drew back the curtain between the two beds. The bed on the other side was empty now.

  The nurse brought Helen dinner. Pulled back the blanket. Propped her up and put the tray on her lap, then left. Helen looked down at her plate. Chicken, mashed potatoes, carrots. She looked out the window, at the brick building across the alley, at the rows of windows. The sun was reflecting off the windows an
d she couldn’t see inside, but that was all right. Something was happening. She began to breathe slowly. She began to relax. She felt a warmth [Back home in St Paul when she was a girl there was an old man who would bring ice on the back of his wagon and she would always stand inside at the door waiting for him and when he would pull up front, she would call her mother outside. Her mother would come out. How are you today, Mr Lawrence? How is your back today? and Mr Lawrence would say that it was fine, nothing to complain about—his wife was making ice cream to sell at Smith’s, he had two boys off at college, a younger boy and a girl at home, terrors around the house. Mr Lawrence would bring the ice into the house and Helen would run ahead of him into the kitchen and he would strain under the weight—his back bent even when his arms were empty—and after he’d taken it down to the cellar and come up again, he would wipe the sweat from his brow and say to her mother, This one is growing so fast, and he would look at Helen kindly and she would feel heat in her cheeks and he would ask her questions—Are you ready for school? Are you ready to begin? and she would say, Yes, she was ready. She was reading on her own already, her mother had taught her, and after her mother had poured Mr Lawrence a glass of water and they had sat and talked about their children, about the town, about the church, Mr Lawrence would stand and say that he couldn’t afford to dawdle and Helen would follow her mother and Mr Lawrence back through the house, and when she stepped through the door again, onto the porch and down onto the street by Mr Lawrence’s wagon, she would be standing beneath an expanse of blue sky, and Mr Lawrence would say goodbye to the two of them, and she and her mother would stand in the street together, watching as the buggy turned the corner at the end of the street and disappeared. She would feel the heat and her mother would tell her to hurry back inside before she caught a stroke and then her mother would turn and go inside and she, Helen, would stand watching the space where the wagon had disappeared, fanning herself, and when she had finally turned, herself, to go back inside, she would feel an exquisite sense of the rightness of things, a sense of the fineness of things, the safeness of things, and she would not worry about Mr Lawrence or his bent back—she would not worry because why should she worry about Mr Lawrence when they shared so much and she would always see him tomorrow.] [Maybe she didn’t need to after all.] surge through her. She felt it all over. It felt good. Through the window, a young man in the building next door was pushing a broom. [She could see down, now, into the dark alley. She was very high.] She wondered if he was who she thought he was.

  IT’S TAKING SO DAMN LONG TO GET HERE (VII)

  If I had to try and make some sense out of it I guess I would have to say that I worry I’m going to be waiting so long I’ll forget what I’m waiting for. Does that make sense? You worry you’ll forget what you’re waiting for and then you worry one day you’ll forget that you are waiting for anything at all. Maybe you’ll get up one day and go to work, and after work you’ll come home and sit down in front of the TV, for instance. Or the radio or whatever. And you turn the volume down because all of a sudden you have the sense that something’s slipped your mind. And you sit there and wonder about it for awhile, your interest is piqued, you know there’s something … there’s something, but what is it? And finally, you just shake it off. You turn the volume back up. You figure you must have just left something at work or forgot to pick something up from the grocery store, or something like that—something trivial. Surely nothing important. So you shake it off. But what it is—what it really is—and this is the part that gets to me when I start thinking about it—what it really is is this is the exact moment in your life that you’ve forgotten you’re waiting for something.

  So then, without even knowing it, this is when you’ve lost your hope.

  LOOKING OUT FOR YOUR OWN

  Some things, you need to let go. I’ve found this out the past few months. First it was my brother. Then it was Shannon, my girlfriend and the only girl I’ve had sex with. I know Shannon from school. I’ve actually known Shannon since kindergarten. But we became friends when we got to junior high and then high school came along and one thing led to another, and pretty soon we’re hanging out so much it’s like we’re boyfriend and girlfriend, but without the kissing or the sex. Then one night, when I took her out to the pier to watch the water, I kissed her. I remember this well, because I was real nervous about it. I thought, Once I kiss this girl, I’m going to have to start knowing her very well. More than I did, anyway. She was leaning over the railing and you could hear the water bashing against the pillars below and the creaking of the old wooden boards. She called me Drew, as opposed to Andrew, which is more formal. I was standing behind her about five feet away and all of a sudden she turns around and just stares right at me. You should have seen it. It was like the movies. The moon, which was above my left shoulder, was hitting her right in the face, turning her face all white, and her hair, which looked gray but was really mahogany, was blowing all around her face and in the wind, like something was pulling her by the roots. And behind her, just the stark blackness of the ocean, which was amazing because of the way the moon hit her right in the face, like she was everything worth lighting up. She was wearing a blue sweater that hung kind of baggy on her, and blue jeans. She was also wearing black Converse All Stars, I remember. She just stood there and stared at me, like I said, and I knew, because she didn’t say anything, just stared, that she wanted me to kiss her. So I walked over to her, and she put out her hands for me to take, and I took them, and then I leaned into her mouth and kissed her real soft at first, and she sighed, and then she opened her mouth and I opened mine and put my arms around her and held her close.

  There are certain things about a person that you could never know. Why, for instance, a girl might cry sometimes when you’re in bed together and you’ve just had sex and everything finally seemed to go well. But the next thing you know, she’s crying and holding on real tight to your arm for no reason that she can explain. Or why some people might get violent all of a sudden, and come over to your house and bust down your door and the next thing you know, this guy’s on top of you and he’s got his hands around your neck squeezing so tight you can’t breathe, and one side of your throat touches the other so you feel like you’re going to throw up or pass out, and then you start worrying that this could be IT; “Curtains!” like they say. Then he gets up and walks out of your house, just like that.

  You’ve got to ask yourself what really just happened and why, and the conclusion you must in the end come up with is because something must have happened to that person that’s triggered by something that is right now happening. Something that they probably couldn’t even explain if someone were to ask.

  Probably what happened is some dirty old man (or it could be a woman, but mostly it’s a man) put some moves on them when they were a tyke and it really gets to them still, when something makes them remember it. Or maybe their old man used to beat the shit out of them and they blocked it out, but some things just trigger it out of them, so they’re doing the same thing. This is called Repressed Memory Syndrome. It’s also why some girls dress up in all black and paint their faces white, like death, and put black around their lips and eyes, like death. It’s also why some guys walk around pretending like they’re girls, and walking like them and talking all feminine, and sometimes when you go to the city, they’re walking around together and holding hands and giving you hard looks like you look at girls. It’s most probably because they’ve got Repressed Memory Syndrome, which can only be cured by a shrink with psychotherapy. What they did for all that time before they had psychotherapists, I have no idea. I know they had perverts and assholes back then. Maybe they just dealt with it or maybe there wasn’t a cure so some girls would grow up and cry whenever they’d be in bed with their husbands because they knew it reminded them of something real sinister but what they didn’t exactly know, so the husband, who was probably a nice guy himself, would have to rub her hair and shush her back to sleep and blow on her forehead t
o make her feel safe.

  As far as what guys would do—and not all of them turn out to be fags, by the way—they’d probably just have to keep a stiff upper lip and try to walk tall and forget about it, which is all right, I guess, for guys, because they are naturally tougher and, as my old man says, resilient.

  This would have made no sense to me last year, but now, after everything that happened with Shannon and her dad, it’s completely logical. You’ve got normal people like Shannon, and you’ve got crazy people, like Shannon’s dad. Except while Shannon is normal in most respects, there are things about her that don’t add up, that aren’t normal, but they’re so far different from the things that aren’t normal about her dad, they’re minor in comparison, or if not minor, then less dangerous at least.

  I’m no expert on sex. I’ve only been with Shannon, and we’ve had actual sex less than ten times. The first time was maybe a year ago at my house when my parents first went away for the weekend. They do this a lot since my brother got sent away. This was the summer I turned sixteen and we’d tried to do it earlier, it’s just that it never worked out. The first time we saw each other naked was in the front of my 1984 Toyota Corolla. Shannon took off all her clothes and I took everything off but my shirt—I’d gotten too tall too quick and I was worried I was way too skinny for a girl to want to look at—and we kissed and fooled around with each other’s bodies, but when it came down to it, I was, as they say, impotent. I couldn’t get it up to save myself, no matter what Shannon did to me or no matter who I imagined Shannon was instead of herself. I felt all embarrassed and I made a joke about it, and laughed and Shannon laughed too but it was hard to believe that she was laughing at my joke and not at me. She told me that it happens to every man some time or another and that made me feel a little better about the whole ordeal. Besides, she knew I’d been tired with school and working so many hours for the lawn service, and that cramped car was not very comfortable for my six-foot-four-inch frame.