Late Fall

by Noelle Adams

  My face twists as emotion surges up into my throat, and I make a funny little sound as I wrap both of my arms around his neck.

  He returns the hug. We hold each other for a long time.

  It’s easy, at our stage of life, to feel alone—to feel like the rest of the world has simply outrun us. So many people at Eagle’s Rest feel lonely so much of the time, and all of the planned activities in the world can’t necessarily counteract the feeling.

  I don’t feel lonely right now, though, my arms around Dave, his holding me very tightly. I don’t feel alone.

  And I’m absolutely sure that he doesn’t feel alone right now either.

  ten

  It’s two weeks later, on a gray, chilly Sunday, when Marjorie dies.

  I go to church in the morning. Dave was kind of grumpy earlier on our walk, and I feel glum, in need of spiritual refreshment.

  So I join a small group of residents who attend a nearby Baptist church. We go to the early service and stay for the coffee time afterward, so it’s almost eleven before we return to Eagle’s Rest. I’m hoping Dave’s mood has improved. If it hasn’t, I’m going to leave him on his own and watch British mysteries in my apartment all afternoon by myself.

  I’ve always enjoyed afternoons like that, and it’s certainly better than trying to entertain an old man in a bad mood.

  But as soon as I arrive back home, Charlotte comes to find me. She tells me that I should visit Marjorie, and she looks so sober that I feel a chill of concern.

  My anxiety is realized when I enter Marjorie’s room. It’s very dark, with the blinds closed and the overhead lights off. And there’s a feeling in the air that’s silent, despairing.

  I swallow hard as I walk over to Marjorie’s bed. She’s lying under the covers, the way she did a few weeks ago when she had the bad episode, and she looks so pale and frail it’s like she’s almost transparent—like it will just take a few more minutes for her small body to dissolve into nothingness.

  I’ve lived a long time, and I’ve seen my share of death. I’m not fooled about the situation this time. She’s near the end.

  “Ellie,” she says when she sees me. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

  “Charlotte told me you could use a visit.”

  “I wanted to see you. I was … I was lonely.”

  Hearing something like that—from a spirit as sweet as Marjorie’s—is painful. She should be surrounded by friends and family right now, and all she has is Charlotte and me.

  Charlotte looks like she’s close to tears when I glance back at her. She says, “I’ve called Dr. Martin.”

  I nod and turn back. “I’ll stay with you as long as you like.”

  “Good. I’m tired right now. We can talk later.”

  “Of course we can. You just rest.”

  She’s told me the name of her exact condition in the past, but I can never remember what it is. It basically boils down to her heart giving out. There may be some treatments she could try to extend her life, but at her age she doesn’t want to bother with them.

  Maybe it’s easier this way, after all. To just fade away. Here, in these rooms that she loves.

  In books and movies, deathbed scenes are always sentimental or dramatic, with all the words that need to be said actually said. It rarely happens that way in real life. Marjorie isn’t really in the state to say much of anything. She sleeps until Dr. Martin arrives, and he examines her, shaking his head.

  There’s clearly nothing to be done that she’s willing to have done.

  I sit in a chair beside her bed and watch her go.

  There’s one point when she wakes up and seems to see me, recognize me. She asks faintly, “My dear, do you enjoy knitting?”

  It’s only then that I tear up.

  I’m not much of a crier. I never have been. But it doesn’t mean I don’t feel things just as deeply as other people.

  I tell Marjorie that I’ve never learned to knit, and she drifts off, away from me again.

  It’s quite a while before she dies for real, but she seems gone before then. Her breathing gets harsher, more labored, like it’s an effort for her to breathe at all. And Charlotte, Dr. Martin, and I all suffer through it with her as she breathes less and less, as she twists in discomfort, as the spark that has always been Marjorie goes out.

  Finally, Dr. Martin steps over and puts his hand just in front of her mouth and nose. Then he reaches down to feel the pulse in her neck.

  “That’s it,” he says. “Time of death, four thirty-three.”

  He nods toward the nurse who has come in earlier, so she can record it properly, and I just sit in my chair, unable to move.

  I’ve been here for hours, evidently. Gayle is here now too. She must have come in at some point, maybe with the nurse, although I have no idea when. I vaguely wonder why Dave hasn’t come to look for me.

  It doesn’t really matter, though. Today has been harder on me than anything in a really long time. I’d rather be alone with it.

  I don’t move until I’m aware of Charlotte, pulling gently on my arm. “You should leave, Ellie,” she says. “There’s nothing else for you to do here. Let me help you back to your room.”

  I nod and find myself standing up, walking slowly out of the room and down the hall toward my apartment. It’s only halfway there that I realize that Dr. Martin is walking with us, supporting me with an arm.

  I haven’t even been aware of his presence, just that I seem to be moving.

  They get me to my recliner, and Charlotte murmurs she’ll make me a cup of tea. Dr. Martin is peering at my face, checking my pulse and responses. I’m not sure what he thinks might be wrong with me, but my body is just fine, aside from sitting in the same position for too long.

  Charlotte brings over the cup of tea. “Where is Dave, anyway?” she asks.

  “I don’t know.”

  “I’ll go look for him. I’m not sure you should be alone.”

  “I’m fine.” I’m convinced the words are true. I’m just sad, as anyone would be.

  “I’ll find him for you.”

  “I’d rather be alone.”

  Charlotte shakes her head and meets Dr. Martin’s eyes. His expression is as gentle and understanding as always, and I can tell they’ve shared a thought without words.

  The thought is very likely about me, but there’s nothing I can do about it.

  All I can do is sit here at the moment.

  I sip my tea, and it actually helps, although Charlotte has made it overly sweet. Soon, Dr. Martin leaves, since there must be a lot of logistics to take care of now that Marjorie has died. Charlotte leaves, saying she’ll find Dave.

  After half a cup of tea, I’m revived enough to check my phone. I see that Dave has called twice. The first time, he didn’t leave a message, but the second time he did. He asked if I wanted to go into town with him this afternoon to hear a string quartet concert.

  I never replied to his message, so he probably just went without me.

  It’s just as well. I prefer to sit here on my own.

  That doesn’t end up happening, though. In a few minutes, Charlotte returns, saying that Dave isn’t at the residence but she called him and he’s on his way back.

  That makes me feel weird, weak, like I’m in need of help, like Dave needs to run to my rescue.

  I’m not in need. I’ll be fine if I can just sit and be left alone.

  But Charlotte fusses around for another half hour, until Dave is knocking on the door. He has clearly hurried back, and he looks urgent and concerned.

  He comes over to sit beside me, reaching to take my hand. “Why didn’t you tell me?” he asks.

  I don’t answer that question. It’s a foolish question, and I don’t have an answer for him anyway.

  “I would have stayed with you the whole time,” he murmurs, his dark eyes searching my face in that way he has.

  I don’t want him searching my face at the moment. I don’t want him knowing what I’m feeling. I just
want to be left alone. “I’m fine,” I say, my voice cracking on the last word.

  His expression tightens, a detail I’m aware of, but he doesn’t argue or insist. He just glances over to meet Charlotte’s eyes.

  I don’t like that. I don’t like when people are meeting eyes behind my back, having silent conversations about me. It makes me feel old and helpless.

  Charlotte leaves a few minutes later, but Dave stays. He gets me another cup of tea. He tucks a crocheted blanket around my lap and legs. He sits and holds my hand and looks at me.

  I know he’s trying to help. I know he doesn’t know what else to do. But, although I hate to admit it, the truth is he’s getting on my nerves.

  Finally, I manage to say with something of my normal composure, “Please don’t fuss.”

  “I wasn’t saying anything.”

  “I can feel you fussing silently.”

  He lets out a long breath. “I’m worried about you.”

  “I know, but you don’t have to be. It was hard watching her die. It always is. I’m sad about it.” Saying the words, I feel something start to crack inside me, so I throw up my mental defenses, which are very strong after years of practice. “But I knew it was going to happen soon, and it was probably the right time. I’m not going to fall apart or anything.”

  “I didn’t say you would fall apart. You just seem …”

  You see, I don’t like that either, like he thinks I’m weak, not capable of handling life’s challenges.

  I’ve always been capable. I’ve always been strong. I’ve always been perfectly able to deal with the ups and downs of life on my own.

  That hasn’t changed now, just because I’m over seventy and spending time with Dave.

  “I’m fine,” I say again, a little of my impatience evident in my voice now.

  He must hear it. “Okay. Just tell me if there’s anything I can do.”

  “You don’t have to stay with me.”

  “I’m not going to leave.”

  I hear that it will be useless to argue with him about this. Under normal circumstances, I’m a lot more stubborn than he is—at least now that he’s taken that resigned attitude toward life—but I’m not in my normal condition right now, and I can sense he’s not going to be moved. So I just say, “Okay. Then I’d like to just be quiet for a while, if that’s okay.”

  He still looks concerned, as if he doesn’t believe I really need what I say I need. He doesn’t argue, though. We sit for a while in silence until it becomes oppressive, and then we put on a British mystery episode I’ve seen dozens of times.

  The familiarity is comforting, so we watch two more episodes after the first one is over. I can see he keeps wanting to touch me—like he thinks cuddling me will make me feel better—but I know I can’t stand that right now. I let him hold my hand for as long as I can handle, but eventually I have to pull even that away.

  Fortunately, I stay in my recliner, so it’s not like we’re sharing the couch.

  Charlotte brings us dinner in my room, and he doesn’t appear inclined to leave afterward. At seven thirty, I finally have to tell him that I’m tired and just want to shower and go to bed.

  He doesn’t want to leave me alone, but I feel strong enough to insist on it now, so I finally get him out.

  I feel guilty for it afterward, but I’m also relieved.

  I just want to be alone. I don’t know why people can’t understand that. Everyone is different, and not everyone needs to be coddled endlessly when they’ve gone through something difficult.

  I don’t like to feel weak, and that’s how Dave is making me feel.

  I take a shower and get ready for bed, and then I put on another mystery so I can watch it from bed.

  I watch three more before I’m finally able to sleep.

  I don’t wake up until after five thirty the following morning, which is much later than usual for me. I feel groggy and aching and so depressed I can barely get up.

  I make myself, since I have no excuse to lie about in bed, and I’m relieved to discover that it’s raining steadily outside.

  I stare out at the darkness and feel irrationally vindicated, like nature has somehow matched my mood. It also gives me an excuse to skip my morning walk. Otherwise, Dave would be very worried if I said I didn’t want to go.

  I don’t want to go. I don’t really want to see him. I just want to spend the day in my room and watch television or read books.

  My phone rings, and I reluctantly answer it, since I know it’s Dave and he’ll be over here knocking on my door if I don’t pick it up.

  “Good morning,” he says.

  “Hi.”

  “How are you feeling?”

  “I’m fine.”

  He hesitates, as if he doesn’t believe me, but he doesn’t pursue the topic. “I guess there’s too much rain for a walk this morning.”

  “Yeah, I think so.”

  “Shall I come over there? We can sit and watch the rain.” We’ve done that before, on the occasional rainy morning.

  “I was actually thinking I might sleep in,” I lied. “If that’s okay.”

  “Of course it’s okay.” What else can he say, after all? But he sounds strange, kind of tight. “Just let me know when you’re up, and I’ll come over.”

  “Okay.”

  I hang up, relieved, and I make myself another cup of tea. At least I’ve given myself a respite for the morning.

  Dave makes it until ten o’clock before he’s knocking on my door.

  I was hoping he’d hold out until lunch, but I guess that was wishful thinking.

  He’s frowning soberly as I open the door, and he scans me from head to toe. I’m obviously up and dressed, since I’m wearing loose pants and a sweatshirt.

  “I thought you were going to call me when you got up.”

  “I was. I mean, I was going to call you. I just wanted a little time to myself.”

  He doesn’t look like he believes me. “The rain has slacked off now. We can go for a walk before lunch, if you want.”

  I don’t want to walk. I don’t even want to go to lunch. “I think I’d rather just hang out here.” I don’t step out of the doorway.

  “Am I invited in?” he asks.

  I make a face. “There’s not much time before lunch anyway. We can see each other this afternoon, if you want.”

  “It’s not about what I want. It’s about what’s good for you. I’m worried about you.”

  “I know you are, but I’m obviously not falling apart.”

  “It doesn’t feel that way to me. You’re never like this.”

  I feel a clench of resentment. “Like what?”

  “Like you’re closing me out.”

  I can’t hold back an exasperated sigh. It sounds almost like a groan. “Dave, please. Yesterday was hard for me.”

  “I know it was hard. That’s why I’m worried. That’s why I don’t think you should be alone. I don’t think this is good for you.”

  This is all too much. It’s one thing to know that he’s thinking it. It’s another to hear him say it out loud. “That’s not fair. Not everyone recovers emotionally in the same way. I need to be alone to … to recover. It’s not about you.”

  “I know it’s not about me.”

  This is going on so long that I need to end it immediately. It feels like I’m going to cry, and there’s no way I’ll do it in front of Dave.

  Or in front of anyone.

  So I do what I know will work, even if it’s unfair and rather underhanded. I say, “Well, it feels like you’re making it about you—thinking about what you want instead of what I need. I’m telling you that what I need is a little time, and I think it’s a little selfish of you to act like you know better than me about my own needs.”

  I see the reaction on his face—half guilt, half frustration. There’s nothing he can say now. I’ve left him with no leg to stand on.

  So he says, “Okay. But I’m not going to let you hibernate all day. Can we do
something this afternoon?”

  “Yes,” I say, mostly to get him out of here before I crack. “You can come by this afternoon, if you want.”

  He opens his mouth to reply, but I close the door on him.

  I return to my recliner, rubbing my eyes and trying to suppress the shuddering.

  This is terrible. Everything was going just fine. Dave and I were getting along so well.

  But now we’d finally run up against one of the absolute truths of my life.

  I’ve always been self-sufficient, and that’s never going to change. I have to get through the hardest things alone.

  And I somehow know that Dave isn’t going to accept that.

  Which means he’s probably going to end up leaving me.

  That’s always how it works for me, so I can hardly be surprised.

  Dave is knocking on my door again at one thirty in the afternoon, and I let him in, since I don’t have the energy to put up a fight.

  He wants to go out and do something, so I agree to walk in the gardens with him. I don’t want to go up the path to the bench, even though he tries to talk me into it.

  I don’t know why he won’t just give me a day or two to be sad on my own. Then I’ll be back to normal, and we can return to how things were. But he doesn’t seem inclined to leave me. When he walks me back to my apartment, he comes inside with me.

  We end up watching more British mysteries until dinner time. Then I make myself go to the dining room with him so he won’t worry about me as much.

  He keeps watching me, an unspoken question in his eyes. And no matter how normal I try to act, it doesn’t seem to ease his worries.

  When he wants to sit with me some more in the evening, I’m about to lose my patience. It’s not even seven yet when I tell him I’m tired and want to go to bed.

  “It’s early,” he says, looking surprised as he glances at his watch.

  “I’m tired.”

  “You’re more than tired.”

  It’s very hard not to snap his head off. “That’s why I need to be alone.”