She smiled through her tears. “You're too good and too strong to ever let anything get you down for long. Ollie, you don't even know it, but you're a winner.”
“So what happened?” He grinned ruefully. “It doesn't look to me like I won. Last time I looked, you weren't hanging around my bedroom.”
“Maybe you did win. Maybe this time you'll get something better. Someone better suited to you, and what you want. You should have married some terrible, light-hearted bright girl who wanted to make you a beautiful home and give you lots of children.”
“That's what I had with you.”
“But it wasn't real. I only did it because I had to. That's what was wrong with it. I wanted to be doing this, leading a bohemian life with no responsibilities other than to myself. I don't want to own anyone or anything. I never did. I just wanted to be free. And I am now.”
“The bitch of it is I never knew … I never realized …”
“Neither did I for a long time. I guess that's why you didn't either.”
“Are you happy now?” He needed to know that, for his own peace of mind. She had turned their life upside down, but if she had found what she'd been looking for, maybe it was worth it. Just maybe.
“I think I am. Happier anyway. I'll be a lot more so when I accomplish something that I think is worthwhile.”
“You already did … you just don't know it. You gave me twenty great years, three beautiful kids. Maybe that's enough. Maybe you can't count on anything forever.”
“Some things you can. I'm sure of it. Next time you'll know what you're looking for, and what you don't want, and so will I.”
“And your French friend? Is he it?” He didn't see how he could be at twenty-five, but she was a strange woman. Maybe that was what she wanted now.
“He's all right for now. It's a very existential arrangement.”
Oliver smiled again. He had heard the words before, a long time since. “You sound just the way you did when you lived in SoHo. Just make sure you're going ahead and not back. You can't go back, Sarrie. It doesn't work.”
“I know. That's why I never came home.” He understood now. It still made him sad, but at least he understood it.
“Do you want me to file?” It was the first time he had ever asked her directly, and for the first time it didn't break his heart to say the words. Maybe he was finally ready.
“When you have time. I'm in no hurry.”
“I'm sorry, sweetheart …” He felt tears sting his eyes.
“Don't be.” And then she said good night, and he was left alone with his memories and his regrets, and his fantasies about Jean-Pierre … the lucky bastard …
Sam crept back into his father's bed that night, for the first time since he'd come to New York, and Oliver didn't mind. It was comforting to have him near him.
And that weekend they went to Purchase, but they didn't see Benjamin. The children were busy with their friends, and Sarah's garden was in full bloom, so Aggie had her hands full clipping things she wanted to take back to the city, and on Saturday morning, as Oliver lay in bed, quietly dreaming, the phone rang.
It was George, and as Oliver listened, he sat bolt upright in bed. His father wasn't making much sense, all he could understand was that his mother had been hit by a bus and was in a coma. She was back in the hospital again, and his father was crying, his voice jagged and broken.
“I'll be right there, Dad. When did it happen?” It had happened at eight o'clock that morning.
He was at the hospital in under an hour, his hair barely combed, in khaki pants and the shirt he'd worn the night before, and he found his father crying softly in the hall, and when he saw Oliver, he held out his arms like a lost child.
“God, Dad, what happened?”
“It's all my fault. She was better for a few days, and I insisted on bringing her home for the weekend.” But he missed her so much, he longed for her next to him in the bed they'd shared for almost half a century, and when she had seemed better to him, he had deluded himself that it would do her good to go home for a few days. The doctors had tried to discourage him, but he had insisted he could care for her as well as they could. “She must have gotten up before I woke up. When I did, I saw her there fully dressed. She looked a little confused, she said she was going to make breakfast. I thought it was good for her to do something familiar like that, so I let her. I got up and showered and shaved, and when I went into the kitchen she wasn't there. The front door was open, and I couldn't find her. I looked for her everywhere, in the garden, in the shed. I drove all over the neighborhood, and then …”He started to sob again, “I saw the ambulance … the bus driver said she had walked right into him. He hit the brakes as hard as he could and he couldn't stop in time. She was barely alive when they brought her in, and they just don't know … Oh, Ollie, it's as though I killed her. I wanted so badly to turn back the clock, to pretend to myself that she was all right again, and of course she wasn't, and now …” She was in intensive care, and when Ollie saw her, he was badly shaken. She had sustained tremendous head injuries, and broken most of her bones. But mercifully, they said she had been unconscious from the moment she'd been hit, if that was any comfort.
The two men waited in the hall, and at noon, Oliver insisted on taking his father to the cafeteria for lunch. They saw her every hour for a moment or two, but there was no change, and by midnight it was clear to both of them that their vigil was fruitless. The doctors held out no hope, and just before dawn she had a massive stroke. His father had gone home by then, while Oliver still waited. He had called home several times and reported to Aggie on the situation. He didn't want her to tell the children yet. She had told them he'd gone back to the city for an emergency at work. He didn't want to upset them for the moment.
The doctor came to speak to him at six o'clock as he dozed in the hall. He had seen his mother for the last time two hours before. In the intensive care unit there was neither night nor day, there were only bright lights and the humming of machines, the pumping of respirators and the occasional whine of a computer, and a few sad, lonely groans. But his mother hadn't even stirred when he saw her.
The doctor touched his arm and he woke instantly. “Yes?”
“Mr. Watson … your mother has had a massive cerebral hemorrhage.”
“Is she? … has she? …” It was terrifying to say the words even now. At forty-four, he still wanted his mother. Alive. Forever.
“Her heart is still pumping, and we have her on the respirator. But there are no brain waves. I'm afraid the fight is over.” She was legally dead, but technically, with their help, she was still breathing. “We can keep her on the machines as long as you like, but there's really no point. It's up to you now.” He wondered if his father would want him to make the decision for him, and then suddenly he knew he wouldn't. “What would you like us to do? We can wait, if you'd like to consult your father.” Oliver nodded, feeling a sharp pain of loneliness knife through him. His wife had left him five months before, and now he was about to lose his mother. But he couldn't think of it selfishly now. He had to think of George and what it would mean to him to lose his wife of forty-seven years. It was going to be brutal. But in truth she had left him months before, when she began fading. Often, she even forgot who he was. And she would have grown rapidly worse over the next year. Maybe, in a terrible way, this was better.
“I'll call him.” But as he walked to the phone, he thought better of it, and he walked outside to find his car in the balmy spring morning. It was beautiful outside, the air was sweet, the sun was warm, and the birds were already singing. It was hard to believe that for all intents and purposes she had already died, and now he had to go and tell his father.
He let himself into the house with a key he kept for emergencies, and walked quietly into his parents' bedroom. It was as it always had been, except that his father lay alone in the old four-poster they had had since their wedding day.
“Dad?” he whispered, and his father stirred,
and then he reached out gently and touched him. “Dad …” He was afraid to scare him. At seventy-two, he had a weak heart, his lungs were frail, but he still had dignity and strength and his son's respect. He woke up with a start, and looked at Ollie.
“Is it? … Is she …” He looked suddenly terrified as he sat up.
“She's still there, but we need to talk.”
“Why? What is it?”
“Why don't you wake up for a minute.” He still had the startled look of someone roused from a sound sleep.
“I'm awake. Has something happened?”
“Mom had a stroke.” Ollie sighed as he sat down carefully on the bed and held his father's hand. “They're keeping her going on the machined. But, Dad … that's all that's left …”He hated to say the words, but they were the simple truth. “She's brain dead.”
“What do they want us to do?”
“They can take her off the machines, that's up to you.”
“And then she'll die?” Ollie nodded, and the tears coursed slowly down the old man's cheeks as he sank slowly back against his pillows. “She was so beautiful, Oliver … so sweet when she was young … so lovely when I married her. How can they ask me to kill her? It's not fair. How can I do that to her?” There was a sad sob and Oliver had to fight back his own tears as he watched him.
“Do you want me to take care of it? I just thought you'd want to know … I'm sorry, Dad.” They were both crying, but the truth was that the woman they loved had died a while ago. There was really nothing left now.
George sat slowly up again and wiped his eyes. “I want to be there when they do it.”
“No,” his son objected instantly. “I don't want you to do that.”
“That's not your decision to make, it's mine. I owe it to her. I've been there for her for almost fifty years, and I'm not going to let her down now.” The tears began again. “Oliver, I love her.”
“I know you do, Dad. And she knew that too. She loved you too. You don't have to put yourself through this.”
“It's all my fault this happened.”
Oliver took the old man's hands hard in his own. “I want you to listen to me. There was nothing left of Mom, nothing that we knew and loved. She was gone, she had been for a long time, and what happened yesterday wasn't your fault. Maybe in a way it's better like this. If she had lived, she would have shriveled up and died, she wouldn't have known who anyone was, she wouldn't have remembered any of the things she cared about or loved … you … her grandchildren … me … her friends … her house … her garden. She would have been a vegetable in a nursing home, and she would have hated that if she'd known. Now she's been spared that. Accept that as the hand of fate, as God's will, if you want to call it that, and stop blaming yourself. None of it is in your control. Whatever you do now, whatever happened, it was meant to be this way. And when we let her go, she'll be free.”
The old man nodded, grateful for his son's words. Maybe he was right. And in any case, none of it could be changed now.
George Watson dressed carefully in a dark pinstriped suit, with a starched white shirt, and a navy blue tie Phyllis had bought for him ten years before. He looked distinguished and in control as they left the house and he looked around for a last time, as though expecting to see her, and then he looked at his son and shook his head.
“It's so odd to think that she was here just yesterday morning.”
But Ollie only shook his head in answer. “No, she wasn't, Dad. She hasn't been here in a long, long time. You know that.”
George nodded, and they drove to the hospital in silence. It was a beautiful morning … a beautiful morning to die, Oliver kept thinking. And then they walked up the steps and took the elevator to the fourth floor, and asked to see the doctor on duty. It was the same man who had spoken to Oliver only two hours before, and there had been no change in Mrs. Watson's condition, except that she had had several seizures, which was expected after the hemorrhage. Nothing of any import had changed. She was brain dead, and she would remain that way forever, and only their machine was keeping her alive for the moment.
“My father wanted to be here himself,” Oliver explained.
“I understand.” The young doctor was kind and sympathetic.
“I want to be there when you … when …” His voice quavered and he couldn't say the words, as the doctor nodded his understanding. He had been through it dozens of times before, but somehow he wasn't hardened to it yet.
There was a nurse with her when they walked in, and the machines were pulsing and beeping. The line on the monitor traveled in a single straight line, and they all knew that that was her final condemnation. But she looked peaceful as she lay sleeping there. Her eyes were closed, her hair was clean, her hands lay at her sides, as George reached out and took one. He brought it to his lips and kissed her fingers.
“I love you, Phyllis … I always, always will … and one day we'll be together again.” The doctor and Ollie turned away, the son with tears flowing down his cheeks, wishing that everything could be different, that she could live a long, long time, that nothing had changed, that she would have lived to see Sam grow up and have children of his own. “Sleep peacefully, my darling,” George whispered for the last time, and then he looked up expectantly at the doctor. He continued to hold her hand, and the machines were turned off. And quietly, peacefully, with her husband holding her hand in death as he had in life, Phyllis Watson stopped breathing.
For a long moment, George closed his eyes, and then he bent to kiss her, laid her hand down, touched her cheek for a lingering moment, and looked at her for a long, long time, imprinting that last look on his heart forever. And then he walked outside blinded by tears. Forty-seven years of the life they shared, the love that had bonded them as one for most of their lives, had ended. But there was something beautiful about the way it had been done, because of the people they had been. Even the doctor was touched, as he left them to sign the papers. Oliver made him sit down on a chair in the hall, and then he drove him home again. He stayed with his father till noon, and then went home briefly to begin making the arrangements.
The children were waiting for him there, and Mel knew instantly that something had happened. Her father looked disheveled and exhausted, and Aggie's story had never rung true to her. “What happened, Dad?”
Tears filled his eyes. “Grandma just died, sweetheart. And it was very sad, and kind of beautiful at the same time. It's going to be very hard on Grandpa.” Mel started to cry, and a moment later, sensing something, Sam joined them. Ollie told him and he cried too. He was going to miss her so much.
“Can we go see Grandpa?”
“In a while. I have some things to do first.” There was the funeral to arrange, the final details at the hospital to wind up. And that afternoon, he decided to send them home on the train with Agnes. He called Daphne before he did, and asked her to drop in on them at the apartment. She told him how sorry she was. It didn't seem fair that all of this should be happening to him, she said, and he was touched and grateful.
He called Benjamin, too, and told him the news, and suggested he look in on his grandfather when he could. He told him he'd let him know when the funeral was. He thought it might be Wednesday.
And then he went back to his father's home and Ollie was relieved to see that Mrs. Porter, their faithful neighbor, was there, taking care of his father. She was quiet and polite and kind to him, and she was very sweet. Finally when he returned home, alone and exhausted, Sarah called him. She told him how sorry she was, and apologized in advance for not coming to the funeral, she had exams.
“Ill explain it to Dad.”
“Tell him how sorry I am.” She herself was crying.
“Thanks, Sarah.” And for once he felt nothing for her. All he could think of was his father's face as he had held his mother's hand, the look of love and gentleness he cast on her. It was what he wanted in his life, too, and he hoped that one day he would find it. But he knew now that it wouldn't be wit
h Sarah.
He went back to his father's house in the morning, and by then, all the arrangements were made. The kids came back out on Tuesday night, and the funeral was Wednesday. It was a sweet, simple affair, with the music his mother had loved, and armfuls of lovely flowers from her own garden. And then, as they lowered the casket slowly into the ground, and left her there, he took his father home, to live alone, to face his grief, to end his days without the woman he had cherished.
Chapter 13
It was June before they all caught their breath again. School let out, and they moved back to the country for the summer. George came to visit them from time to time, and he seemed tired and much older. And it was obvious that he was desperately lonely, more so than he had been when Phyllis was at the rest home. At least then he could visit her, but all he could do now was talk about her to his family and friends.
Ollie was commuting again, a decision he had made for the summer. And it made him doubly glad now that he had taken the New York apartment. It was just as difficult going home late to the kids at night, but it didn't seem quite as bad in the summer. They swam in the pool when he got home, and the kids went to bed later than they did in the winter.
They celebrated the Fourth of July with a few friends and a barbecue, and in two weeks, Mel and Sam were joining Sarah for the rest of the summer. She was taking them to France, to travel there for a month with Jean-Pierre. She had called to tell him that, and he decided to let her. The kids were old enough to understand. Mel was sixteen and Sam almost ten, and they were excited about going.
George even came to the barbecue, and brought Margaret Porter, the pleasant neighbor they had all met before. She was an attractive woman with gray hair and a lively mind. She had been a nurse in her youth, and her late husband had been a doctor, and she seemed to take good care of Ollie's father. She made a point of seeing that he sat down when he should, without making an issue of it, brought him his food, and joked amiably with him and their friends and George seemed to like it. He talked about Phyllis a lot, and Ollie knew he still felt guilty about the accident that had ultimately killed her. But he seemed to be recovering. They all were, in their own way, from the blows of the past year. Even Ollie felt more himself now. He had filed for divorce in June, and at Daphne's constant urging, he had gone on a date, which had proven to be a disaster. He had gone out with a creative type from another agency, and afterward insisted the girl was a kook. She had wanted him to try cocaine, and her favorite sport was women's wrestling. Daphne had teased him about it a lot, but at least it was a beginning.
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