'til Death or Dementia Do Us Part

by Marilyn Reynolds

  We hugged goodbye and I watched as she walked down the pathway to her car. We would not be celebrating.

  September 13, 2016

  Dear Mike,

  You would want to know that I’m okay. I am okay. Really, I’m better than okay. I’m writing this to you today, from Martha’s Vineyard, on my 81st birthday. Here for two weeks on a writing workshop/retreat at the Noepe Center for Literary Arts, I am breathing the crisp, pure air of the island, writing from morning into the early afternoon, walking the town, the cemetery, the beach, sharing meals and conversation with my fellow writers. My hope is to soon finish this account of our difficult FTD years and get back to fiction. Fiction will be more fun, but I’m dedicated to first getting this story out into the world.

  When I leave here, I’ll go home to a little duplex in River Park, on a corner lot with a big, wide lawn and four huge elm-like shade trees. Zelkovas, they’re called. From the time I first noticed the “For Rent” sign on this duplex, I lusted after the trees. Then when I met the landlord there for an inside look, I lusted after the whole place. I’d been living in an okay duplex just a few blocks over, but it was a bit dark. To get to the backyard I had to walk down three treacherous, not-to-code steps and through the garage. It was okay for me—there was a grab bar, and I was used to maneuvering the steps. I sometimes found myself holding my breath, though, as one of my contemporaries made her way down the steps and out to the patio. The laundry was in the garage. The carpeting was less than pristine. Still it was a definite step up from my nomading days, and, unlike that first apartment, it had a spacious yard for Sunny.

  Because money had been so tight, I spent a sleepless night stewing over whether or not I could afford to move. If I did, I would be leaving the first place a month before my lease was up. Plus, the corner place was $200 more a month than I’d been paying.

  In the morning I crunched numbers. It was a stretch, and nothing a wise financial adviser would have encouraged. But no place had felt like home since we’d left Gold River. This place, with its gleaming hardwood floors, a large living room window and back door slider that provided dawn to dusk natural light, a freshly updated kitchen, a small but nicely landscaped patio—this place could feel like home. I took the leap and emailed my application to the owner first thing that morning. He—we’ll call him Frank—had several applications. Although I still had the black mark of bankruptcy on my credit report, I also had three recent years of consistent, on time, rent payment records.

  After the application, I emailed a letter to Frank, telling him I was the very best choice of a tenant he could ever have. Nearly all of my life I’d lived in houses I’d owned. I still treated a house as if it were my own. I was old and single. No raucous parties for me. I had no pets. I don’t remember what else I said, but I won the toss.

  It’s a pretty little two-bedroom place, or in my case, one-bedroom, one-office place. The patio outside the kitchen sliders has no treacherous steps to maneuver to get there. A number of plants in large, colorful pots add color to the outdoor space. A table for six, sometimes pushed to seat eight, is a nice gathering place on a Delta breeze-infused, cool Sacramento evening. In the living room is a fireplace with a mantel; there’s a convenient breakfast bar in the kitchen, and plenty of natural light. As my heart knew the first time I stepped inside, it feels like home.

  Ten years ago, before FTD hit, before the recession hit, sitting at my home office writing desk, the 5-by-4-foot teak desk, three walls lined, floor to ceiling, with oak bookshelves, gazing out the window onto the redwood lined pathway that wound throughout the so-called village, the path that we so often followed, grandkids running in front of us to get to the pool and an afternoon of swimming, or that we followed in the other direction to parties at the Taylors’, or the Richmonds’—from that vantage point I could not have foretold life as I now live it.

  These days, when I pause in whatever it is I’m doing, working on some writing project, say this one, or checking email, or Facebook, or spiraling along on one of those one-thing-leads-to-another wild goose Google chases, I gaze through my office corner windows onto a different walkway, one that leads directly to a sidewalk where I might see the 3- and 5-year-old neighbor kids zipping along on their twin scooters. Or any manner of dogs out walking their owners. Rarely, an owner may be walking a dog, but it’s usually the other way around, the way Sunny used to walk us.

  I’m doing a bit of part-time teaching at the county Youth Detention Facility. The schedule is easy and the work, though challenging, is, I feel, important. The paycheck is welcome.

  I recently led a staff development workshop in New Mexico, and a few months back I did an author visit to a school in Fresno. That business may be picking up now that the worst of the recession is over. A little more earned income, coupled with much lower expenses now that there’s only one of me to support, means the financial strain has somewhat eased. I still have to watch my dollars, but I no longer have to count each penny.

  Mornings when I wake up in what is now my home, the first thing I do (well … the second thing I do) is open the blinds and curtains and greet the day. Sometimes I go for a morning walk or go to the gym. Too often I go right to my computer and sit too long.

  I miss you in the mornings, shared coffee and newspaper, your intermittent questions of “what’s a five-letter word for …?” Our sharing of expectations for the day. Or maybe there was talk of whatever book we were reading, or what movies we wanted to see, or talk of our kids, our grandkids, conversations that don’t really work with anyone else. So, yes, I still miss you.

  Unlike what I hear from my newly single contemporaries, our old friends, couples, often include me in dinners, out or in, and still seem happy to do things with me. I’m aware it’s mostly a couples’ world, especially for our generation. And I also suspect that I’m not as interesting in a group, alone, as I was with you.

  A year or so back I was at a brunch, three married couples and me. The couples were telling stories of each other’s foibles, not in that nasty “Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf” way, but with a light-heartedness, a generosity of spirit that seemed to preclude any hurt or embarrassment that can sometimes come with such tales.

  The youngest couple’s wife joked about how she was always trying to get Jerry out for walks. He would reluctantly agree to a walk but then would drag his feet to the extent that his heart rate might be even slower than when he was on the couch watching TV. But when they finally turned to go home, he picked up his pace, like an old nag headed back to the stables.

  “Because I’m walking behind you and watching your butt. Because I have hopes for when we get home,” Jerry explained.

  The husband of one of the more mature couples told of snorkeling in Hawaii and after 15 minutes or so of being stunned by the beauty of the underwater scene, he saw floating, just off to his left, a $100 bill. He grabbed it and sure enough it was the real thing. Then he noticed another and another. Maybe they would go to that highly touted, expensive restaurant for dinner that night after all. He collected five $100 bills until they stopped coming. He hurried up to the beach where his wife was sitting.

  “Look! Look what I just found floating in the water! Five $100 bills!”

  He said she gave him a long look, the kind she often gives when he’s done something ridiculously stupid.

  “What?” he said.

  “How much money did you have in the pocket of your trunks?”

  He reached into his pocket, only to find emptiness where, before they left the condominium, he had placed five $100 bills.

  I mentioned this to Donna and Dennis when we met for the once-a-year dinner we share when they drive up from San Gabriel to spend a week or two with their daughter in Vallejo. I mentioned that I may not be nearly as much fun without you than I was with you.

  “Well …,” Donna said, “we did love the Mike and Marilyn show.” They went on to assure me that I was still absolutely fascinating, but I thought they
were at least half lying.

  On the way back from that dinner, where Donna and Dennis had shared a few of their own amusing couples stories, I considered my dilemma. I didn’t really want to couple up with anyone, not that eligible couplers have been beating down my door. I’ve been on a total of three dates in the past three years, and although the men were all nice people, I was bored. You were, when you were you, never boring. I didn’t want to go out for another of those dinners, and I certainly wasn’t interested in crawling into bed with any of them. That part of me may be closed for the duration. I’m not sure. That remains to be seen.

  In answer to my solo dullness, I conjured an imaginary lover. His name is Mario McCarthy—some Latin passion coupled with Irish humor. He’s a good choice. Sometimes I take him to dinner with me. I tell stories about him, about his foibles and our escapades. I don’t introduce him to everyone. Some people are still offended by mixed marriages. You know, one of us is real, the other is not.

  We’ve chosen not to live together. I don’t want to have to argue with him over home decor and I’m afraid his taste might be similar to yours. Anyway, Mario is part of my okayness.

  I’m in good health as are all of our kids and grandkids. I have meaningful work, good friends, and am, finally, financially stable again. I’m more and more aware that each day brings me closer to the end. That’s always been the case, for all of us, but at 81, the balance has shifted. The days have become more precious. Although I wish we were sharing them, I wake up every morning, grateful for the gift of the day ahead of me.

  I’m now more of a regular, productive member of UUSS than I have been for some time. I appreciate the structure that offers opportunities to take some positive action in the world—welcoming refugees, fighting racism, offering support for homeless families…. I also appreciate the Sunday services that pull me out of my little life and into a broader world view. I don’t do nearly as much as I might, but I do more than I would if I were not a part of that organization.

  My books, the ones in the Hamilton High Series, have a new publisher, New Wind Publishing. It was one of those serendipitous meetings in which things come together in an almost magical way. I’m so glad the books are still in print. In their own small way, they sometimes do some good in the world. So that, too, is part of my okayness.

  What else would you want to be reassured of? I may not be dressing according to your tastes, but that’s no surprise, is it? I don’t see Ashley or Kerry as often as we once did, but that’s just the nature of things. What else?

  If you were sitting across from me now, over a cup of coffee, or a glass of wine, I think your mind would be put to rest that I am doing fine. There will be at least one more hard time to come. I know that. But for now, the hardest of the hard times are over and life, for me, is good.

  Marilyn

  OUR LAST GOLD RIVER CHRISTMAS

  December 2009

  Mike had always been Mr. Christmas, weaving glittery garlands along the stairway banister, draping them around the mirror over the fireplace, outlining the windows with garlands. Garlands everywhere. He arranged the 12 chorister figures, including the little dog in the Santa hat and the boy with a French horn, on the bar in the living room. A wreath at the front door and another over the fireplace. Traditionally we chose a tree together, but Mike was always the decorator. Over the years he’d collected Christmas ornaments from our travels—Germany, England, Vienna, Scotland. There were also whimsical ornaments, a “Wizard of Oz” tin man, and Dorothy. There was a stuffed fat ballerina in leotards, a sparkly Peter Pan, and the treasured ornaments for each grandchild.

  On Christmas Eve, Mike was always the one who handed out the presents, waiting for each person to unwrap and exclaim over the gift before going on to the next. He started with the youngest, then moved on in order of age until Aunt Hazel, in her 80s, had her turn. Then he would start over again.

  “Oh, look! Here’s one for Kerry from the Wicked Witch of the West!”

  “Here’s one for Subei from Rudolph!”

  Traditionally he wrapped and labeled the presents. To Ashley from the Tooth Fairy. To Marilyn from Mr. Claus.

  I did some of the shopping for gifts, though mostly Mike and I gift shopped together. The annual letter was my doing. I prepared the house for our family overnighters and did most of the grocery shopping. Making the Christmas lasagna was usually a joint project, though sometimes I got solo lasagna duty. But really? All of the trappings of Christmas were Mike’s. Every aspect of Christmas was Mike-infused.

  Back in 2009, just after the first of December, Mike retrieved box after box of decorations from the attic and schlepped them downstairs. When I wandered into the living room with a draft of our holiday letter to run past him, he was dragging lights and garland out of two boxes and piling them on the couch.

  “How’re you doing?” I asked.

  “Fine,” he said, not looking up as he straightened out a long strand of blue garland.

  “I think I’ve finally finished our letter. Can I read it to you?”

  “Of course.”

  He still didn’t look up.

  I started, “2009 was filled with …”

  “We need more garland.”

  “Okay, but Mike, can you listen to our letter? Let me know what you think?”

  He glanced my way. “Sure, I can do that.”

  “2009 was a year filled with endings and beginnings …”

  Mike walked out of the room, went into my office and started rummaging through the desk. “Where are the thumbtacks?”

  I started the silent “Ode to Joy” chant, “It’s not his fault. It’s not his fault. It’s not his fault, no, it’s not.“ and found the thumbtacks for him.

  By lunchtime, Mike had emptied all of the boxes, the contents of which were strewn all over the living room, on the couch, chairs, bar, floor. In addition to the overabundance of accumulated Christmas decorations, there was a large ceramic Easter bunny, a spring wreath, ceramic Halloween jack-o-lanterns, a whimsical witch poised on her broomstick, and other tchotchkes. I managed to repack and put away a few out-of-season items while Mike was struggling to get a string of outdoor lights up and working around a patio trellis. He was beyond the point of moving from Step A to Step B if Step A wasn’t working, and he soon gave up on the trellis lights. In addition to mismatched garlands, a tree with ornaments huddled in a few places and bare in others, there was the Easter bunny, the jack-o-lanterns, and the witch, items I’d not been fast enough to pack away and move out of the living room when I repacked other autumn, spring, summer items. It didn’t matter. None of that mattered.

  We were all determined to keep things as normal as possible for Mike. On Christmas Eve he sat beside the tree and began distributing gifts. He handed them out as quickly as possible, one after the other, until the kids were overwhelmed with the piles in front of them, opening one quickly, setting it aside, going on to the next. Even though I’d made sure the “To” labels were clear and accurate, several gifts reached the wrong hands. Mike handed 3-year-old Mika a small, nicely wrapped box, which she opened eagerly. Inside was a pair of earrings. Mika loved, still loves, all things sparkly, and she was quite pleased with her gift.

  “Oh, those are for Gramma,” Mike said, reaching to take the package from her.

  She clutched the package in both hands and hung on, looking to be on the verge of tears.

  I suggested Mike find another package for Mika. There were plenty.

  I moved over beside Mika.

  “Your earrings are beautiful,” I said. “May I see them again?”

  She loosened her grip to give me a peek. In the meantime, Mike was again racing to get packages dispersed. I pointed out that the earrings were for pierced ears. She readily agreed to let me keep them safe for her until she got her ears pierced. She even allowed as how I might wear them on special occasions.

  On Christmas morning, Mike made a big pot of coffee as he always did. E
xcept that he’d put in coffee for two cups and water for 12. One by one, people quietly walked to the sink and poured their coffee out. He was at a point where as soon as he started one thing he was eager, even anxious, to go on to the next.

  “Shall I put the lasagna in now?” he asked.

  “Let’s wait until around 3,” I said. “It’s only 10 now,” as if telling him the time would make a difference.

  “Oh, okay,” he said, walking to the refrigerator and taking out the lasagna.

  Sharon asked if Mike wanted to take Sunny for a walk with her and Enzo, their big, gentle, moose of a dog.

  “Sure,” he said, getting Sunny’s leash.

  I put the lasagna away.

  Mike was back with Sunny within minutes. Once out, he needed to get back home.

  Late that afternoon, before we sat down to dinner, Mike got the martini shaker from the living room bar. He didn’t drink martinis, but those of us who did appreciated his expertise. However, remembering the morning coffee, I told Sharon I thought maybe we should ask Dale to mix up the martinis.

  “I think Dad needs to do what he always does.”

  She was right, of course. Mike filled the shaker and did his martini-shaking dance to the rhythm of “La Cucaracha,” then poured the icy mixture into the glasses he loved so much he once tried to become a martini drinker.

  After the toast and the first overwhelming sip of what might have been straight vermouth, martinis sat on kitchen counters and family room side tables, and I poured the wine.

  Mike had set the table early in the day. As always, he’d used his Aunt Ursie’s white linen tablecloth, the one he’d had washed with special care at a French Hand Laundry. But unlike earlier Christmases, the table was set with a hodgepodge of dishes, some of his family china, some Christmas dishes. The silverware, too, was hodgepodge, all sadly symbolic of the increasing hodgepodge of Mike’s brain.