Single Bed

    She lay awake in her single bed, staring at the blank wall across the room, wondering why she was still alive. At 82 Edith had survived Stage 4 lymphoma, barely. The Chemo nearly killed her, and she had wanted so badly to give up, just let her body take a break from the constant pain and nausea. But she held on. She fought the hard fight and beat the Bastard. Then just four years later she watched as her second husband, her partner for the past 27 years, withered away and finally gave up himself. A part of her was annoyed with him for putting her through this. Wasn’t losing one husband enough for a woman to endure in a lifetime? And this, well this one was a mess. An estate to settle, dis-functional family to deal with, a pre-nup. And the other part of her, the part that she could not share with anyone else, was jealous. He no longer suffered. He no longer felt the shame of aging. He was in a “better place” with loved ones who had gone on before him. That small but loud part of her couldn’t help but wonder why not her. What more did the universe need from her?

    “What on earth was I thinking” Edith wondered nearly out loud. To remarry, get herself into this situation. She could have saved herself so much trouble if she had just remained single after her first husband died. But she was a young woman back then. Merely 54. She had her whole life still ahead, and couldn’t see herself spending it alone. And he was a kind and generous man. A farmer, quiet and unemotional, the opposite of her first and true love. So she made her choice, and now she was paying the price. At her age, 86, to have to move, start a whole new life. It seemed ridiculous and overwhelming. But she had done it. Now that the dust had settled and the issues nearly resolved she could hardly remember how she had gotten to this place. This small, white space she now called “home.”

“I should have taken the Queen bed” she pondered to herself. The single, frameless bed said it all. It said “I’m alone. I will remain alone until I die, alone.” The message spoke to her so loudly that she had to cover her ears. “Yes, the Queen would have been better.” This was her last thought as she dozed off just before awaking to another day of facing the new unknown.
    When coffee no longer suits one’s digestion, waking up loses some of its pleasure. Edith remembered when the smell of morning coffee brought a smile to her lips and a tingle in her stomach. The anticipation of that first morning cup was worth the sleep that often was difficult coming. Now, though, the smell brought fear of the damage that small intake often brought. Still she drank it, tentatively at first and then with large slow sips. It tasted so good. She recalled vividly drinking coffee with her first husband in the morning on the porch overlooking the Potomac River. They would sit on the porch swing, side by side, and watch the sun come up over the water. Then together they would get ready for the work day. The carpool to work was their own little adventure, singing loudly with the radio, holding hands across the bucket seats and talking, about everything.  It didn’t seem strange to them that they spent so much time together. The drive to work, every day at lunch breaks, making dinner together every night. Then that sweet boat ride just before sunset to top off the day when the weather was ripe. Those are the memories that morning coffee brought back to the surface. And the reason that living another day was worthwhile.

    She was 17 when she married Edward. He was just 19, full of piss and vinegar and ready to tackle what life had to throw at him. She was in love and wanted nothing more than to be by his side for the rest of her life. When he asked for her hand in marriage, her father told him, “Boy, I’ll see you in hell first.” The next night he put a ladder up to her second story bedroom window, just like he’d seen in some movie, and they escaped to Maryland to elope. For the next 37 years they created their own little heaven. They built their home together, piece by piece. They dug the septic tank, installed the wiring, tiled the floors. Every nail, every shingle, they put into place with their own hands. When they had their first child, she was just 19. The baby boy was so well behaved that their lives changed very little.  They could pile him into the car and take off to the beach every weekend in the summer. When their friends came over on Friday nights to play cards, she held him in her arms while she made choices of which card to play and which to toss. It was a good life. A small life, not without its  tragedy, but full. Unlike many young women from the post depression era, Edith did not aspire to go off to college or have a career. She had made good grades throughout school and did what was expected of her, but she hated nearly every minute of it. What made her heart flutter was paddling a skiff in shallow water, dipping for crabs. Sitting on the pier at night and fishing with a string and a chicken bone while her bare feet dangled into the cool water. And her husband. His pale freckled skin bare from the waist up. Strong muscular arms And that boyish grin. She could not say “no” too much when he flashed that smile her way. She never could and rarely did. 
    A picture of the two of them in their early forties, him steering the skiff with an outboard motor and her standing in the middle of the boat with a crab net, is one of the few decorations in Edith’s new apartment. She placed it strategically so it can be seen from her favorite reading chair. During the day when she is all alone, she often sits and stares at it, remembering. And wondering if she will ever see him again. The Christian in her wants so very much to believe in the after-life. But the skeptic in her realizes it may not exist. What a wonderful thought, fantasy really, that when she dies she and Edward could spend all of eternity holding hands, drinking coffee and paddling down the creek as the sun sets over the horizon.
    As she crawled into bed for the night her last thought just before she fell into peaceful, eternal unconsciousness was “Yes. I will have the Queen bed delivered next week.”

THE END