What Life We Had

We were always funny in that car-crash sort of way, you know? Like a train wreck, where no matter how nasty or ridiculous it got, you couldn’t turn away. We were an icon of sorts.

Polar opposites. We were so completely different, we attracted each other. What was that your mother always said…oh right, ‘Opposites attract’. We’re living proof aren’t we?

You were deeper on an intellectual level, always seeing the world in shades of black and white. All you ever saw was the reality. I was more out-of-the-box. I could see the fine line of gray in between; and I was pretty sure, every time you were with me, that maybe--just maybe you saw it too.

Best friends. That was us too. We were completely inseparable, constantly glued hip to hip. We made sure one was no where without the other. It was like having a brother I never had, but with all the benefits of not living in my house and pestering me day-by-day. We were each other’s, we owned the other.

And to make sure we understood another in that way…remember? We got married out under the oak tree in your back yard. You had made a ring out of a daisy, and you accidently slid it onto my middle finger. Your mother watched from the back window.

(And I take you, to have and to hold, for better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, from this day forward, until death do us part…)

We shared each other’s daily torments and pleasures; we even kept a journal to write it down in up in the tree house my father built. It’s still up there, you know. I’m surprised it hasn’t collapsed into a pile of timber. My mother would’ve loved that, seeing as she always feared I was going to fall out and break my neck. It’s lasted all these years.

I don’t know where the journal went though. I think it’s safe to say it’s not far, and maybe it’s even served a purpose to brighten some other child’s day. Although, I can’t say most of the things you wrote could make others smile.

Hey, do you remember the first day of school? The terror of having to be separated and meeting new people? Man, we were such little kids. I can vividly recall the hideous sweater vest your mother forced you to wear. It was stitched with every color of the rainbow, all of them meshing together in a horrid shade of brown.

I wore that purple dress you loved so much. The one with all the lace and the tiny pink bows. The one our daughter wore, and the one her daughter wears…

You came home with a bloody nose. I’ll never forget it. You were crying and sniveling and I let you hold my hand when your mother cleaned you up. I told you not to worry, that everything would get better, and to look on the bright side.

You seemed to trust it then, nodding quietly as we wrote down exactly how our days went. I felt bad; I had made plenty of friends, and yet all you had made was an enemy. I promised I’d share mine with you. You smiled then, I think.

Oh Jesus, remember middle school? Puberty. It was like a fad. Everyone ‘had it’ and those who didn’t ‘wanted it’. It was a Saturday when you showed me your first leg hair. Just one little strand that stuck out more than the others did. It was a riot.

A week later? I shoved you back out of my house, shouting and yelling about how you couldn’t come back for the next 5 to 7 days. My mother was on the floor in hysterics when you ran on home, my father pale and shaking his head. His little girl was growing up.

Next came the curves and angles in all the girls. There came hips and thighs and breasts and height. I was about six inches taller than you until we hit high school. Yet, you gained a foot over me before we started sophomore year.

You were so lanky, so tall. You immediately tried out for the basketball team. You didn’t make it, and I have to admit you weren’t good at all. You didn’t practice did you? You never told me, but I remember that clique of jocks laughing and hollering your name, obscene comments following us as we walked home.

We shared our strange bond of different miseries with your father's stash of alcohol he kept under the sink.

One tequila...

Two tequila...

Three tequila...

Floor.

Your first crush was on that little blonde cheerleader. Bright blue eyes, candy-red lips, killer figure--what’s not to love? Well, you liked to call it your first crush. I liked to call it a phase, seeing as I referred my special place as being your first crush….your first love. You tried to ask her to Homecoming. She poured her soda over your head. We wrote it down in our journal.

My first boyfriend was a knock out. No, literally. A knock out. A rough, broad-shouldered kid with an ill temper. He would always tell me how beautiful I was, despite the bruises he knocked to my face that even ended up fracturing my jaw at some point.

He used to tell me no one could love me like he could and that as soon as we were free of the pit we called high school, he was taking me away down South, down with his cousins, where we would get married and spend the rest of our lives together.

It was the only time where I can remember not being truly happy; forced smiles, fake laughs, pretend love. If you hadn’t shown up that one night he cocked a gun to my temple, I might not be here today and he might not be behind bars.

It was our senior year when you first told me you loved me. I don’t know if you were even aware of it. We were sitting side by side, both in cap and gown, staring out into the sea of people when you just whispered,

“I love you, you know.”

They had to say my name three times before I realized it was my turn. Polite laughter rippled through the auditorium, but all I could here were those five words. They terrified just as much as they thrilled me. Deep down, I knew I felt the same, but part of me only wanted the friendship we had, you know? I could be so dumb sometimes. You could be so dumb sometimes. I can’t believe you waited for me like that…

Three years.

College tore us apart. You disappeared to Florida where as I found myself in Chicago. I was studying for a nursing degree, and I heard through the grape vine that you were headed in the same direction. Except, you desired to become a mid-wife; the doctors and nurses that assist a woman through pregnancy and birth.

While out in Chicago, I met the man whom I thought was the one. I wanted to settle down with him, wanted that rock to adorn my finger. I wanted it more than anything else in the world at that moment, even more so when that little stick showed two large pink plus signs.

He left me as soon as he got the word; dropped me and our future child like Hansel and Gretel dropped their breadcrumbs and left us behind. I was absolutely terrified. Here I was, yet to get my Associate’s Degree, and I was pregnant at twenty-one.

My parents were more disappointed than furious. How I could get myself into such a mess was beyond them. I dropped out, dissipating to the back roads of Chicago where I ended up getting a job at a local café. They were a little put off by hiring a woman in my “condition”, but I suppose the manager finally cracked and I got the job.

My water broke on my way home from work. A cold December evening, the snow swirling about in numerous flurries, and suddenly my tights were sopping wet, a dark stain marking the ground. Luckily enough, an elderly gentleman passing by saw what had happened and dialed for help at a nearby phone booth.

He stayed with me until the ambulance arrived, holding my hand through each searing contraction.

I don’t remember much after that. Screaming, I remember screaming. There were whirls of colors, pain that made stars dazzle before my eyes, and someone telling me to push. And then…there was you. You holding this tiny squirming infant covered in blood and grime. I cried then, whether out of relief for the child or for seeing you, I’ll never know. I don’t think I’ll ever want to.

I named him Max; after the very first dog you ever owned, which we had buried beneath the arching branches of the tree we “married” under.

We got to talking. You were here on a job offer, assessing if such a hospital were a place you wanted to be a part of. You told me about how college went, how thrilling it was, about how many friends you'd made (you didn’t tell me until our honeymoon that you had surfed the clubs and ended up getting featured on ‘Girls Gone Wild’; I can’t ever remember laughing so hard).
And then you asked about me…

And so I told you. I told you about what a nightmare it had been, alone and trying to keep up with my studies. I told you how close I had been finding love; how much I had failed at realizing what a mistake I had made. I told you about how I dropped out, pregnant and unfulfilled, and started working night shifts at the local café down the block. I told you about my water breaking, about the man on the streets…and then I told you about you.

“I love you.”

Three words you hadn’t spoken since we parted all those years ago. Three words I had never dared to say. And in those precious moments of silence, Max nursing in my arms, I finally decided it was time to return the favor. There was no denying it anymore. In fact, I don’t think there ever had been. And through my tears, I managed to choke out,

“I love you too.”

We were married a year later--truly married. The whole she-bang. A wedding gown, a tux, the golden bands, the church, the guests…every last bit. Your best man was the wiry kid you made friends with when you finally joined the Florida College basketball team. I had no Maid of Honor, but I had you, and that was enough. Max got to hold the rings, tottering on the best man’s hip as he eyed the gold hoops with large eyes.

(And I take you, to have and to hold, for better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, from this day forward, until death do us part…)

“I do.”

“I do.”

Our honeymoon was in Hawaii.

Our daughter, Tracey, came four years after that when Max started school. That’s when life really started to chug along. My---our little boy grew up fast. In no time, he was asking for the keys to the car and mooching money from our wallets.

Our girl started junior high in what felt like no time at all, the goth-punk fad hitting her like a tidal wave. You didn’t like that too much, especially when she came home with the nose ring. But you, strangely enough, let her dye her hair bright red.

I never saw where you got your balance in life, but I envied it.

Max died on May 22, 1999. He had been driving home after pre-graduation party for his girlfriend. She was a nice girl, all petite and shy, but she reminded me almost too much of your supposed first crush.  A drunk driver hit him dead on as he was crossing an intersection.

He wasn’t wearing his seat belt, his neck snapping as soon as the car went into a roll; he was killed instantly. He was eighteen. He hadn’t even graduated yet (six days off).

I remember clearly that day as if it were yesterday, don’t you? I had been reading a book I had picked up from the store earlier today. "Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone" by a woman named J.K. Rowling. I was enraptured in the story when the doorbell rang, and I remember how you got this look on your face, like you knew something was wrong…

And you were right.

The police officer was a burly gentleman, and I remember how much it seemed to irritate you when he kept scuffling his feet. And when you finally demanded he come out with it, I almost wish you hadn’t. Those words, those God-awful words…

“Your son is dead.”

I collapsed in the doorway, my knees cracking off the cement. You had to ice them for a week. I remember practically trying to crawl inside my shirt, ripping it over my head, trying to hide inside it. And the tears, oh the tears, they just kept coming and coming and coming…

“Your son is dead.”

It was like a punch to the gut, a brand-iron to the heart, a knife to the soul. My son, my boy, my baby was gone. Gone. Just like that, and I was never going to get him back. In the amount of time it takes to blink an eye, his life was scattered to the heavens, and I was not with him, and he was not with me. My precious baby boy…

“Your son is dead.”

Did I tell him I loved him before he left? Did I kiss him good-bye? Did I smile when he pulled out and drove off? Did I do this? Did I do that? Did you? Questions as these plagued me for months, a gaping hole in my heart you so desperately tried to smother with all the love you could give. I embraced it, and little by little, the wound began to heal. It became easier to breathe, easier to laugh, easier to live…easier to love.

Tracey’s goth became darker when she entered high school, her hair going entirely black, her clothes following suite until you ripped every piece of clothing you could find from her closet when she was out with her friends, and lit them on fire with the leaves in the back yard. She was furious, and yet, shockingly enough, she actually relented to wearing brighter colors such as pinks and yellows.

She graduated with honors a few years later; Valedictorian. She was accepted into Fitchburg State with half of her tuition paid, remember that? She’s still there you know. I’m sure you do. She’s teaching Community Calculus to a group of students. I can tell you now she didn’t get those math skills from me. You didn’t like her husband much, though, I adored him.
Then again, no one’s good enough for your little girl…

We bought a house out in New Jersey. A nice, quiet piece of land where our eventual six grandchildren played. Two of which you actually helped birth. Can you believe she had six of them? I called it quits after two. Tracey sure is a work of art, ain’t she? One of a kind.

You had your first stroke when you turned fifty. We were in the middle of making dinner and you suddenly collapsed, seizures wracking your body, your mouth foaming. I watched on helplessly as you trembled, dialing 9-1-1 with shaky fingers as I cried to the operator about your condition.

You were lucky. You lived, but you couldn’t use your left arm after that, and you had trouble writing with your right as it shook constantly. You also had trouble speaking, your words tending to become garbled and you needed the help of a walker to move around then. You were forced to retire and we got a second home down in Florida.

Your second stroke was far worse, though; enough so to put you in bed for the last few months of your life. You lost all sense of touch along the left side of your body; side for the junction where your shoulder met your neck. You could still feel there, still feel when I rubbed little circles along it.

I don’t think I full well knew you were dying until you actually said it to me. The doctor had said it, the nurses had said it, even our neighbors had said it. But until I heard those words from your mouth, I never believed them.

The stroke crippled you to the point where even breathing was killing you from the inside out. Each day, it grew worse. Each day your heart beat just a little slower, your breathing became just a little shallower. You soon couldn’t bear the light and we had to keep the room in a constant shade. It came to the point where, eventually, your brain gave out and you slipped into a coma, leaving you a hollow shell.

I had the choice to leave you be or pull the plug…

You were sixty-two.

Tracey made it to the funeral, no kids, no husband. She stood beside me, holding my hand, crying on my shoulder as a pet her hair, whispering sweet-nothings of hope into her ear. She had to leave quickly, though, but spared a few minutes at the end to tell me she was sorry, that she was here if I needed her, and to kiss me before heading home herself.

She had a long drive. She lived up in Pennsylvania. I don’t blame her for coming by herself.

Six kids + six hour ride = Hell. Now that kind of math I can do.

And so here I stand now, six feet above you, telling you everything I can remember of what we had in life. Everyone has been gone for some time now, night is falling, and the air has started to chill. God, I love you. I always have, and I can say with confidence I always will.

Behind me I can hear the silent hum of the car of the Father who performed your mass today. He’s promised to drive me home so I wouldn’t have to walk. Oh right, I sold the car to pay for the silver edge to your stone. I don’t think you would’ve approved, but you don’t really have much of a say in the matter now.

I smile at the thought. I know that’s what you would want. Me to be happy. You were an amazing man, an amazing lover, an amazing husband, and an amazing father. There are few who can say that and mean it in this world, and I’m proud to say I can.

“I love you.”