Cullin Mitch - The Post-War Dream

Once beyond the front door, Hollis entered what seemed to be a timeless but vacuous domain, a place in which past or future concerns were no longer permitted, and where the present was now forever sustained like the drone of an unending chord. He didn't, though, remove the boots, or the jacket, or the mitt on his hand; instead, he went forward, pausing for a time at the gap between the dining and living rooms — like someone contemplating directions when stepping into a maze — with his head pivoting from left to right, right to left, his gaze alternately framing those two dimly cast, static rooms: each fractured by refined beams of angled sunlight, where the rays only brightened either the middle of the dining table or the three canvas-printed orchid photographs hung above the couch, as they would a bowl of fruit in a still life. Among the shadows of the living room were the brown-oak bookcases, the television cabinet, a black steel-coated wall clock, the tempered glass-top coffee table covered with library books — and in the dining room, also shaded, were the glass chandelier-like pendant lamp, the antique clear-lacquered pine chairs, the buffet with top cabinets which held white plates and bowls and cups and pitchers. But in the slow aquatic tumbling of radiant dust motes, everything felt submerged to him, peacefully settled somewhere beneath water; and he was there, too, among wreckage which had, surely, sunk so calmly as to leave so much intact.

Don't forget to breathe.

Before proceeding farther, Hollis exacted his stare, holding it on the living-room clock. He waited until the second hand had cycled the full duration of a minute; at which point he walked directly through the house — tracking dirt across the carpet, the kitchen's vinyl flooring — and headed out the back door to tend his snowbound gardens: calculating and recalculating the hours, the approximate minutes, since he had comforted Debra in his arms, kissing the side of her face as she breathed heavily against him, kissing her when her breathing had grown shallower and, like a subtle, gradual transition into the stillest of sleeps, eventually became unapparent. Ten hours, he estimated. Ten hours and twenty-two minutes, give or take a minute.

At the end, by the time Debra was ready to go — to take the mystery ride, as she had begun saying — there had been almost nothing asked or required of Hollis; she had, using what little remained of her failing health, done all the preparations on her own, researching the best methods available, going about it with the same fixity of purpose which had driven her while making interior-design choices for their home. In businesslike fashion, she determined a mixture of two barbiturate drugs — Seconal (4.5 grams) and Nembutal (3.0 grams) — would not only do the trick but would double the lethal dose; as such, Hollis would be spared the last task of placing a plastic bag over her head once she had fallen asleep — something she felt certain he couldn't actually bring himself to do, something she didn't much like the idea of anyway. Then in accordance with Debra's wishes, a sympathetic Dr. Langford agreed to prescribe the drugs; and, too, the doctor would, when everything was finished, handle the postmortem details — signing the death certificate herself, stating that Debra had died due to complications resulting from ovarian cancer.

The grocery shopping and errands, however, became Hollis's main responsibility, his mission. Without voicing protest, he picked up the prescriptions for her at Walgreens; he also bought what she had listed on a Post-it note — chocolate pudding mix, a bottle of Glenfiddich, Dramamine — items which seemed better suited for a holiday than, as Debra had called it, a self-deliverance. There were other instructions for him as well, another list she had written on a legal pad, several after-life issues they would discuss beforehand: the letter she had recently composed to her younger sister was folded inside the P. D. James hardback on the living-room coffee table — it should be addressed in an envelope and sent via Priority Mail within a week of her passing — while the P. D. James novel should be returned to the library by month's end; her credit cards should be canceled; her clothing and shoes should be donated to Goodwill, her wigs given to Gilda's Club; she didn't want a funeral, or a memorial service, or an obit of any sort placed in a newspaper; most important, her body must be cremated. “That way I can once and for all rid myself of these cancer cells,” she explained. “I want my body purified,” and then Debra wanted the circle of her life completed, asking that her ashes and bits of bone be scattered on the property of the old What Rocks house where she had been born — the closing of a larger circle in which a smaller circle would have already been sealed; for, they both knew without saying it, a death had brought them together and, in turn, it was somehow fitting that a death would draw them apart. The pursuit of happiness, he had begun to understand, didn't come without a heavy price.

And so, last evening, Hollis dutifully heeded the final directive of his mission while snow cascaded outside the kitchen windows. On a serving tray, he gathered and organized those things Debra had needed — a bowl of chocolate pudding, a mug filled with Glenfiddich, one Dramamine pill in a spoon, the plastic vials of Seconal and Nembutal, a cup of green tea, a slice of toasted whole wheat bread — feeling no desire to hurry, running his eyes diligently over the items once everything was in place. When he finally brought the tray to their room — pushing the aromatherapy bottles aside so he could set it on a corner of the bedside table — Debra was propped up in the bed, the orthopedic pillow behind her neck and the comforter bunched about her, seemingly pleased by how well he had put the contents of the tray together. This was the night of her departing, the dwindling minutes of her existence, but she didn't look unhappy. As he sat down on the edge of the mattress, she told him she felt blessed. She was, regardless of the disease, content with herself — and him — and the life they had built. Beneath the comforter and the sheets the lower half of her body was hidden, naked, like a bride nervously anticipating the beginning passion of a honeymoon; where she was going, she had joked, it didn't matter whether she wore clothing or not, and he was inclined to agree with her.

“I guess it's that time,” she said, eventually.

Hollis bowed his head, saying, “I don't think I can do this.”

“It'll be all right,” she said, squeezing his wrist. “We'll both be all right.” Then she added, with the trace of a smile: “We ‘ll survive this one, too.”

For several seconds they stared at each other awkwardly; yet her thin face conveyed no obvious emotion, even as his expression trembled — his mouth curving downward, his eyes wide and scared; his face stayed like that as she ate the toast, and drank the tea, and swallowed the Dramamine pill in order to ward off nausea. She took her meal slowly, silently; afterward, they talked for about an hour, and the severity of his expression lessened as they discussed the unusual weather, the Discovery Channel program she had seen earlier on the Ice Age, various minor topics which steered clear of what would soon transpire. Then they hugged; her cheek was cold but her lips were warm, her breath smelled of tea and sickness.

“I'll miss this,” he said, while embracing her. “I'll miss just talking to you, Deb.”

“You can always talk to me, you know.”

“But it won't be the same.”

“No,” she said, pulling back to look at him, “I guess not.” They gazed at each other a few seconds more — before she nodded resolutely, insisting, “It's time, dear. I'm ready, I really am.”