Джойс Оутс - Night. Sleep. Death. The Stars

Funny he’s having such difficulty talking now, he who’d always been an easy talker. Never shy even as a kid. Oh Whitey! He can converse with anyone. Strike up a conversation anywhere. Any stranger.

But that had not happened, had it. Feeling the chagrin, the hurt, of an obscure rebuff.

Kick in the stomach, groin. That kind of rebuff.

Whoever it had been, they hadn’t liked him. Hadn’t been charmed by him. Problem is, he’s old.

Problem is, he’s cold.

Teeth chattering. Feels like bones chattering. That chit-chit-chittering noise the long-billed long-legged herons made, sends a shiver up the spine.

Problem is, some careless person (attendant?) has left a window open here.

Wherever here is.

Rushing wind. Rain-splatter flung like tears.

From where he’s lying, where the bastards have pinioned him, and with this God damn respirator down his throat, can’t move to reach the damned window to shut it.

He has glimpsed her—his wife. The young wife, face lit from within.

His dear wife. Has he forgotten her name?

Wife —the word is a burr in his throat.

Can’t speak. Words like thorns. Trying to cough up the thorns, to clear his throat to speak.

Has forgotten— speak.

Reaches for her hand—but he is being pulled from her.

Darling?—I love—

The wind is rushing, can’t hear.

It is so tempting, to give up!

So tempting, so tired. His legs heavy…

Not like Whitey McClaren, to give up. God damn he will not.

Never a good swimmer, his legs are too heavy. But he is swimming now. Trying.

Wind-buffeted waves. Very hard to swim against. Swift current. Cold.

Barely, keep afloat. Just—his head—uplifted, at tremendous strain. One breath at a time.

Swimming wasn’t his sport. Hadn’t the right body-shape to cut through the water. Too inward. Throwing you back on your own thoughts, not good.

Football was his sport. Running, careening together, tangling legs, head-butts, piling-on… Tackling: that word, he’d loved.

Loved the sweat-smell, his own and the other guys’. And the dirt-smell.

Swimmers stink of chlorine, too clean. Up your nostrils. Christ!

Touch another guy in the pool, brush legs, what the hell… Repulsive like lizard-skin.

Harsh clean chemical-smell in this damned place: antiseptic.

Germ-free. Bacteria-free.

What did his scientist daughter say: Life is bacteria, Daddy.

The kids, how’d they grow up so fast? Turned his back, there was Thom moved out of town. Beverly, pregnant. Slap in the face but no, not right to think that way.

You know better, Whitey. Please .

You can’t possibly be jealous of your own son-in-law.

And now grandchildren. Too many! Names slipping from him like water through outspread fingers.

Christ, life is a struggle. Anybody who tells you anything else is a liar.

The greatest effort— breathe…

Pushing, shoving. Trying to get free, to breathe. Shouts of strangers in his face, booted feet kicking. Two of them.

Had that been real? Had it?

Electrocuted. He’d stepped, or fallen, onto a wire cracking electricity…

His face. Throat. Afire.

Is he— dead ?

Not possible. Ridiculous.

But in this rough-rippling current, a dark wind. Frantic exertion of arms, legs. His strong shoulders, or shoulders that had once been strong only days ago. Arms like frantic blades propelling him upward.

Can’t give up. Can’t drown. Love you so…

Oh God, love you all.

It is a late hour, she is very tired.

Love you so, darling. We are all right here.

Saying his name. Many times saying his name certain that though unresponsive, he can hear her.

Numbly her lips move. Almost inaudibly.

Yet she doesn’t doubt, her dear husband can hear her.

Doesn’t doubt, her dear husband is aware of her.

How old he looks! Poor Whitey, vain about his age since (at least) fifty. And now—sixty-seven.

His handsome face now scarcely recognizable. Skin like creased parchment. Bruised, swollen where he’d struck the steering wheel or the windshield thrown forward in the crash.

Stroke preceding the crash. Or—had the stroke followed the crash?

Possibly, she has been told. Possibly, she has forgotten.

Police officers arrived at the scene, called 911, saved Whitey’s life.

Scene of the accident. No witnesses .

ER physician saying it looked like burn-wounds on the patient’s face, throat, hands. Scorch-marks on his clothing they’d had to cut away.

Speculating the air bag had exploded, bruising and battering. Acid may have splattered out of the air bag which sometimes happens.

Air bag injuries can be considerable. If you are small-boned, slender, a child, elderly, don’t sit in the passenger’s seat. Exploding air bags can kill.

Can you hear me, darling? You are going to be all right…

Leaning close, scarcely daring to breathe. All the strength of her being is required to keep her husband with her.

Holding his (right) (bruised) hand. But his hand is not holding hers.

First time in memory, she is sure. First time in fifty years Whitey’s large strong warm hand has not grasped hers.

If he knew, he would console her. Protect her. All I’ve been meant to do on earth, Jess—take care of you .

Joking but serious. Every other word out of the man’s mouth a joke, but serious too. Easy to misunderstand such a person.

Still alive. He is still alive.

Not sure of the extent of the stroke, just yet. What it will mean.

Which areas of the brain are affected, contiguous with the stroke-region.

She has heard the word— stabilized . She is certain that she heard this word and that she has not imagined it.

After surgery. Repairing (broken) blood vessels. Brain shunt to drain liquid. Catheter threaded into the brain through a hole in the skull. A second catheter subcutaneous, traveling down into Whitey’s abdomen, draining away there. The shunt is the life-saver.

Bargaining with God. Please God let him live. Please God we love him so.

She is very cold. One of her daughters has pulled a sweater onto her shoulders, that keeps sliding off.

Blood has drained out of her face. Her lips are cold and numb as death.

Holding his hand. Cannot give up his hand. No matter how tired she is, how dazed. For (she is certain) that his hand can feel hers even if it does not exert any strength and remains limp in her hand and alarmingly cold.

If she releases his hand, it will fall heavily onto the edge of the bed.

Not like Whitey McClaren, a cold handshake .

Not like Whitey McClaren not to squeeze his wife’s hand in his, bring it to his chest in a protective gesture that pulls her forward, awkwardly.

But he does not. The hand does not.

Hours she has been at his bedside. A high bedside, surrounded by machines.

How many hours coalesced into a single hour like something gigantic growing exponentially—iceberg, snow-mountain.

The larger the object, the more surface-area. The more surface-area, the most rapidly the object will grow.

It is not a quiet place. Even the Intensive Care Unit which you would expect to be quiet is not.

He will sleep, he will rest. He is exhausted.

He will be himself again—when he has rested.

Someone has told her this. She has half-listened, she has wanted to believe. It is comforting to her, that every nurse, every medical worker, every physician she has met tonight, has been so very kind.