“Sarah,” said the doctor, checking his watch for the time.  Lunchtime neared on a beautiful day in early November, “I see, unfortunately, only three to six months remaining for you.  I’m sorry…so sorry.”

Joshua looked up from fiddling with his cell phone, then returned to it for a moment, setting it on vibrate.  Slide show images of their six-year marriage streamed by him, not ceasing until the doctor shut the door, leaving Sarah and Joshua alone.  Visions of their children who would never come to be were named in moments; their ghostly vision evaporating quicker than that of the doctor through the doorway.  Plans for their ten-year anniversary trip to the white sands of Tahiti dissolved as if liquefied by wraithlike saltwater, reminding him of the multitude of reasons he had provided previously on why they couldn’t afford it in the first place.  The last two years had definitely been far worse than the first four, but death had never been what he thought would cause a cease in their anniversary celebrations.  His long hours at work—yes.  His occasional drinking—a definite culprit in her serving him divorce papers.  But he hadn’t seen this coming.  Sarah just stared at the wooden door as if the doctor would return to say, “Naw, just kiddin.” Joshua tried to remember if he had written the life insurance check out.

#

     Three weeks later, the phrase, Three to six months, silently pounded in Joshua’s mind, a thunderous reminder of that sunny afternoon; its repetitiveness imitating that of the tinny rattle of the MRI machine his wife visited repeatedly to photograph her executioner.  As a shoe salesman, and always moving from one store to another depending on which paid the most, three to six months could seem like an eternity.  He just hadn’t known how he would be able to make it through.  And surmounting his agony, he worried about their pathetic health insurance policy, which would barely cover her doctors’ visits.  He figured he’d have to sell thirty pairs of shoes a day to just pay for her meds.  Why me, why me, he thought hugging his head at the kitchen table.

“It’ll be okay, Josh,” Sarah said, hunched slightly at the waist, appearing to be checking out a new pair of shoes upon her feet.  Being sucked dry by the chemotherapy, her frame dwindled to that of a young looking 60 year old.  By force of habit, Joshua’s eyes fled to where she stared and rested upon her battered Nikes.  He dropped his head back into his hands and hid a look of disgust.

“I know.”

#

     December was a good month at Egotales Shoes.  With the holidays and all, Joshua’s sales soared.  Not quite in the realm of the thirty pairs he dreamed of, but not bad.  He began working a lot more overtime.  It was available, so he took full advantage of the time.  He also took advantage of one of those credit card deals in the mall outside the store one day.  A pretty girl in tight jeans pushed them on anyone who walked by her tiny card table stand.  He’d have to sell an extra five pairs of shoes a week just to cover the interest rate, but something had to be done.  Sarah’s prescriptions were eating away at his pay.  He knew he’d have to pay for them eventually, but he thought, It’s not forever, as he signed his name on the form.  He was tired of her expenses cutting into his lunches.  Anyway, he got a free gift for signing up.  A faux pearl necklace.  She’ll appreciate it, he thought, tossing it into his backpack next to a browned apple gnawed to the core.  He glanced back at the sales girl and smiled as he left her counter before heading on to Egotales to work a double shift.

#

     New Year’s eve came and went with Joshua watching the ball drop after putting Sarah to bed for the fourth time that day.  Back and fourth, back and fourth.  He thought about installing a revolving door in place of the bedroom one.  That way he could just prop her up against the glass panel and push her through with one swift thrust.  But for now, his shoulders would have to bear her weight.

Toward the end of January, Joshua began longing for the spring.  Maybe cabin fever ailed him.  He wasn’t sure.  He got outside occasionally, but usually it was only to go to work or to one of her chemo appointments.  Most people in the Northeast pleaded for a speedy thaw around this time of year.  But Joshua hadn’t craved the tepid air and sun-drenched sky.  He hadn’t wished for seemingly endless days or boating on the Allegheny.  He yearned for something more, something much greater than the average family’s anticipated vacation or a trip to a water park.  It’s just that his grandmother had always told him that wishes don’t always come true.

#

     February had soon arrived, and given that she made it through the first three months Joshua prayed that the latter three would not prove also to be a disappointment.  Lately, being the only companion to her many medical appointments, the trips had become more habitual to Joshua than holding his dick while pissing.  The only thing that allowed for any amount of excitement remained the anticipation of her physician affirming what organ might be failing her.  It reminded Joshua of a game of Russian roulette—not knowing what might be her silver bullet.  And since the twenty-sixth appointment hadn’t provided the ammunition, Joshua had no choice but to await next week’s round.

“Funny,” he thought, while jamming to Van Halen’s Eruption in his car one day while awaiting her exit from the oncologist.  “One’s silver bullet is another’s silver lining.”  A smile swelled across his cheeks, as the reference to billowing clouds reminded him of spring once more; causing his eagerness to soar higher than any cloud or bullet had ever gone.

As she struggled through the heavy glass doors, fighting to keep her balance, a hard, cold rain splattered across her face.  He glanced at the umbrella that lay on the car floor where her feet would soon rest.  He turned the ignition on and waited impatiently for her to join him, switching the CD to his favorite Led Zeppelin one.

  #

     The day was March 10th.  It was the night that her heaving and vomiting ceased.  The gut-churning rhythm consistently rumbled that evening from close to eight o’clock until Joshua’s realization of quiet around ten; the unusual calm interrupting his peak television viewing hours.

     Do I dare…?  He questioned himself, wanting to sprint into the bedroom, assuming a skip would be overkill.  He considered seizing his breath and sealing his eyes in anticipation of a clammy chill upon her flesh as his fingertips brushed against her forearm.  But instead, he plunged forward, wide-eyed, twisting the doorknob.

As he swung the door inward, the darkened bedroom had a musty smell that rolled out, summoning him into the stale space.  Thin horizontal slants of light from an outside streetlamp shone through the mini blinds that were never fully opened anymore.  He hadn’t been in there since December when he moved all of his clothes into the garage.    The rotten reek of expelled stomach fluids cut through the thickened air as he made his way toward her body, cringing at the dresser and end table surfaces sprinkled with balled-up tissues and empty pill bottles.  It was then that he remembered why he preferred getting dressed while standing upon cold cement and dried oil stains.

Her form lay in a lump upon the bed.  No part of her flesh revealed itself from his vantage point.  He knew if he got closer, he would see more.  Dodging the pail of vomit and filthy clothes thrown about, Joshua inched his way closer.  Seconds later, he hovered one foot from the bed, and it was then that he saw a bare shoulder.  And then the moment arrived—he had to touch her.

“Sarah…” he said, leaning closer than he wanted—nearer than he’d ever again thought he would.  He touched her shoulder.  Cold.  “Sarah?”

He waited for a response before celebration seemed suitable.

     Was ten seconds long enough?  He questioned himself.  Twenty?  One minute?

Then he realized that more time than this had slipped by.  The ambulance number repeated over and over in his mind’s redial as he thought how he would control himself long enough to get the words “My wife is dead.  Please come quickly” out.  It was almost too much of an act for a novice to handle.

As he searched for the cordless phone, he caught himself whistling.  He couldn’t quite put his finger on the melody.  But it hadn’t mattered.  The tune ceased before the chorus.

“Josh…Josh…Joshua?”  It was Sarah.  And he, only a few paces away from the best part of the song.

#

     It was March 23rd.  He had taken one of his lengthy walks through Oakland across the college quad and past long-legged, tight-covered co-eds and returned home a while later.  He told her he needed to clear his mind.  He hadn’t known if she believed him.

As they sat down to soup and crackers that afternoon (the only thing she could hold down) she said she saw him crying at 4 a.m. the night before as he reclined in the La-Z-boy.  The view had been a good one thanks to the indigo glow from the television, illuminating him and the Jack Daniels bottle wedged comfortably between his thighs.  He hadn’t known she was even there.

“I’m sorry,” Sarah said, twisting her greasy hair into a ponytail.  She hardly bathed anymore.  Joshua slurped a noodle from his spoon in repulsion.  He hadn’t bothered to wipe his chin as broth ran down and dripped onto his collar.  “It’s all my fault.  You are so sad all the time.  And you stay up so late every night.  You hardly sleep.  I’m so sorry.”

But his eyes gazed into the ceramic bowl, forever lost in the blue glow even when the television wasn’t on.  He counted the noodles floating in the broth.  Two, four, six…ten, twelve…

#

     “A Carmelina called you,” she said in early April.  Never questioning once, at least openly, who possessed this name before returning to her cocoon of comforters and stained pillowcases.  Before assuming her nightly position, she reconfigured her pillows and changed the puke-filled garbage bag that brooded like a crumbling statue next to her bed.  Without hesitating, Joshua lifted the receiver and entered a number imprinted to memory into the keypad while speaking in hushes.  He considered speaking loudly, thinking that the content might cause her lung to collapse or heart to explode.

     Old habits die hard, he thought, chuckling, reminding himself that spring was closer than ever.  Three to six months, he recalled the doctor’s words.  He hung up the receiver and tossed the TV dinner into the pre-heated oven, reading the cardboard instructions for direction.  Thirty to thirty-five minutes or until done.

#

     Spring arrived in the form of salon-bronzed bodies flouncing throughout the surrounding city streets, but the thrill was eclipsed by the unbelievable coping power of her diseased walking carcass.

It was 8 p.m.  Saturday.  May.  He could hear her steady rustling and sporadic vomiting from behind the closed bedroom door.  He reclined in his chair and pressed the up volume arrow on the television remote.  COPS sang its notable tune, but her clamor persistently overran the theme song.  He contemplated lifting the receiver again and going out on one of his long walks.  He pondered raising the crocheted pillow propped on the nearby couch—the one with the red trucks treading upon the asphalt road stitched of black-gray yarn that his grandmother had made him for his sixth birthday—and rushing full throttle into the bedroom.  It would only take a few minutes.  The crocheted road stretched on forever, narrowing into a never-ending line of fine black thread.  But there was an end, he realized, tilting his head as he focused his drunken eyes.  The thread had an end.

He took another swig of the whisky to calm his pulse that began racing at the thought of silence and a spring breeze flowing through the bedroom, carrying the lemony scent of freshly Pledged wood dancing upon its stream.  But instead of becoming lost in yet another one of his fantasies, he reclined, shifted his crotch into comfort and pushed the black-and-white labeled bottle back between his thighs, which had since become to him as her pills were to her.  He instead became consumed in the television program.  Red and blue police lights swirled upon the screen, capturing a man in his twenties being detained by New York’s finest.  A woman hollered into the camera—most likely his wife or girlfriend—spewing blood from a cracked lip and a gummy space where a tooth dangled by a thread.  Although he tried to allow the drama to consume him, Joshua’s mind wandered, unsure of where his spring was.  He expected the doctors to know what they were talking about, but they hadn’t.  He had hoped that the bedroom would be empty by now.

(THIS BLOG claims no credit for any images posted on this site unless otherwise noted. Images on this blog are copyright to its respectful owners. If there is an image appearing on this blog that belongs to you and do not wish for it appear on this site, please E-mail with a link to said image and it will be promptly removed.)