Submitted Date 03/14/2019

Hospital chairs are cold, especially in waiting rooms of the emergency department on a late night. Or was it now early morning? A Friday night? Saturday morning? The cold air of February buffeted her being every time someone walked or ran or pushed a gurney through the doors leading to the covered parking area where ambulances and cars parked with the injured or dying or just frightened stop to unload their people, the most important people in the world, to them. She pulled her knees into her chest making herself as small as possible. The chairs were weird, hard plastic in washed-out shades of green and orange stuck together with poles against the puke pallid walls. Like anyone would seriously think about stealing from here, or maybe they would create a scene throwing a chair through a window or door or block the paths of the gurneys and the EMS team wheeling people in.

He had held her hair back as she vomited into the toilet, as exploding blueberries and raspberries covered in cream, careened out of her nostrils and mouth. Her eyes felt so swollen like they could bulge right out of their sockets and plunk like overripe fruits into the sea of puke, but he had her head too in his hands, elongated fingers that suited his large frame. She wasn’t frightened just uncomfortable and wishing it was over and that she hadn’t had so much to drink on their Valentine’s celebration in her special dress. The one she had saved for this occasion, crushed red velvet with the tie-up bodice and long swirls of skirt; a little like the dresses Anne Boleyn wore for Henry the Eighth, before the animosity and beheading. She always whoopsied when she was excited, always. And her hair was red and curly not in any way like Anne Boleyn’s thick brown strands before her husband lopped off her head. She looked up at him with only love, love, love silencing the tummy ache of crab cakes and chocolate éclairs and one too many glasses of champagne.

She had been an ill bride, just out of the hospital, still under a doctor’s care, when they said, fuck it. And got on a plane with thirty-two dollars and a new visa to fly to her homeland where the food was bad, and the scenery was lush even in October with the birds of prey circling close overhead and never landing. Her family kept them for a few days; the In-Tourist Centers set them up with bed and breakfasts for the other nights. Somehow she managed to drive a stick shift on the wrong side of the road because he was too large to fit behind the wheel of the small car they rented. But even if he did fit, he couldn’t drive a stick, so she was stuck. Even when she told him, I think I’ve made an awful mistake. He poured some more tea, added milk and sugar, pushed the heart-decorated mug towards her, before saying, we’re here now, let’s make the best of it, shall we? They did, walking old railroad tracks through one town, washing their undies in one city, downing port in the pubs in another, sprinting through brisk mornings for a newspaper. Two days before their departure, they took a detour. Look up the sign said, and they did see a blue sky, air frigid but clear floating above the dilapidated runway doubling as a road. They found castle ruins sitting on a mossy hill, beaten by the harsh winds of the North Sea. The foam sprayed them from deep below as he pulled her back from the edge, wrapped her in his elegant arms, to drive to a tea shop in the nearest town, where life seemed okay, and marriage was not so scary or smothering or settling down. She woke him up that night to listen to the couple next door having wall-pounding sex. Giggling from their secret snooping, they tried for a syncopated rhythm but couldn’t stop laughing, and fell asleep to sounds of a headboard crashing like the waves from earlier. No time for showers the next morning but she led him to the sink, tipped his head forward and washed his hair, letting the blue-black strands iced with silver, thick as her wrist, slide forward into the basin. Never cut your hair she said, and he replied as long as you wash it for me. The shampoo was slippery making his head silk-shrouded, sleek as a seal, heavy with hair and head and gray matter to become heavier again as she poured jug after jug of warm water to rinse. She smiled thinking of the times they would have together, traveling around Greece on rented motorcycles, renovating their little house, caring for their dogs and cats instead of the children that she couldn’t have. Jug after jug, she rinsed out the suds and promised herself to wash his hair, always.

They had been playing Trivial Pursuit, a game she was lousy at except when playing on a team but they were playing alone that night, drinking tequila and dark beer in the only circle of light of a dark woody bar. She felt giddy with the completion of the semester, contemplating another round. That night was before the crackdown of DUIs and MothersAgainstDrunkDriving and their maturation, so another round was possible and even probable when he asked her something else. She had been caught unaware, concentrating on the sunny yellow wedge of pie missing in her wheel, when he posed the question of marriage or Greece. Without hesitation she said Greece, been married before don’t want to do it again. He pushed the long hair away from his face and held her gaze with those long-lashed green eyes, moo-moo mouth pursed, white skin so soft that it showed the bruise of her words. Tears ran down her face knowing her time was up and this was it, and he would leave her if she chose Greece but still, she tried. Can’t we do both, no, why, not enough money, I want to go to Greece, I want to get married? Full stop.

After two days of him feeling not quite well, she worked late that Friday until checking on him she saw he looked worse than that morning. Color grim, and she called his doctor, but he was not worried, flu season, and she said to do something please for my husband. Pharmaceuticals didn’t help, and her beloved looked at her as he said, I’m so scared. She didn’t know what to do so she asked him. Stay at home. They knew they knew. Blue, the skin around his mouth and eyes turned blue, and they knew as the seizures came that his brain wasn’t getting enough oxygen. She asked again. Stay at home. Massaging him as muscles died, rocking him when he shook, whispering little love memories into his ear until he smiled. Then the smiles became fewer, frozen in pain. She dialed 911. Paramedics jumped through the door, attaching lines and tubes, speaking to him in progressively louder voices as the gurney wheeled in. She watched from the hallway, out of their way, shaking.

She twisted the heavy gold ring on her finger; first one way, then slipped it to the middle joint, then back down and twirled it the other way. The hard edge of the plastic chair cut into her thighs. Her sweater was not warm enough against the aseptic cold air rushing through the room and down her spine. She shivered and fidgeted as a way to keep warm, keep away the thoughts of the other room, what they were doing. The slip-sliding sound of the doors announced a visitor even before she saw his green-clad booties, stained scrubs, red-raw fingers wringing together. I will not look up. Nothing good will be said.

She knocked her head against the patched wall of the waiting room. Straight back. Bouncing her scalp against the plasterboard, feeling trickles of blood plaster hair against her neck, many feet scurrying towards her, hearts-blood from her scalp, the give of the wall, trying to knock out all the little love memories of Not Greece.


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  • Tanya Marion 4 years, 11 months ago

    Well done. You’ve done such a beautiful job with this piece. The imagery is so detailed, and by the end of the story, I can really feel the agony of your loss. I’m so sorry, Trudi.

    • Trudi Young Taylor 4 years, 11 months ago

      Thank you. I promised myself I would never write about losing Rod but this story sat at the back of my head for a month. I felt literally ill until it came out one day in a rush. I've done very little editing to the piece. Sometimes things are almost perfect the first time. It's like the muse must have her time ...

  • Tanya Marion 4 years, 11 months ago

    Yes, sometimes writing can be so therapeutic. And no matter how hard we may try to avoid it, writing is oh so personal. I think even fiction pieces reveal a little something about the author. It takes real courage to expose yourself on the page. Kudos to you for your vulnerability.

  • Arganise Campbell 4 years, 11 months ago

    Omg this story is such a work of art. Such creativity is a blessing. Thank you for sharing this!

    • Trudi Young Taylor 4 years, 11 months ago

      Thank you for reading! Big hugs as we all travel different paths

  • Tomas Chough 4 years, 11 months ago

    Wow this is so heartfelt and intense. Sorry for your loss Trudi. I can tell you have many great memories of your husband. Thanks a lot for sharing!

  • Mary Jaimes-Serrano 4 years, 11 months ago

    I have no words that portray the feeling this gave me. I am sorry for your loss and so happy that you have found this outlet for your grief. I did much the same after my son's passing. The emotions that you portray in this are so intense and heartfelt. Thank you for sharing such a personal work with us. Many hugs and well wishes.

    • Trudi Young Taylor 4 years, 11 months ago

      I cannot thank everyone enough for their kind words. Writing about Rod's death has haunted me. I didn't want to do it but it was a story that was beyond me, above me, for everyone who has loved and lost. It was an epiphany to realize how ephemeral our lives are - please love often, love fiercely, and don't worry about the outcome. What will be - you don't know. I am sorry for your loss - please write about it when it is time. I want to hear and give your kind words. Much love.

  • Miranda Fotia 4 years, 11 months ago

    This piece is beautifully written and very moving. I am so sorry this happened to you.