Losing Julia (15 page)

NEW YEAR’S EVE
used to make me sad in that sentimental sort of way. Now it scares me. At Great Oaks the countdown starts in mid-December: who will make it to the New Year, which looms like red tape at the end of another senseless marathon? Few die just before Christmas; the expectation of family gatherings encourages survival. But New Year’s Eve is for lovers and revelers, not family. Not a reason to hang on.

This year I watch Dave MacKenzie, a plumber who lost his left leg in a farming accident in Iowa when he was seven. I like MacKenzie, an utterly genuine man with a gentle voice and a pleasing laugh. The multiple wrinkles that stretch like rows of parentheses from the corners of his eyes to his temples suggest a merriment that has always eluded me.

“You know what really gets to me,” he said one day when we were sitting out back by the trees.

“What’s that?”

“I’m so goddamn full of good advice now and I can’t use any of it.” He laughed his gentle laugh. “Can’t use it on myself and no one else will listen. Especially not my sons.”

“Is any of it original?”

“Oh, I guess not. But it’s still great advice. Could save a guy a lot of trouble. Tell me, Delaney, why is it always too late when you have finally figured out what’s really important?”

“At least you finally wised up,” I said.

“I don’t know. It kind of makes it more painful, knowing all the mistakes I made.”

“That’s wisdom,” I said.

“Wisdom? Ha! Wisdom is nothing but a consolation prize for growing old,” he said. “A damn booby prize.”

He was right of course. Better to be young and foolish.

Now bedridden by prostate cancer and nearly blind, MacKenzie is suspended between pain and pain-killers. This Christmas all five of his children and their children visit the center, wheeling his bed out to the patio and enveloping him in chatter. My own two children are vacationing with their families this year, but I don’t mind. I am content to sit on my bench and watch as the MacKenzies pile presents on the patriarch’s lap, opening each one just inches from his face.

“Look at this sweater, Dad. It’s PERFECT for you.” A daughter, maybe 40 and overweight, holds the dark blue sweater aloft. “And did you see these socks that Scott bought you? PERFECT, Dad.” He smiles, the first smile I have seen on his face in months.

I watch as they leave, leaning one by one over MacKenzie’s bed for a kiss and a whisper. MacKenzie is asleep as the nurses wheel him back to his room, his sheets still littered with wrapping paper.

JULIA?

Yes, Patrick?

I’m so lonely, Julia.

I know you are, Patrick. I know you are.

You know that theme song to
Exodus
? I listened to it all morning on my tape deck until the nurses asked me to turn it down. It just seemed exactly right.

I didn’t mean for it to be like this.

I know you didn’t. I don’t blame you a bit.

Maybe it would have been better if we had never met.

No, God no. I don’t regret it at all.

You should have found another woman, Patrick. You’re a good man. A wonderful man. I’m just a crazy woman who paints all day and can’t even keep house.

I didn’t want anybody else, Julia. I wanted you. I still want you.

It’s too late.

Too late? Why is it too late? Don’t say it’s too late, Julia.

Patrick, my dear Patrick.

You’re leaving, aren’t you?

Soon.

Don’t leave me. Why are you leaving me again?

I must.

Wait, please. Tell me you love me. I must hear at least that Julia, please.

But then I’ll have to leave.

I know. But just tell me. Just say the words.

I love you, Patrick.

And how does the story of Patrick and Julia go, won’t you tell me? You must tell me that before you go. Tell me how we start back in the beginning and every morning I awake to the smell of your hair and we read books together in bed side by side and we go to the symphony and we take our children camping in the summer can’t you tell me any of that, Julia? Can’t you?

I have to leave now, Patrick.

Can’t you stay, just this once? Here, lie down beside me and we’ll breathe each other s skin and I’ll make breakfast in the morning and sneak out to the florist to buy you roses.

I love you, Patrick.

You love me, you really love me?

Good-bye, love.

Julia!

I awaken and stare at the clock: four a.m.

MUCH TOO
much pain today. Can’t think straight at all.

Seemingly, as a miracle, all firing stopped, and the silence was amazing! Then, as we stood at our positions along the trenches, we heard a chorus from the German lines, which was only a couple of thousand yards away, a beautiful chorus singing “Silent Night.” We stood there, listening, and the strangest feeling came over us.

—Albert M. Ettinger, United States Army.

DECEMBER 31,
I prowl the halls, whistling loudly to combat the music. There are pictures on the walls drawn by local schoolchildren who flood us with artwork each holiday. I enjoy the paintings but long for a Monet or Van Gogh to break it up. The infantilism of old age leaves me seething.

I stop at the entrance to the recreation room, which is strung with red, white and blue streamers. The TV in the corner, always turned much too loud, celebrates another year we had no part in. The room, otherwise quiet, is filled with two dozen celebrants and as many wheelchairs, walkers, canes and colostomy bags. Those who can handle it—and some who cannot—drink cheap champagne from paper cups and stare at the flickering images; images of a world that is increasingly unrecognizable. I watch a nurse spoon-feed chocolate cake with pink icing to a wretched-looking man who sits low in his wheelchair wearing a party hat cocked sideways. A balloon hangs from his IV drip and his shirt is covered with ice cream. Paper horns are blown. A cup is spilled. Someone begins to snore.

On my way back to my room I notice that MacKenzie’s bed is empty.

MACKENZIE’S FUNERAL
is held in the small chapel on the hill behind Great Oaks. I sit alone near the back, cane between my knees. His family arrives: three daughters and two sons dressed in blacks and dark blues murmuring to spouses and towing neatly combed boys and girls adorned with bows and ribbons. Music begins as the family floats silently down the aisle; a mournful flute crackling from small white speakers mounted on the walls. I hear but two stifled sobs during the moment of silence.

Why do we suppress tears at funerals, fighting the sorrow until our throats ache? I want screaming Baptists who fall to the ground, writhing in agony. I want anguish in full orchestra and wails of protest and a pounding of chests. How dare you steal MacKenzie away from us! Damnation!

Too bad I can’t attend my own funeral. What better way to see who really gave a shit? First, the cold shock of the phone call or the telegram. Then a few days for everybody to rake their memories before they are dressed in black and lined up shoulder to shoulder in creaking pews for a mixture of heart-wrenching poetry and music until their throats are constricted with grief. Louder and louder the music grows amid stifled sobs and rocking shoulders when suddenly I appear at the back of the church, striding forward triumphantly with hanky in hand. Take comfort, my friends, it’s not too late to appreciate me! To apologize! For Patrick lives!

I leave the service before the final prayer. Good-bye, MacKenzie.

The escort marches slowly to solemn music; the column having arrived opposite the grave, line is formed facing it.

The coffin is then carried along the front of the escort to the grave; arms are presented, the music plays an appropriate air; the coffin having been placed over the grave, the music ceases and arms are brought to the order.

The commander next commands: 1. Parade, 2. REST. The escort executes parade rest, officers and men inclining the head.

When the funeral services are completed and the coffin lowered into the grave, the commander causes the escort to resume attention and fire three rounds of blank cartridges, the muzzles of the pieces being elevated. When the escort is greater than a battalion, one battalion is designated to fire the volleys.