As she took off her clothes, the image of her naked body reflected in the mirror caught her attention. It startled her. She stood, examining her pale torso and limbs. She wouldn’t look at her face. It had been a long time since she last observed herself. She noticed the five extra pounds around her waist and the extra jiggle on her upper arms.

When had that happened? She thought to herself, but she didn’t take any more note of it than that. She raised one arm above her head and checked for lumps in her breast. She didn’t find any, but then, she didn’t expect to.

The bathtub looked familiar and strange at the same time; the same yellow wallpaper, the plastic tile on the floor, the fake ceramic on the walls. Yet it felt larger than before. So empty. Would everything look different without him?

She almost turned from the tub as she had yesterday. Leaning over, she grabbed the handicapped bars for balance. The bars weren’t needed anymore, but she doubted she would remove them. She turned the hot water on, hotter than she usually kept it.

The phone rang right as she stepped into the water. Standing in the bathtub, the hot water already turning her feet red, she looked at the phone, and then ignored it. She didn’t want to talk. It registered in her mind that she should answer it anyway. Unanswered phones, at a time like this, brought people over with casseroles. Someone at the door was harder to keep at a distance than a ringing telephone.

As she sank into the bathtub, her headache flared up. She closed her eyes and leaned against the back. The hot water relaxed her and the headache eased.

I needed this. She thought. I should have done this yesterday. But yesterday the thought of taking a bath without him scared her.

He loved to bathe with her. At first, she loved it too. He would lower himself behind her, and she would rest against his chest. She kept her ear on his heartbeat, listening for any changes. Later, baths with him became just another chore, like mowing the lawn, or shoveling the driveway.

She thought of her life in terms of before and after the cancer. She married him young. He was older, but that was part of what attracted her to him. At eighteen, full of life and dreams, he was anxious to fulfill them. And he did, for a while.

She thought for sure she would cry. Yesterday, taking care of herself seemed beyond her. Going to the bathroom alone frightened her. But when she finally did get a chance to be by herself, she felt nothing but relief.

Today, she wanted no one in the house. Having people around just bothered her. She didn’t need anyone today. She should have realized that after years of taking care of him, taking care of herself was surprisingly easy.

She cried when she told his parents; and then cried again when she told her own parents. But she didn’t cry today; she didn’t know why.

Maybe I am in shock. She thought and closed her eyes. Maybe I don’t love him.
 
Her heartbeat raced at the thought and her stomach flipped. Her hands balled into fists.

No, I loved him. I know I did.

I should be crying. Why can I not cry?

                        *  *  *

When he got sick, she prayed. She bargained with God, told Him of all the sacrifices she would make. She would sell her horse, she would be a devoted wife, she would do anything if only he would get better. Then she prayed for the pain to ease. When those weren’t answered, she prayed for God to take him.

It took a long time for God to take him.

The remembrance of those prayers brought guilt.  No one should pray for her spouse to die.  I shouldn’t feel guilty, she thought, clenching her fists.  There is no reason to feel guilty.  But there was.

She forced her mind to one sunny afternoon, right after he got sick. She helped him sit on the porch, so he could enjoy the air. They sat quietly for some time. He looked out toward the mountains, while she read a book.

Then he broke the silence. “I want to die,” he told her.

She looked up at him, frightened. “No, you don’t.”

He sighed. “I am sick of this body. I want to be free of it.”

“No, you don’t.” When he only looked at her, she shouted, “You don’t! How can you say that, after everything I have done for you?”
 
“I am too much of a burden on you. Think of the money you will get when I…”

(cont'd from the print edition) “Don’t say another word.”  She couldn’t look at him.  Her grip on the chair tightened.  “I never…” But she had.

                           *  *  *

In the bathtub, she wanted to cry.  Why can’t I cry?

                           *  *  *

She kept him at home.  What else could she do?

She gave up everything to take care of him.  But he got sicker.  He couldn’t speak; he lost the use of most of his body.  She couldn’t help him to the bathroom anymore.  Most of the time, he wasn’t even conscious.  Hospice told her he needed to be at the hospital permanently.  Their goal, they told her, wasn’t to keep him alive, but to make him comfortable.  She wanted to fight it.  But she didn’t have any control over it; he signed his life away.  He wanted to die.  And she was tired, so tired . . .

When the ambulance came to take him, he had already slipped into a coma-like state.  Hospice told her this was normal for people who were dying.  He won’t even know he’s being transported, they said.  But when they lifted him onto a stretcher, he cried out her name.  Inside the ambulance, tears rolled down his cheeks while he moaned like a little child.  Her heart broke, but she didn’t cry.

Just die.  Please just die.  She gripped his hand.  Maybe if she thought hard enough, he could hear her pleas.

She spent most of her time with him at the hospital; she even slept there.  She could not go home when he was not there.  What would people think?  The third night she could not sleep.  She bought a romance novel down at the gift stand, and stayed up reading it while his breathing slowed.

In romance books, the heroine always holds the hand of the dying while they breathe their last.  But she secretly thought no one could really do this.  Do they realize how long it takes someone to die?  Does anyone really know when someone else is going to die?

But she knew.  She did.  She looked up from her book, right when the heroine was confessing her love for the impossible man.  She saw his chest rise and then fall, and not rise again.  The instruments started blaring.  She waited.  The heart monitor was still beeping.  How come it takes so long?  Just stop.  Please, just stop.  The beeping slowed, and then ceased.  She let out the breath she didn’t know she was holding.

A nurse came, but he had told Hospice not to resuscitate.  The nurse unhooked the machines from him.  The noise abruptly stopped.  The nurse patted her on the back and asked her if she had anyone to call.  She did not take her eyes off his body.  She stood up and walked over to him.  He still looked alive, except his face seemed relaxed.  For the first time, she realized how much pain he had really been in.  She did not recognize it before.  His face had not looked relaxed in years.

I made love to this body. Many times. Is that possible?  She touched his arm.  It was still warm.  She leaned down and kissed his forehead.

You got your wish.  You are dead.  Now this body you hated so much will rot, and I will be left alone. But the thought didn’t make her cry.  She couldn’t cry.

                                *  *  *

The water was cooling in the bathtub.  She didn’t want to get out.  She wanted to stay in for another hour.  The phone rang again.  She pulled her ears under water to block it out.  The leaky faucet dripped onto the water.  It sounded like a heartbeat.

Lub-dub, lub-dub.

I will wear the navy suit tonight for the viewing.  Tomorrow, I will wear the black suit.  Planning helped calm her mind.  He would want me to wear the black dress.  But I cannot . . . not to his funeral.  The black dress was his favorite.  Sexy and slinky, she wore it the last time they made love.  It seemed like such a long time ago, years ago.  And even then, there wasn’t much pleasure; the exertion proved too much for him.

The dress was too low cut for a funeral.  What would his mother say?  She would think I was trying to catch another man at my own husband’s funeral.

Lub-dub, lub-dub.

I will have to move out.  His parents owned the house.  She doubted they would kick her out, but she wanted to get out. She’d buy that farm down the street.  She felt her lips curving, but she stopped it before it became a smile.

Lub-dub, lub-dub.

I have his money.  Now that he is gone, I will get all that money.  She felt giddy.  A half laugh escaped her.  Anyone listening would have mistaken it for a sob.

Lub-dub, lub-dub.

It was not the first time she thought of the insurance money, and it was not the first time she praised his foresight.  No one realized she was better off without him than with him.

“He is gone, and I am happy.”  Her voice, barely audible sounded like a shout to her underwater ears.

Lub-dub.

The water was too cold now, but she didn’t notice.

The water’s trickling slowed down, the space lengthening between the beats.

Lub… dub.

And then it stopped.  She got out of the bathtub.

Maybe I will wear the black dress tonight.
                                   

                                    
                         
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