Two years

At night, I admire her from a pillow’s distance. On my side, one hand under my head, her back is smooth perfection — God’s work of art. From her shoulders down, skin of gossamer, sublime. I see no end to the words that describe the sight before my eyes. My body tries to mimic that of Annette’s. I long for the nights we’d spoon and fall asleep. 

Tonight ends day number 729, and with tomorrow’s dawn it will be two years since Annette’s cerebrovascular accident.  I lie in the dark, my knees slightly bent, my top knee resting on the mattress. I observe the muscles of her shoulders, broad and firm, then the individual facets of her spine, neat and smooth like piano keys. I can see them through her translucent skin and long to run my fingers along, to play their music. A pad bolsters her top knee, and her dead arm cradles another white cushion. I see all these pillows like clouds she floats on, and I lie here yearning to float as well. 

We reject that word: accident. We prefer ‘attack’, a brain attack, although we hardly ever talk about it. Sadly, we barely talk at all; it is laborious for both of us. Outside, snow melts into the inky night. I hear it drip, running in the rain gutters, running into the earth that I hope is waking, warming. As I lie next to Annette, watching her sleep, there is a chill. I long for spring’s sun as if that will unfreeze her arm, straighten her leg, order the nerves in her brain, and make her green eyes sparkle at me. That is surely my wish, just so we can spoon, talk, and make love again. 

Two years and one week.

I creep out of bed, guilty but hoping for an hour alone. I dance around the kitchen, espresso maker in hand. When the popping bubbles signal it’s done, I pour a delicate Italian cup and I pretend Annette is right before me. Lifting my coffee, I say to myself, “Good morning, my love. You’re looking so much better.”

And then I sit down and drink that espresso, black. I see Annette scowling at me, but I am alone. I remember buying those Italian coffee cups on our honeymoon, right after I’d told her I would love her in sickness and in health. And I do, but I feel so tired and lonely most days. I miss the woman I married, and now I often think I can’t breathe. It is 8 am, and the therapist will be here at 10.

Annette is sleeping, maybe dreaming as my hand touches her spastic one. It often clenches, progressing to contractures. It must pain her; it pains me too. Just seeing her delicate knuckles so oddly straining makes my stomach knot. I set this hand as my personal mission. I promised myself I would never let it close completely, a lone act I can do for my wife. I massage, stretching her fingers and her most strongly stubborn thumb, then slip on this plastic brace, rest, then repeat. 

“Annette, love. Time to get up.”         

She grimaces. I think I hear, ‘K’.

She wants to be self-sufficient, and I have to let her, but I like to take her pillows away. It is like I am freeing her to move; it gives me a joy, somewhere deep. She slides onto her back and then, with her functioning arm, pushes and pushes to raise herself to sit. Her cane is close, and she grasps it like a life preserver and pushes again. The side of her face that works is knits in with concentration as she brings herself to stand. Sometimes I have look away if she struggles, even that I know, I am her forever caregiver.

Forty minutes later, the therapist, Paul, arrives, a published graduate from Oslo’s medical campus. He’s young with gigantic, muscular thighs and energy to match. His arms tote equipment, padded table, pullies, and boards like so many pick-up sticks. He sets up in the living room. Annette walks in with jerky steps, cane leading, and eyes him with trepidation. I can’t imagine what she is thinking.

In the end, I have a moment alone, where Paul speaks in a pained hush. “She’s come so far, but we’re at a plateau. She’s stuck, maybe depressed. You’re doing a lot, but you’ve got to push her.”

Annette sits on our bed, her hand welded to her cane. Her face is as sad as lopsided. Her screwed sideways look is tragic. If I listened to Paul and pushed, she’d probably topple over. Her tears run, and I approach with a Kleenex and a kiss on her forehead. Her eyes swivel away at my touch. Then, sitting by her good side, I take her hand from her cane and gently kiss her palm.

“Let me be your support.”

I try to tilt her tear-stained face, so that I can kiss her, truly. My lips almost brush hers, then she jerks away, her good shoulder wrenching up and down with her emotions. I reach out. I want to touch her, I do. To comfort her and to love her, but she moves away, falling on the bed in an awkward lump. I stare at her from the side of the bed, as do our grown boys caught in a bedside photograph frame. 

“No!” she mumbles, but I understand it, “Leave me alone.”

I do, a man rejected. My pulse hurtles forward as my arm sweeps patience and self-help books onto the floor. I want to break something and scream, but I am not sure at whom or why. A terrible trapped feeling stirs in me, and I look at the front door, wanting to run through it and never come back. Then I hear it.

“Help me, Brent.” 

I know she is trying to say my name, but it always sounds like ‘rent’, and I immediately think of our pile of bills. I take full breaths, finding my strength. I find her. She has slid to the floor at the base of the bed, and her cane is out of reach. I pick her up. She is stiff, and I try to stroke her hair, even as her lips harden to say, “I’m ugly, no!”

Two year – two weeks

Today I awake with new energy. Annette sleeps, but later her sister will be coming for a visit, and I’ll have a night free. A night to go camping, something that used to be a shared passion. Anyway, I’ve loved camping and the outdoors since I was a scrappy kid growing up above a fjord. My espresso was smiling at me, and I felt odd, a boy trying to sneak off and do something naughty.

The Subaru packed, Spotify streaming some classic American Jive, and I am gone. As I hit the highway, the image of Annette pulling back from my goodbye kiss continues to sting, mainly for the superior look Annette’s older sister gave me. Her sister saw me last year hugging a gal friend; a minute’s needed support – my wife was so sick. Annette means everything to me. Her sister doesn’t understand.

Color is coming into the trees, and the air smells of grass. I have my good-to-minus-20 sleeping bag but planned on staying lower. Southern Norway’s weather is always variable this time of year.

Car parked, I loaded my pack, double-checking everything–matches, corkscrew, first-aid kit–and took a serious step into freedom. The ground was still crunchy in places with snow and other spots mushy with snowmelt, but my boots were good, and I knew the path. The great thing about hiking in this land is that not many others would come this way till well into June. I checked my theory and yelled, “I’m free,” and then “I do love you, Annette,” as soon as I got to the first body of icy water. 

The trail meandered, intersecting and sometimes joining cross-country skiing trails, which today were plain muddy. This forest was not new to me. I had hiked its woods, and Annette, the boys, and I had trekked them together. We watched our first son grow up on those trips. And then, we were blessed with another son, and I bought a bigger tent, and we would hike and laugh, fish and grill our catch.

By three, the afternoon had cooled to usher in a chilly evening. Like coming to a second home, I found the familiar landmarks, the lakeside, the two tall pines, and twin boulders carved by ancient flows of ice. These identified the area my family had called our favorite spot. Even after our sons were grown, we’d come back as a family. Sometimes they’d bring girlfriends, and their young love was sweet. Annette and I would marvel at the wonderful men we’d raised, and as the years progressed, our passion matured into something smokey and warm. So, I chose the same spot, pitched my tent, unrolled my bag, and removed my espresso maker, the bottle of wine, and my fishing gear. I imagined dining on nice brown trout or perhaps a perch. 

Just an orange mimosa memory, the sun hid behind the mountains, gathering energy for the next day. The moon, on duty, was coming up from the other side of my lake. Fresh-grilled trout, pre-cooked potatoes and carrots, and a sausage I’d brought in case nobody liked my fly bait made a perfect meal. The fresh smell of charred fish and my evening’s espresso brought me peace. Then, between me and the lake appeared a woman. She was in heavy boots with a full pack that she slung off her back while hoarsely calling:

“I am amazingly lost. Glad I saw your fire.”

“Come, join me. It’s a bit late to be heading out, especially if you’re not on your trail.”

“Ya, I feel stupid. I’m on the wrong side of the lake.” She sat–pack, boots and body all in a heap–then looked up.

“I’m Eva.”

Her green eyes flashed with my campfire as she warmed her hands around a mug. I saw my Annette smiling an old mischievous smile and cocked my head, knowing my eyes were playing tricks. Eva and I talked and laughed into the night.

“So, you were that kid who infuriated professors, cutting class to go hike,” she said. “You were the guy my cousin talked about! Bergen University, right?”

I could only shrug and respond, “How’d you guess? Sometimes it’s downright creepy. A country with a small population, and you end up having gone to school with almost everyone you meet on a trail, or their relative!”

Another nice coincidence was that Eva had her own bottle of good red. We started with my bottle and my sons’ favorite troll story about a not-so-bright troll who lived under a bridge. He thought it fun to threaten goats on their way to pasture. Every Norwegian kid knows this story, but I liked to twist it into a happy ending: The troll got a free ride on the back of the largest goat to another fjord far away from where all the goats grazed. 

Eva and I laughed our way into the second bottle. I insisted that she fix her sleeping bag in my tent; the temperature was dropping

“And I’ll be protected from wild animals you say?”  Eva’s eyes twinkled.

As we lay on our backs, warm in our sacks of real feathers, Eva told a real horror story.

“They call it a wake-up stroke, I guess because when I woke and saw the twisted, pained face of my husband next to me in bed, boy, I woke up. And then, we learned the emergency treatment might be for naught as medical staff could not determine when his symptoms started. I lost him forever, the next day.”

The wine was flowing through my system as I heard the sharp inhale of misery and then tears. She rolled towards me, a most natural thing, and buried her head, snot running onto my sleeping bag’s nylon shell. I got my arm out of my bag and put it gingerly around her head and shoulder. She sobbed and I helplessly kissed her hair, whispering words of comfort. We fell asleep like that. 

In the morning, it was a gauzy awakening with Eva in my arms. My pulse was smooth like the surface of the lake. It felt incredibly good. Her green eyes fluttered open like a field of clover. I found myself kissing her forehead and feeling her hands exploring my chest. My breathing was no longer calm, and we were in sync. And then, my head jerked back, and out of my throat sprang an agonizing cry: Annette. 

“Oh! Your wife?” Eva asked slowly, with care. “I saw your ring.”

“Yes, she’s home, very sick. I didn’t tell. . .” I turned on my side to see Eva’s eyes, deep and thoughtful. I flipped back and sat up stiff, exhausted. “I need coffee.”

I wiggled out of my sleeping bag and out of the tent just as hot tears started to fall. I peed behind a tree, thinking what a poor sucker I was, crying, frustrated, and embarrassed all in one shot. Shit!

The fire was easy to restart, but the smell of coffee started my heart aching, and my tears turned on again as if I hadn’t cried in forever.   Eva’s arm came around my shoulders as she squatted next to me. “Go home and hug your wife.” She told me.  “Tell her you’ll never let her go.”

“Yeah, seems so simple.”

“No, but then that is life.”

Eva drank the espresso, fixed her backpack, and was gone.

Two years – six months

Paul, the therapist, was working with Annette during an extended appointment, something about flashcards and speech therapy. I had been out, taking advantage of the unencumbered time to grocery shop. Some days I thought of Eva, her story, those green eyes, her laugh, and kindness. Today was one of those. I bought some lake trout at the fish counter, potatoes and carrots from the greengrocer, a good red wine from the state store. Eva had lost her husband, but I still had Annette. I bicycled home.

I prepared our dinner, engrossed in a sip of wine and remembering the fresh air and ridiculous freedom. Daydreaming, I felt a hand at my back, like a barely perceptible spirit wind. It was gone, then there again. Fingers sculpted my shoulders with different pressures, shuddering, tapping, falling slowly like uneven drops of glue, then dragging along the collar of my shirt. The touch froze me. It brought to mind mountain icicles melting and I held my breath. I felt, and then my mind’s eye saw, five finger points starting a spastic swirl in their unique solar system, an unknown rhythm along the top of my back.

It must have been Annette’s working hand that reached along my waist and turned the cooktop off. The smell of burnt fish hit me; I looked down. There was her dead hand, the finger joints beige and tight, the thumb so angry, cruelly bent, and her pinky jumping, obscenely poking at the air.

“Don’t turn.”

I heard her voice, and the meaning seeped in: I hate you, Brent.

My entire face clenched, and a pain raced through my heart. I turned and was shocked.  I no longer knew this woman who stood leaning on a stick in front of me.  I could taste the shame and fear that flowed with my tears. A fleeting memory was moving in my mind. Annette and I were swinging, dancing around the kitchen, burned dinner forgotten. But then I saw her lips off-kilter, her hand gnarled, and heard an angry sound from the back of her throat, and I only thought of the burned fish.

I whipped back to face the stove, the singed dinner, my forehead sweaty in panic—I downed my glass of wine. The drag of her leg and the click of her cane across our wood floor were like nails on a chalkboard. I was so vile, my gut twisted, anger pulsed under my skin. I held the wine bottle, then decanted another glass, watching my whole arm shake as it met the crystal’s rim.

My eyes stumbled along the backsplash, the alighted on a kitchen magnet photo of our boys and Annette at our favorite camp site: the trees, those rocks. Trapped under the magnet was a yellowed note: Your family. Cool air rushed into my lungs, my head nodded towards the wedding band around my finger, and I finished sautéing the already overcooked fish. I set it on a plate with the blackened vegetables, knowing my Annette would forgive the burned taste.

I lit candles and sat down, staring at Annette’s empty chair. I wondered where I had lost her—where had I lost myself? Then, in a kind of sudden brain attack, an energy was conjured to action. Emotions boiled over, but my mind was numb, as I stood and started ripping through the closet. Out flew the sleeping bag, the tent, a cooler, the cookstove.

As I turned to grab a bottle, then took two from the wine rack and my trusty espresso pot, I heard Annette’s shuffle and the poke of her cane against the floor. I felt a heat surge to my face and a cold perspiration — caught red-handed. Her face registered; I am not sure what. Surprise? One eyebrow reached skyward. Her eyes glittered as that small, knit bag, her sister knitted, swung irregularly from her neck. Then she stood suddenly firm in front of my camping pile, her cane against the wall.

“Rent, Eh lob you.” And her hand reached in her knit bag and took out a card that read, “I love you.”

I tried to look into her eyes and down again at the card, chin to chest; there was nowhere to hide, her voice rang in my ears.

 “Ertz K” And then another card was under my eyes, “It’s ok.” And quick another, “I understand.”

I wondered, did she? Did I?  In Annette’s face, I saw my whole life, our love, our boys, and in her skewed smile and raised eyebrow, I saw the mountains.

Annette balanced fumbling in that knit bag for another card. She said, “Ertz K, Gro.”  And the card was a single verb, go.  She looked like she might cry. Another card on a shaking hand. “I am fine.” And now, tears silently fell, finding the crevices in her tortured yet beautiful face.

I closed the front door a little too hard. The Subaru was loaded for a long trip, Spotify primed, and jive filled the car. I drove away, knuckles white on the steering wheel, whispering, “I do love you, Annette.” 

© 2022 by Dena Linn. All rights reserved

Previously Published by Transcendent Authors  Find in our published book Spring – The Unexpected.