Stories
are Memories
Beth
Bertucci
Helen
sat on the hospital bed next to Mark, a wry smile betraying tears that welled
in her eyes. Her face was a picture of memory, deep wrinkles creasing with love
around her eyes and folding gently around her mouth. Her eyes were sharp blue:
the same color that they were when she wore braids in her hair and skipped
stones in the river with her best friend. Those are the eyes that Mark fell in
love with, that he was still in love with, even fifty years after marriage.
“Do you remember,” Helen whispered, curling into Mark’s
side, “the day that you took me on our first date?” She prayed that he would
remember, although she knew that the stroke he had suffered five years ago had
all but taken his memory away completely. He remembered little things here and
there, but only on his good days. The doctors had said it was a miracle he
could recollect anything that had happened in the past; Helen knew that it was
God’s doing. He had good short term memory, so he asked her to tell him
stories. The stories helped him remember, and, when he forgot, she simply
reminded him by telling him another story.
“If I recall, we went to that one place, that real fine
place that they used to have on Main Street. I don’t remember what it was
called,” Mark answered softly, stroking Helen’s steel colored curls.
“It was called Johnathan’s Restaurant. It was quite
nice,” Helen sighed, gazing at Mark, her eyes glimmering in the soft light of
the bedside lamp. This time the tears came from happiness. It had been a good
day: Mark had been active and talkative. Helen had hoped that it had changed
things, but the frown upon the doctor’s face had said otherwise. Night had come
too quickly. Time was running short. “I fell in love with you that day, you
know that right?”
“I fell in love with you long before that,” Mark said
slowly, rubbing at his hand. Helen knew that it was probably sore; worn with
time and years of mining coal. Being a coal miner’s wife had never been easy,
she had worried day in and day out, but she loved Mark. Her worry was made
worthwhile when he made it home safely every night. She loved everything about
him, from his tired hands to his once piercingly accurate mind. “I fell in love
with you when we were just young kids playing outside. I told my Ma, ‘I’m gonna
marry that girl, Helen,’ and she laughed at me. Look at me now,” he chuckled,
“She was wrong to laugh.”
“I told my Ma that I’d never get married. I was convinced
that I was going to travel the world. Five kids later, I couldn’t be happier.
Traveling the world is overrated, anyway,” Helen laughed lightly, “My family
was so excited when they found out I was to be married to you. I don’t know
why,” she laughed, poking him in the ribs with her elbow.
“I can answer that for you. I was one mighty fine fellow
back in the day. I still am quite the strapping lad, even at eighty! You see
all of those nurses flirting with me. I tell them all I’m happily married,” he
winked at her, his eyes were tired, but somehow they still managed to sparkle
when he looked at her.
“Oh goodness,” Helen laughed out loud this time, her hand
flying to cover the blush in her cheeks.
“Tell me the story about our grandkids;” Mark said
suddenly, “You look so happy when you tell that story.”
“The kids bring them around enough that I have plenty of
stories about them for you. Although, I do wish I could see them more. Any time
that I get to spend with those dolls is a blessing,” Helen said thoughtfully, “
But I know your favorite story, and I will tell it to you because I know it
makes you about has happy as it makes me!”
“I don’t remember the story, but I know you love telling
it,” Mark said, gasping a little and leaning back into the bed. Helen grabbed
for the remote that controlled the bed settings and allowed it to recline a
bit. Marks gasping slowed to a soft wheeze, but saliva bubbled at his lips.
Time was running very, very short.
Helen took a deep breath, and began to tell her story,
the words falling desperately from her mouth, “Well, there is Timothy, he is
ten. Laila and Kayla came next: what a wonder to have twins in the family. Justin
was born a year after them, and then Will came a few months after Justin. Then
came Steven, he is two now. He is getting so big! I’m glad you got to see him
last week. Of course, we can’t forget about the babies. Landon and Lily were
born two weeks apart. It’s a wonder to have eight grandchildren!” She had never
had to remind him of names before, but today she felt the need to tell him
everything about them, every little detail. She wanted him to remember, to be
able to know that he was loved before it was too late. “Well, one day,” she said, jumping into the
story, “Laila and Kayla were over at the house. They were playing dress up, and
somehow got the idea to play a trick on us. They hid around the house and
pretended that one of them was lost. Well, it took me a good hour or so to
realize that they had been wearing the same little outfit. I was so angry with
them, but it was too funny and too clever for me to be mad. Did you ever
imagine we would have eight grandchildren?” Helen asked, and pondered the
subject.
“I never imagined I would have children!” Mark laughed,
but was overcome with coughing. Helen sighed and drew even closer to him. She
looked up at the clock. The hour hand was on the nine. It was getting rather
late.
“What did you imagine about?” Helen asked, pausing before
adding, “when you thought about your future?”
“I wish I remembered,” Mark said, a sad tone taking over
his voice. “Can you tell me a story about it? Maybe then, I will remember.”
Tears chased their way down Helen’s cheeks as she began
to speak, “I can sure try,” she whispered, “I will give it my best shot. You
thought about the military; thought about joining and getting as far as you
could with that, and then going to work for your father at the lumber mill. You
didn’t want to, though. You thought about sawing and chopping wood for the rest
of your life. You told me about all the splinters your Pa used to get. I
thought about music and how badly I wished I could get into it. I always wanted
to be like the girls that would sing on the radio. It was a silly dream,
anyway. You thought about you and how badly you wanted to call me your wife.
You imagined about maybe one day owning land of my own and building my own
house. Then, somehow, our crazy dreams came together and neither of us achieved
anything that we wanted originally except for our marriage. ‘You know, Helen, I
didn’t really know what to want,’ you told me, one day when I brought it up, ‘I
guess what I did was for the best, then. I kind of just let life take over,”
Helen said, laughing. “Sound like something you would say?” Mark smiled. Helen
was glad to see him smile. He didn’t do that very often, especially after his
diagnosis.
“I
think I like what I got better than what I wanted,” he said and nodded, looking
up so that his head rested on her shoulder. “Tell me more about your dreams.”
“I’m glad,” she answered, a lone tear slipping down onto
her green polka-dot dress. She hoped that he hadn’t noticed it, but somehow she
knew that he had. “I dreamed about a lot of things. I dreamed about seeing
Europe and singing all over the world. I was a silly girl; I spent far too much
time with my nose buried in a book. How often do you hear of an Indiana girl,
born and raised on a farm, making her way to Europe and singing on stages? It
isn’t all that often. I’d rather be here, with the kids and you,” she ran a
hand over his now bald head. Chemotherapy had taken what was left of his once
flaming red hair. She remembered when she met him she had thought he looked
like a carrot (a very dangerous carrot at that). His hair had been an untamed
mass of orange-red curls and his eyes had been wild. His family had moved into
the little town of Bedford, Indiana when she was twelve. She had watched them
unpack their trunks full of Irish treasures. Helen’s father had explained that
they had traveled a long way to come to the United States. They had come from
Ireland. That day, Helen had decided to herself that she would see another
country. While she never had traveled, she knew that getting to spend her life
with the carrot-top boy that had stuck his tongue out at her when she had
stared at him playing with a hoop in their front yard close enough.
“Helen?” Mark asked, his voice rasping slightly.
“Yes, dear?” she couldn’t remember the amount of times
that she had answered him like that in the last fifty years. Now, it meant more
to her than anything.
“Tell me the story of our wedding. That one is my
favorite.”
“It is mine too,” she said careful not to let her voice
crack, “I will tell it to you whenever you want. I like to start it by saying
that I never thought that I would be walking down the aisle to you. When I saw
you looking back at me, though, standing there waiting for me to meet you, I knew
that I had made the right choice. Was it a crazy choice? Yes. Was it the right
one, though? I sure thought so. The preacher ran through the ceremony, but I
don’t remember much of it because I was too busy trying not to laugh at you:
big tough man, you were crying like a baby,” she laughed and he blinked slowly,
smiling. If she shut her eyes, she could almost perfectly call up the memory of
walking down the aisle. Her gown was made of a soft, creamy colored lace and
her hair had been curled and wound into a bun, which her veil had been tucked
into. Mark had waited patiently at the end of the aisle, and as soon as the
church doors had opened and she had walked through, he had been repressing
tears. “After the ceremony we went to the reception. It was beautiful. I
remember we got to ride in a horse pulled carriage too. It’s a good thing that
Uncle Jimmy saved that old buggy. We danced the night away. My Ma had hired a
band to play and everybody had a grand time. I felt so rich and luxurious. We
had cake and food and wine. The best part was, though, that I knew that every
day after that, we got to spend it together. I can’t imagine what my life would
have been like without you there,” Helen looked down at Mark, whose weary eyes
were shut. “We have been through a lot, you and me,” she said, finally giving
up and allowing her tears to splash freely. She tried to make her breathing in
rhythm with the beeping of the heart monitor.
It calmed her, reminding her that she still had time, which allowed her
to finish speaking. Mark was unable to ask any more questions, but she answered
them anyway, knowing exactly what he would have asked. “We have been through
periods of money and success, and through places where we were living penny to
penny. I remember that once Christmas when we bought little Erica that big old
doll house. We saved up for that for months. The look on her face was priceless
though. We were always good at surprising those kids. We made it through five
of them, Mark. They all turned out successful too, so I guess we did something
right.” She hugged him closer and he sighed softly. “We made it through sending
them to college and watching them all grow up and leave. We made it through
Joey’s illness and Emily’s car crash. We watched Freddie write a book; we were
so proud of him. He knows that you keep that book by your bed, and he is so
happy. The two of us, Mark, we survived fifty years of marriage. We got to
stand up during Sunday Mass and get recognized and everything for it. The kids
threw us a big party and the lake house and we realized together that even
though neither of us accomplished what we had originally wanted, we
accomplished something pretty darn special. We created our own roots and made a
name for ourselves without even trying. I think that is more successful than
traveling the world and never having a place to call home, or even taking over
your Pa’s business. We found love in each other, and we had a family that can
spread goodness throughout the world. Our kids are so wonderful, Mark. They are
truly wonderful people. I love them so much, and I am so proud of us for
raising such good people. We did something special, Mark, even if maybe
sometimes it might have felt as though we lived a mundane life. I am so happy
with what he have had in the past fifty years. I love you so much.”
“Ma’am,” a voice said from behind Helen. She turned and
looked up to see the doctors grey face looking down at her. He was tired and
sad. Working in the senior citizen oncology wing had drained almost every ounce
of joy from his face. “Are you ready?”
“I don’t think I will ever be ready,” Helen whispered,
shaking her head. “But I know that it has to be done.”
“Do you want to do it, or should I? You will have about
ten minutes after the plugs are pulled before he is gone. He won’t be able to
speak, but some research has suggested that he is able to hear.”
“You do it, I want to stay with him,” Helen said,
grabbing Mark’s hand and stroking at the calluses with gently fingers, willing
away his pain.
“Alright,” the doctor said, “I am very sorry, ma’am.”
Helen turned her head as he fumbled with the machine that
made Mark breathe. She heard it click and then beep, registering that it was
off. Mark’s chest still rose and fell, but the movement was slight and
difficult. She laid down next to him and whispered sweet nothinness to him,
listening to the beeping of the heart monitor. She had done her job and had
reminded him of everything that she had loved about him until it was time for
him to go. She didn’t want to be alone, but at least she could die assured now,
knowing that Mark had remembered.
Helen
lay next to Mark until the beeping stopped and sunlight flooded into the room,
her head snuggled into the curve of his neck and her hand resting upon his
chest, just like they had curled up together as children, watching the stars.
In the morning, the doctors had been astounded to find her curled up by his
side. When they tried to rouse her, they found that she, too, was cold. Helen
had passed away next to Mark that night. Doctors speculated that she had died
of a stroke that had occurred only hours after Mark had gone. The nurses knew
that she had died of a broken heart.
