Stories are Memories: A Short Story

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.