Authors: Joyce Carol Oates
A Widow's Story (6 page)
February 18
,
2008.
The call comes at 12:38
A.M.
Waking me from sleep—a phone ringing
at the wrong time.
There had long been the dread, when my parents were alive, and elderly, and their health crises escalating, of the phone ringing late—
at the wrong time.
We all know this dread. There is no escape from this dread.
For finally I’d been able to sleep—in our bed, and with the light out—we’d been feeling so hopeful when I left the hospital in the early evening—the first time since Monday, I was able to shut my eyes, to
sleep—
and now this feels like punishment—my punishment for being complacent, unguarded—for leaving the hospital early—stunned and dry-mouthed I stumble from bed, into the next room—which is Ray’s darkened study—where the phone is ringing. And when I lift the receiver—“Hello? Hello?”—the caller has hung up.
A wrong number? Desperately I want to think so.
Almost immediately the phone rings again. When I pick it up it’s to hear the words, if not the voice—the voice is a stranger’s voice, male, urgent-sounding—that I have been dreading since the nightmare-vigil began—informing me that “your husband”—“Raymond Smith”—is in “critical condition”—his blood pressure has “plummeted”—his heartbeat has “accelerated”—the voice is asking if I want “extraordinary measures” in the event that my husband’s heart stops—I am crying, “Yes! I’ve told you! I’ve said yes! Save him! Do anything you can!”
The voice instructs me to come quickly to the hospital.
I ask, “Is he still alive? Is my husband still alive?”
“Yes. Your husband is still alive.”
And now I am driving into Princeton in the dark of night—along Elm Ridge Road—onto Carter Road, and left onto Rosedale—Rosedale, which will lead straight into the Borough of Princeton several miles away—these country roads so well traveled by day are deserted by night—there are no streetlights—no oncoming headlights—the roads are dark, snow-edged—I am thinking
This can’t be happening. This is not real—
this, the very summons I’d been dreading, I’d wished to think with a child’s faith in magical thinking that if I’d dreaded the call, if I’d imagined the very words of the call, surely then the call could not come—that would not be impossible!—though I am desperate to get into Princeton and to the hospital, I force myself to drive at no more than the speed limit—as I’d been careful to drive slowly and with as much concentration as I could summon, during this past week—for it would be ironic, it would be disastrous if I have an accident at such a time—when Ray is waiting for me—through a roaring in my ears the telephone voice has acquired a more urgent tone—almost, a chiding tone
Still alive. Your husband is still alive
. Aloud I say, “He is still alive. My husband is still alive”—in a voice of wonder, terror, defiance—“Ray is still alive”—such pathos in
still
, so provisional and desperate—this past week I’ve fallen into the habit of talking to myself, instructing myself—encouraging myself as one might encourage a stumbling child
You can do it. You will be all right
,
you can do it. You will be all right!
When I’d thrown on clothes in the bedroom, to prepare for this frantic journey, this admonishing voice had lifted in a semblance of bemused calm—
Be careful what you wear
,
you may be wearing it for a long time.
In the ghost-white Honda I am veering over the yellow line into the other lane, for some reason I am having difficulty gripping the steering wheel—my hands are bare, the wheel is cold yet the palms of my hands are slick with sweat. I am having difficulty seeing, too—the road ahead, in the Honda’s headlights, looks smudged. I think that there is something wrong with my vision—it’s as if I am peering through a tunnel—in the periphery of my vision there are shadowy figures—beyond the snow-edged road—I’m afraid of being struck by a deer—in this area it isn’t uncommon for deer to wander out into the road and even at times to leap into the path of a vehicle as if hypnotized by headlights. Now my voice lifts frightened, thin—“Is Ray going to die? Is Ray going to—” I am not able to acknowledge the possibility as I am not able to acknowledge the terror I feel, and the helplessness—such frustration as I enter Princeton Borough and the speed limit drops to twenty-five miles an hour—here, I must wait for a very long time—how long, how long!—a nightmare of lost time!—waiting for the red light to change at the intersection of Hodge Road and Route 206—which is called State Road in Princeton—there is no traffic on State Road as there is no traffic on Hodge Road—no traffic anywhere in sight—yet I am obliged to wait at the light, I am too fearful of driving through a red light, too conditioned to “obey” the law and at such a time especially—at last the light changes—I drive to Witherspoon Street, turn left and drive several blocks to the hospital—past darkened houses—I am able to park in front of the hospital, at the curb—only one other vehicle is parked here, at this time of night—desperate I run to the front door of the hospital which of course is locked—the interior of the hospital, semi-darkened—yet more desperate I run to the ER entrance which is around the corner—my breath is steaming, panicked—I am pleading with a security guard to let me into the hospital—I identify myself as the wife of a man “in critical condition” in the Telemetry unit—several times I give my husband’s name—
Raymond Smith!—Raymond Smith!
—thinking how astonished Ray would be, how embarrassed, in the hospital
too much is made of things
he’d said the other day—the security guard listens to me politely—he is middle-aged, dark-skinned, sympathetic—but can’t let me inside before making a call—this takes some time—precious seconds, minutes—like butterflies with frayed wings thoughts fly at me in random and frantic succession
He is still alive. It’s all right. He is waiting for me
,
I will see him
,
he is still alive.
How frustrating this is, how strange, whoever called to summon me to the hospital hasn’t made any arrangement for me to be allowed inside—maybe there is some mistake?—the wife of
Raymond Smith
isn’t supposed to be summoned to the hospital?—someone else is expected?—but then the security guard informs me that yes, Mrs. Smith is expected on the fifth floor, I can enter through a door he opens—blindly I run through this door and find myself in the hospital lobby—at first not recognizing the familiar surroundings, twilit and deserted—how eerie it seems, no one is around—the foyer is empty, the information desk darkened—the coffee shop darkened—my panicked heart is beating like a frantic fist as I run to the elevator—ascend to the fifth floor—now stepping out of the elevator I am terribly frightened, turning left for Telemetry as usual I taste cold at the back of my mouth
This is not happening
,
this is not real—of course
,
Ray will be all right.
In Telemetry there is no one around—except at the nurses’ station—lights, white-clad figures—in my distraction I don’t see any nurses I know—by the way they regard me, with impassive faces, they know—must know—why I am here, at this time of night when no visitors are allowed in the hospital; and now—at the farther end of the corridor outside my husband’s room I see a sight that terrifies me—five or six figures—medical workers–standing quietly outside the opened door—as if they have been awaiting me—as I approach one of them steps forward—a young woman doctor—a very young-looking woman, a stranger to me—silently she points into the room and in that instant, I know—I know that, for all my frantic hurrying, I have come too late—for all my scrupulosity in driving at the speed limit, waiting for the light to change like a programmed robot, I have come too late—in a trance I enter the room—this room I’d left only a few hours before in utter naivete, ignorance—kissing my smooth-cheeked husband
Good night!
—our plans were for me to arrive early tomorrow morning—that is, this morning—I was to bring page proofs for the upcoming
Ontario Review
—but now Ray is not sitting up in his bed awaiting me—he is not awaiting me at all but lying on his back motionless in the hospital bed, which has been lowered—I am shocked to see that there is something
not-right
here—Ray’s eyes are closed, his ashen face is slack, the IV tube has been removed from the crook of his bruised right arm, there is no oxygen monitor, there is no cardiac monitor, the room is utterly still—Ray’s eyelids don’t flutter as I enter, his lips don’t twitch in a smile—I don’t hear his words
Hi honey!
—numbly I come to the bed, I am speaking his name, I am pleading with him as a child might—“Oh honey what has happened to you!—what has happened to you!—Honey?
Honey
?” For Ray seems so very lifelike, there is no anguish or even strain in his face; his face is relaxed, unlined; his hair is not disheveled; it is true that he has lost weight this past week, his cheeks are thinner, there are hollows beneath his eyes which are beautiful eyes, gray-blue, slate-blue, I am leaning over him as he lies motionless beneath a sheet, I hold him, I am frantic holding him, kissing him, I am crying for him—urging him to wake up, this is me—this is Joyce—this is your wife I am pleading with him for Ray is one to be coaxed, persuaded—he is not a stubborn man—he is not an inflexible man—if he could he would open his eyes and greet me, I know; he would murmur something amusing and ironic, I know; I hold him for as long as I can, I am crying, his skin is still warm but beginning to cool; I am thinking
This is not possible. This is a mistake
; I am tempted to shake Ray, to laugh at him—
This is not possible! Wake up! Stop this!—
for never in our lives together has anything so extraordinary happened, between us; never has anything in our lives together so divided us; I am telling him that I love him, I love him so much, I have always loved him; now the young woman doctor has entered the room, quietly; the others remain in the hall, looking in; in a lowered voice in which each word is enunciated with precision the young woman doctor whose name has flown past me, whose name I will never know, explains to me that
everything possible
had been done to save my husband, who had died just minutes ago—he’d gone into unexpected
cardiac arrest
—his blood pressure had
plummeted
, his heartbeat had
accelerated—
it was a
secondary infection
and not the original E. coli infection that had driven up his fever—within just the past few hours—his left lung was invaded, his bloodstream was invaded—though they tried very hard there was
nothing more to be done.
I am too stunned to reply. I am too confused to know whether I am meant to reply. It is very difficult to hear the woman’s voice through this roaring in my ears. I think that I must look distraught, crazed—the blood has drained from my face, my eyes are leaking tears—but I am not crying, not in any normal way am I crying—with what frayed remnant remains of my sense of social decorum I am trying to determine what is the proper response in this situation, what it is that I must say, or do; what is expected of
me
? It won’t be until later—days later—that I realize that Ray died among strangers—all of these medical workers gathered in the corridor outside his room, strangers—Dr. I
_
is not here, Dr. B
_
is not here, Dr. S
_
—Ray’s cardiologist for several years—is not here; none of the other ID specialists who’d dropped by to examine Ray and to speak with me is here; smiling Nurse Shannon of whom Ray was so fond is not here, nor even chattery Jasmine.
It is 1:08
A.M.
Late Sunday night. None of the senior medical staff is on duty at such an hour. No one of these medical workers including the young woman doctor is more than thirty years old.
I will not hear from any of the staff who’d become acquainted with Ray this past week in Telemetry. Not even Dr. B
_
who was the admitting physician and whose signature I will discover on the death certificate noting that
Raymond J. Smith
died of
cardiopulmonary arrest
,
complications following pneumonia. 12
:
50
A.M.
February 18
,
2008.
It is the most horrific thought—my husband died among strangers. I was not with him, to comfort him, to touch him or hold him—I was asleep, miles away. Asleep! The enormity of this fact is too much to comprehend, I feel that I will spend the remainder of my life trying to grasp it.
“Mrs. Smith?”—the young woman doctor touches my arm. She is telling me that if I want to stay longer with my husband, she will leave me.
In the corridor, the others have dispersed. I am staring at Ray who has not moved, not even his eyelids have fluttered since I’ve entered the room. The young woman doctor repeats what she has said to me and from a long distance I manage to hear her, and to reply.
“Thank you. I will. Thank you so much.”
Please gather and take away your husband’s belongings before you leave.
It is my task—my first task as a
widow
—to clear the hospital room of my husband’s things.
Only just today—that is, yesterday morning—which was Sunday morning—I had brought the enormous
New York Times
, mail, page proofs for the magazine, and several other items my husband had requested from his office. Now, I will dispose of the
Times
and I will bring the other things back home with me.
Not yet have I realized—this will take time—that as a widow I will be reduced to a world of
things.
And these
things
retain but the faintest glimmer of their original identity and meaning as in a dead and desiccated husk of something once organic there might be discerned a glimmer of its original identity and meaning.
The wristwatch on the table beside my husband’s hospital bed—where my husband is lying, very still, as in a mimicry of the most deep and peaceful sleep—this item, an
Acqua Quartz
watch of no special distinction which very likely Ray bought in our Pennington drugstore, with a dark brown leather band, a digital clock-face pronouncing the time 1:21
A.M.
—which, even as I stare at it, turns to 1:22
A.M.
—has no identity and no meaning except
It is Ray’s wristwatch
and except
Because it is his
,
I will take it with me. That is my responsibility.
In this very early stage of Widowhood—these first few minutes, hours—you might almost call it Pre-Widowhood for the Widow hasn’t yet “got it”—what it will mean to inhabit a free-fall world from which meaning has been drained—the Widow takes comfort in such small tasks, rituals; the perimeters of the Death-protocol in which experienced others will guide her as one might guide a stunned and doomed animal out of a pen and into a chute by the use of a ten-foot pole.
Mrs. Smith? Do you have someone to call?
Quickly I reply—Yes.
Would you like any assistance in calling?
Quickly I reply—No.
These seem to be correct answers. It is not a correct answer to reply
But I don’t want to call anyone. I want to go home now
,
and die.
As we’d fantasized—neither of us wished to outlive the other.
Though Ray had a horror of suicide—he did not think of suicide as any sort of romantic option—now he is
dead
, he would surely wish to return to
life.
These thoughts rush through my head like deranged hornets. I make no effort to deflect them, still less to slow and examine them. It is strange to be so assailed by rushing thoughts when I am moving so slowly—speaking so slowly—like one who has been slammed over the head with a sledgehammer.
Already the time on Ray’s watch is 1:24
A.M.
This hospital room is so cold—my teeth have begun to chatter.
In the small windowless bathroom in the medicine cabinet—behind the mirror—in the unflattering fluorescent glare—my fingers close numbly upon a toothbrush—Ray’s toothbrush?—a badly twisted tube of toothpaste—mouthwash—deodorant—a man’s roll-on deodorant—
clear-glide invisible-solid powder-soft scentless anti-perspirant deodorant for men—
shaving cream, in a small aerosol container—how slowly I am moving, as if undersea—gathering my husband’s
belongings
to take home.
Someone must have instructed me to undertake this task. I am not certain that I would have thought of it myself. The word
belongings
is not my word, I think it is a curious word that sticks to me like a burr.
Belongings. To take home.
And
home
, too—this is a curious word.
Strange to consider that there would be a
home
, now—without my husband—a
home
to which to take his
belongings.
Here is Ray’s comb—a small black plastic comb—I have glimpsed amid his things, sometimes. When we’ve traveled together—staying in a single hotel room—a kind of intimacy more marked than the intimacy of daily life, which has acquired its own subtle protocol; at such times, I would see my husband’s
toiletries kit
and in it such articles as toothbrush, toothpaste, deodorant etc. But also nail clippers, after-shave cologne, prescription pills. It would seem to me touching, it would provoke a smile, that a man, any man, should take such care to groom himself, as women take such care.
That a man, any man, should groom himself
to be attractive
,
loved—
this seems wonderful to me.
That a man, any man, should seem in this way to require another, a woman, to be attracted to him, and to love him—what a mystery this is! For to a woman, the quintessential male is unknowable, elusive.
Even the domestic male, the husband—always there is something unknowable and elusive in him. As in Ray’s life, or perhaps in Ray’s personality, there has always been, for all our intimacy of forty-seven years—for the record, forty-seven years, twenty-five days of our marriage—a hidden chamber, a region to which he might retreat, to which I don’t have access.
Now, Ray has retreated to a place where I can’t follow. Just behind his shut eyes.
These toiletry things—that they were
his
, but are now no longer
his
, seems to me very strange.
Now, they are
belongings.
Your husband’s belongings.
One of the reasons that I am moving slowly—perhaps it has nothing to do with being struck on the head by a sledgehammer—is that, with these
belongings
, I have nowhere to go except
home.
This
home
—without my husband—is not possible for me to consider.
The tile floor seems to be shifting beneath my feet. Hurriedly I’d dressed and left the house, I am not even sure what shoes these are—my vision is blurred—could be, I am wearing two left shoes—or have switched right and left shoes—recall that, in the history of civilization, the designation
right
and
left shoe
is relatively recent, not so very long ago individuals counted themselves fortunate to wear just
shoes
—this is the sort of random, pointless and yet intriguing information Ray would tell me, or read out to me from a magazine—
Did you know this? Not so very long ago . . .
The impulse comes over me, to rush into the other room, to tell whoever it is, or was—a woman—a stranger to me, as to Ray—about
shoes
, the history of
right and left
—except I understand that this is not the time; and that Ray, in any case, for whose benefit I might have mentioned it, will not hear.
This past week I’ve become astonishingly clumsy, inept—forgetful—to pack Ray’s bathroom things I should have brought in a bag of some kind, but I didn’t—awkwardly I am holding them in my hands, my arms—one of the objects slips and falls—the aerosol-can shaving cream, that clatters loudly on the floor—as I stoop to retrieve it blood rushes into my head, there is a tearing sensation in my chest—
Shaving cream! In this terrible place!
It would be a time to cry, now. Ray’s shaving cream in his widow’s sweaty hand.
Vanity of shaving cream, mouthwash,
powder-soft scentless deodorant for men.
Vanity of our lives. Vanity of our love for each other, and our marriage.
Vanity of believing that somehow we own our lives.
Lines from a Scottish ballad—“The Golden Vanity”—rush into my head. For my brain is unnervingly porous, I have no defense against such invasions—
There once was a ship
And she sailed upon the sea.
And the name of our ship was
The Golden Vanity.
There is something faintly taunting, even mocking about these words. I am transfixed listening to them as if under a spell. The words are familiar to me though I have not heard them—I have not thought of them—in a very long time.
There once was a ship
And she sailed upon the sea. . . .
Long ago—as a graduate student at the University of Wisconsin at Madison, in 1961—it was my task—it was my pleasurable task—to write a paper on the English and Scottish traditional ballads for a medieval seminar taught by marvelous Helen White, one of only two female professors of English in that largely Harvard-educated, highly conservative department; subsequently, for years of our married life, Ray and I listened to records of ballads, in particular those sung by Richard Dyer-Bennet. It is this singer’s voice that I hear now. Never had it occurred to me—until now—clutching a can of aerosol shaving cream in my hand—that this plainspoken, plaintive Scots ballad has been the very poetry of our lives.
There once was a ship
And she sailed upon the sea. . . .
(Now that “The Golden Vanity” has invaded my thoughts I will not be able to expel it from my mind for days, or weeks; I am helpless to expel such invasions of songs, sometimes a random stanza of poetry, by any conscious effort.)
Again I think—that is, the thought comes to me—that vague fantasy in which masochism masks fear, horror, terror—how frequently in the past I had consoled myself that, should
something happen to Ray
, I would not want to outlive him. I could not bear to outlive him! I would take a fatal dose of sleeping pills, or . . .
How common is this fantasy, I wonder. How many women console themselves with the thought that, should their husbands die, they too might die—somehow?
It’s a consolation to wives not-yet-widows. It’s a way of stating
I love him so much. I am one who loves so very much.
When he’d been just middle-aged, and not yet an aging, ailing man himself, my father would say in that way of masculine bravado:
If I ever get bad as
—(referring to an elderly chronically ill and complaining relative)—
put me out of my misery!
But when Daddy grew older he would live for years with myriad illnesses—emphysema, prostate cancer, macular degeneration—and he did not express any desire to die, still less any desire to be
put out of my misery.
For this is the fallacy of such wishes, made in “good health”—truly they will not apply to the person who has uttered them, at a later time.
So too the prospect of
taking sleeping pills
at this time is unthinkable. No more than I would escape the cold by flying to Miami tomorrow morning. My responsibility to my husband would not allow such impulsive behavior.
“Honey? What should I do with these things?”
Not quite aloud, in a murmur not to be overheard these words are uttered. Of course I know, I know perfectly well that my husband is dead, and will not hear me, still less reply.
Another habit begun this past week—talking to myself, querying myself. Animated conversations with myself while driving the car. If at home, talking to the cats—in a bright ebullient voice intended to assure the frightened animals that all is well. (It is always allowable, to talk to pets. One may be eccentric
but not crazy
talking to pets.)
Here is a fact, I think—I think it is a fact—not once in our forty-seven years, twenty-five days of marriage did I overhear Ray
talking to himself.
It was rare that Ray muttered to himself—swore, cursed.
When I return to the hospital room—to Ray’s bedside—I am relieved that no one else is there. I think that there was a nurse here just a moment ago. I think that she told me something, or asked me something, though I don’t remember what it was. I want to cry with relief, she has gone. We are alone.
Outside Ray’s room in the hospital corridor there is no one. Those five or six medical workers, strangers to me, as to Ray, including the very nice soft-spoken Indian-American woman doctor, have vanished utterly.
Were these individuals united in their effort—a failed effort, a futile effort—to save my husband’s life? Is there some term for what they are, or were—not a
Death Team
—though in this case their effort ended in death—a
Life-Rescue Team
?
Badly I want to speak with them. I want to ask them what Ray might have said, nearing the end of his life. If he’d been delirious, or—deluded—
This rash thought, like others, rushes into my head and out of my head and is lost.
There is something that I must do: make a call. Calls.
But first, I must gather together Ray’s
belongings.
“Honey? Tell me—what should I do?”
I am feeling very light-headed. The phone ringing and waking me from that frothy-thin sleep is confused with a ringing in my ears and the taunting lines of the ballad—
And she sailed upon the sea and the name of our ship was—
I am thinking that Ray so much admired Richard Dyer-Bennet—strange how we’d stopped listening to folk songs, which in the 1960s we’d loved.
Though there is no one in the hall yet I am conscious of being observed. Very likely, all the nurses on the floor have been alerted—
There is a woman in 539. Ray Smith’s wife. Smith died
,
the wife has come to take away his belongings.
I have been watching Ray—I have been staring at Ray—I am transfixed, staring at Ray—I am memorizing Ray as he lies on his back beneath a thin sheet, his eyes shut, his recently shaved face smooth and unlined and handsome—and I am thinking—that is, the thought comes to me—that Ray is in fact breathing—but very faintly—or he is about to breathe; his eyelids are quivering, or about to quiver. As in sleep our eyeballs sometimes move as jerkily as in waking life—if we are dreaming, and
seeing
in the dream—so it seems to me that Ray’s eyeballs are moving, beneath the shut eyelids; it seems to me
He is dreaming something. I shouldn’t wake him.