Or Not to Be (24 page)

| | | |

My relief
at finding Anna still alive on November twelfth every
preceding year for almost a decade was like coming up for oxygen after months
of drowning. This year, I couldn’t see beyond her deathday. I couldn’t imagine
that we would survive this time as we had so many years before.

November twelfth had become my favorite
day of the year, a personal holiday of sorts. Last year, when I woke up beside
Anna on the morning of the twelfth, she was already awake. I could tell by her
breathing. She lay on her side, facing away from me, curled up into a ball on
the very edge of the bed. I rolled to her and lay an inch away without touching
her, marveling that she wasn’t gone. She stiffened at my closeness,
unaccustomed to it.

“I’m sorry,” I said to the back of her
head. “I’ve been an ass.”

“Yes. You have.”

“It’s over, I think.”

“Well. Good for you.” She wasn’t giving an
inch.

“Can I fix it?” I asked.

She didn’t answer, so I said, “I really
miss you.”

“Then why did you leave again?” She turned
around and faced me, tears running down her cheek into her ear.

“Because I’m an idiot.”

“I know that better than anyone.”

“I’m sorry,” I said again.

“You’ve been an ass.”

“Anna,” I breathed out her name and
cautiously stroked her cheek, wiping away the tears. I remembered catching a
single tear on her face on our wedding day. A surprising memory since I didn’t
remember our wedding day under normal circumstances. “No more crying.” That
made her cry even more. She’d missed me, too, and could no longer resist our
mutual gravity. It was easier now because her deathday had released her. She
crumpled into my arms.

Although she never understood my strange
behavior, why I pulled away, Anna always welcomed me back. Our lives carried
on.

Most people live their lives as though
they have forever, an infinite supply of minutes and hours, weeks and years.
They never imagine that they could die tomorrow, or even today. Knowing that my
deathday is April second gives me a superhuman feeling the other three hundred
and sixty-four days of the year. I know I won’t die any other day. With my
knowledge of the significance of November eleventh, I could function for about
ten months each year after Anna’s deathday passed. But as the planet’s orbit
approached the end of summer, every year my dread knocked me down and pinned me
there to watch and wait.

| | | |

Each
fall
, in
the midst of our annual cold war, I longed for the simplicity of our early
days. Despite my awkwardness, even our first date had shown such promise. At
the end of that night, I managed to get Anna to take a walk through campus with
me. It was cool, and she put on that sweater I suggested she bring. We talked
about everything: family, hopes and dreams, God, population explosion,
politics, our fears, and just
everything
. She was my perfect match,
and I knew it well before she had any idea that I was in crazy love with her
and would propose as soon as I reasonably could without scaring her away.

We were walking through the rose path, her
hand small and warm in mine. I suggested we sit down for a while on a bench. My
intentions were completely dishonorable. I wanted a kiss, had a peculiar
feeling I would get one, and yet I was petrified.

Anna sat down and said, “Do you bring all
your first dates here?”

“No,” I gulped. Could I tell her that I
rarely had time or interest in dating, or would that just reveal me as a loser
nerd?

“Just the ones with awful hair so you
don’t have to be seen in public?” she asked.

I hoped she was joking. I hoped she would
someday forgive my comment about her hair. “Actually, it has nothing to do with
their hair.”

“Oh?” she asked. “Then what prompts you to
bring a girl in the dark to a bench on the rose path?”

I decided to risk my life and said, “I
just bring the ones I want to kiss.”

“Really?” she asked warily. “How many
times have you been here?”

Still out on a limb, torn between impressing
her with my lady-killer skills and risking my self-esteem with the truth, I
said, “Never before tonight.”

Silence. We sat side by side in silence
and the minutes danced around us. I could hear Anna breathing. I know it was
her because I was holding my breath, every muscle tensed. I wished I could hear
what she was thinking. What thoughts swirled in her head and why was she
looking at me like that? Then she took my hand and brought it to her face. She
spread open my hand on her cheek and turned her head to press her soft lips to
the center of my palm.

The incredible pounding of my heart
blocked the silence of the night.

Still in control of my hand, she placed it
on her heart and said, “Not the best first kiss, but look what it did to my
heart.”

Her skin was warm and soft. Her heart was
beating wildly and she was breathing as though she’d just sprinted a mile. I
felt the stirrings of something that resembled hope. Maybe I had a shot with
this girl because it seemed she might like me back.

My mind was a blur, so my body took
control. With one awkward arm around her shoulders, I pulled her to me. And she
let me. I lowered my face to hers until we were sharing the same molecules of
air. I touched her curly hair and said, “I love your hair.”

She said, “Baloney.”

“I do,” I insisted.

“I’ll grow it out for you.”

“Good,” I said. I think I sighed too
loudly.

She laughed and said, “Just kiss me
already.” She was smiling when I finally did.

39

I called home from the
hospital
on November ninth to tell Anna I
would be stuck there late and would miss dinner. She answered the phone in a
huff. Her “hello!” was like a command.

It didn’t sound like my Anna. Even when
she was in a mood, she would fake it on the phone and do that singsong,
three-syllable “hello-oh” that always sounded like her mom. When we were dating
and I called her at her parents’ house, Anna’s mom would answer the phone all
sweet like that—until she found out it was me, and then she’d turn into the
drill sergeant.

I said to my wife, “Mrs. Wixim?”

“Who’s calling?”

Amused that she didn’t recognize my voice,
I lost my mind and turned a little into my dad, dropped my voice an octave, and
said, “Mrs. Wixim, you are the lucky winner of a free in-home pest inspection.”
Anna loved to torment telemarketers. Her goal was to harass them until either
they lost it laughing or hung up on her.

When she didn’t reply, I rushed on, hoping
in my disguise that I could make her laugh. “Our highly trained bug engineers
will come to your home and look for black and brown and green insects. How
about that?”

She sighed and said, “Can you hold on a
sec? There’s a three foot cockroach crawling up my skirt, and I have to whomp
it.” She whomped something. With the phone. Then there was a thud.

“Mrs. Wixim?” I tried to get her back.
“Hello? Are you there?”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, I’m still here. But the
sucker isn’t dead yet. Can you send your guys over right now? I need backup.”
Then she let out a blood-curdling scream that ended in a cackle, and with a
final grunt, she hung up.

When I got home that night, she was in a
fine mood and didn’t even complain that I hadn’t called to tell her I’d be
late. I went out on a limb and risked it. I told her it was me on the phone.

“Hey, Anna, did you know it was me? I’m
the bug guy!” I offered an attempt at a laugh. She’d found it funny when she
thought she was dealing with a stranger, a telemarketer. I missed her and us,
terribly. Maybe we could have a little reunion over this one.

“What?” Her
crumpled face told me I was repulsive. “Now you’re calling me and taunting me
and
making
fun
of me?” She smashed the laundry basket down on the
counter and, instead of walking away, this time she turned on me. “I told you
not to be mean to me. I wasn’t kidding, Eddie.”

Utter failure. The wall between us was too
high. I should have kept my mouth shut and just let her enjoy her little joke.
Then I could have held it for myself, too.

She took two steps toward me and repeated,
“Didn’t I tell you not to be mean?”

“You did. Many times,” I said in retreat.
“I’m sorry.”

Together, we had no humor. I’d killed it.

Less than two revolutions of the Earth separated us from
Anna’s deathday, and every bridge between us was shattered. I had absolutely no
hope. I opened the back door and stepped into the rainy night to get away.

40

When Anna first began
teaching
high school, she was in charge
of a tough bunch of students for the first few years. Apparently that’s what
they do to new teachers. They stick them with the “bad” kids until they learn
the ropes and gain some seniority. For the last few years, Anna mostly taught
the higher-level classes and didn’t have to directly deal with the discipline
issues abundant in lower-level ones. She dealt with delinquents in the halls between
classes each day. But her time in the well, as they called it, taught her to
alter her kindhearted, everybody-is-nice ways and handle the rougher kids
harshly. That’s what they responded to. Don’t back down, hold your ground,
believe you are right and tell them what to do. My little Anna would stand up
to anyone. She had no fear.

I carried a truckload of fear for her. As
November eleventh approached this year, my mind ran through all the dangers
she’d face that day. It would be a school day, so there was the added
possibility of an attack on campus. Could I possibly convince her that her
horoscope said she should be nice that day? Doubtful.

I decided my best hope was to keep Anna
home all day.

On the morning of Friday, November
eleventh, I awoke with a start. Anna wasn’t awake yet. She was lying close to
me in our bed. I leaned over, quiet as a mouse, held my breath, and brought my
ear dangerously close to her face to check if she was breathing.

She rolled over just then and cracked me
on the nose with her elbow. Ow.

Definitely breathing. But she remained
asleep, I thought.

I carefully got out of bed and walked
around to her side. I was pretty sure I couldn’t talk her into staying home, so
I decided to turn off her alarm clock so she would oversleep.

“Eddie, what are you doing?” her groggy
voice asked.

Busted. “Just checking the time?” I
offered.

“What time is it? Did you make the coffee
yet?”

I left the room to make coffee, and I
heard the shower turn on. Joey was up early, too, and greeted me in the kitchen.

“Hi, Daddy. Is Mom up?”

“In the shower. Hungry?” I asked.

Joey’s sleepy eyes lit up. “Can I have
breakfast right now, right away?”

“Sure,” I said. “Whatcha want?”

“Oreos, please.”

I looked up from
the coffee grounds and caught the grin on his face. If this was indeed his last
morning with his mom, I didn’t want them to have their traditional breakfast
fight. I wanted him fed before Anna came out of the shower. But Oreos would
ensure that, although Joey would be happy, Anna would crucify
me
on what might be our last morning together. I thought
about it and decided to take my chances.

“All right, Joey. Two Oreos, with a big
glass of milk—”

“Chocolate milk?” he suggested.

“Don’t push your luck. Two Oreos, white
milk, and then toast and orange juice when Mom gets out of the shower. Deal?”

“Deal.” He climbed up on the stool and
pulled down the Oreos. Then he asked, “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why can I have Oreos for breakfast?”
That’s my boy. Questions all day long.

I took the plunge. “I need your help with
something. I want you to stay home from school today.”

“Cool! Can we ride bikes?”

“No, Joey. I want you to tell Mom you
don’t feel well so she’ll stay home with you.” This would be a tough sell. The
kid never got sick. And when he was sick, he never complained. Snot running
down his nose, cough and fever, and he’d be out playing in the snow.