It was her silent
affirmations that kept her from going completely insane. Merely being in the same room with him was
not enough anymore, talking to herself, answering herself. No, it seemed there was something lacking,
something not quite right. And telling
herself that things would eventually turn, that there would be some incredible
change in the course of things that would make it all go back to the way it
used to be? Well, this was the most
nonsensical thing of all, and only served to fuel her already overloaded
imagination.
Her mind wanted to
rest, to be set free. As vulgar as it
sounded, she needed him to go. And how
to tell him? This, of course, was always
the question.
Mrs. Mercer?
The attending appears out of thin air, or perhaps from the recesses of her mind. Summoning her now, it seems. Mrs. Mercer gets up, follows the nice, young
nurse, her hospital smock a blue the color of a clear northern sky.
It is
November. Outside, lawns are still green
and flecked, here and there, with spots of brown, patterns of fallen leaves,
reminders of a changing season; reminders that change is imminent - a cloud that has shifted shapes, a
reminder she did not want.
Inside, white
painted walls, sterile corridors filled with the bleeps and whirring of machines,
framed prints of flowery landscapes and sandy beaches, places the inhabitants
of the Hearthstone Manor Rest Haven will likely never see.
Mrs.
Mercer is led through a set of double doors marked Employees Only and
into another room contiguous with the faculty break room. It is here where they gather and talk about
their families, their troubles, sometimes their patients. But probably not this last item. Probably not the patients, what with
constantly soiled bed pans and under-garments, crying through the night and
begging to be set free of this plight, like old age or illness had happened
upon them as a result of some evil-doing.
And
one of these patients is a Mr. Frank Mercer.
Frank waits for his wife every day, inside of a room that he does not
share. She had requested a private room
for him, the very most private of rooms, for they were still quite young when
the accident occurred and, well, a private room was only
appropriate.
Now,
it seems, none of that matters, and she sits down in an over-sized leather
chair opposite the wide, polished mahogany desk that is Dr. Bloom’s. She has not been in this office before today,
and wishes never to be here again. It
has an ominous feel to it, dark and desolate, a rainy day turning to an even
rainier night.
Dr.
Bloom extends an arm, offers her a chair, the attending retreats to a dark
corner of the room. Will she wait there
for this meeting to be over? Will she
listen to every private word the two, Doctor and Patient’s Wife, share in this
most intimate moment? Mrs. Mercer hopes
not, but then realizes it does not matter in the least. She plans only on listening. She can almost predict the words that will
escape the good Doctor’s mouth.
Mrs.
Mercer.
She
waits for him to speak, to continue, stares at the corners of his mouth, how
they seem to turn ever so slightly up on one side and down on the other.
All
right, then. Mrs. Mercer, your
husband. I do not give him more than two
weeks at most. His health is
deteriorating rapidly, and he still will not breathe on his own, of
course. It is my professional opinion
that you call the family in to say final goodbyes.
Mrs.
Mercer?
Mrs.
Mercer?
Dr.
Bloom has come out from behind his desk, having been standing the whole
conversation, unable to sit down, wringing his large hands inside and out of
one another. He sits now, opposite Mrs.
Mercer in a matching leather chair, and takes her hand in his. It is ice cold, though she does not feel him
take it.
Mrs.
Mercer?
Perhaps,
in our silences, we can imagine……..
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