Silence
He ran his finger along the scar on her belly.
"It's ugly, isn’t it?” she had asked, as she searched his face. It was fresh then, raw.
"No. I hardly notice it," he had lied. He wished when he said it that he had meant it. But the surgical scar was ugly, almost grotesque. Her beautiful flawless body, marred.
That was more than thirty years ago. Not the last lie he told her, nor his worst.
She lay in the tub now, passive, unaware of the scar, the tub, her nakedness. Unaware of him. Only when he washed the soap from her hair did she turn to him, puzzled.
"It's alright," he soothed. "I'm done."
She moved her eyes away then, and they became vacant again.
He wrapped her head in a mauve towel. Mauve. One of those colors he never noticed, one she used to enjoy. Now that she was indifferent to color, he paid attention.
"You won't be able to care for her at home, by yourself," the nursing administrator had warned when he signed Marisa out of the residence. The administrator, an angular woman. Tall, even as she sat in her chair. Small eyes behind rimless glasses.
He dropped the pen on the woman's desk, stood upright and glared at her. Jabez wasn't a violent man, but he wanted to tear the smugness from her narrow face.
"She's coming with me," he snapped.
Marisa had been in the care home for less than twenty-four hours. When he'd left her the day before, she was confused. Maybe a little frightened, but quiet. He'd combed her hair, the way she used to like it, off to the side and tucked under. There was very little grey. And her fair skin...she never used much makeup, so he hadn't bothered with it.
She was still beautiful. Tiny. Tinier than she ought to be. So frail. This residence was the best place for her, he was convinced. The staff was expert, and he could visit every day.
When he returned, in the morning, she was in the day room. Her hair was combed over her forehead, and straight. Her head was down. As he approached he could hear her weeping.
It shattered him. That sound, the quiet unobtrusive weeping, brought memories back in a torrent. Weekends he’d said he was on business trips. Nights he‘d said he was staying late to work. How many nights?
She knew. And when he'd leave the room, she'd weep. Quietly, and unobtrusively. Why had she never confronted him? Why did it go on year after year, until the weight of it, of her weeping and her silence, forced him to stop.
More than anything in the world, more than anything he’d ever craved, he wanted her forgiveness now. He was going to earn it, to make it up to her.
He turned to the caretaker.
"Get my wife's things. I'm taking her out of here."
The woman was plump, dressed in some floral, polyester thing with a white bib.
"Oh sir," a slight brogue." She'll get used to it. They all start out like this. It passes."
He must have looked fierce, because the caretaker stepped back. She uttered not a word but went to confer with someone at the desk.
Now he had Marisa, here, in the tub. She hadn't wept since she left the adult home. He never left her alone. If they needed supplies, he called out for them. If she needed a doctor he brought the doctor to the house.
"She hasn't got long, maybe a month," the doctor told him. Technically she was in hospice, but Jabez did not want to think about what came after.
He lifted her from the tub and wrapped her in a terry robe. He carried her to the kitchen and snuggled her in the lounge next to the garden window. Sun poured in. Her skin was luminescent.
"Remember when you planted those roses, Marisa? You took such good care of them, and every year they grew stronger."
He talked as he combed her hair dry.
Did she see the flowers? Hear his voice? There were things that had to be said, before she was gone, before it was too late.
She had to know. He had to tell her.
"I love you Marisa. You're a good wife, a good woman. I was never good, certainly not a good husband. I'm sorry. If I could take it back, if I had a giant eraser that could wipe it all away... You are the best thing in my life, have always been. I wish somehow you would know that."
He rested his hands in hers as he talked. Then he felt something on his upturned palm. A tear. Marisa was crying.
Did she understand what he said? Why was she crying?
All the years he hadn’t confronted her, hadn’t wanted to know, the years he welcomed her silence, now it cut through him. Did she still hurt? He’d used silence in their marriage as a license to act. That silence now became a yoke.
Did she forgive him? He would never know. Silence was his penance, and not knowing the punishment he would take with him to his grave.
Image @yaziris, LMAC Gallery, LIL
You captured the loneliness of caring for someone with Dementia perfectly. Obviously, in my case there was no guilt associated, but the scene in the bath is something that only experience (or exceptionally imaginative skills ) could portray.
As for the guilt, why is it that the guilty need to unburden even in the most extreme and vulnerable circumstances? Why do people need to hurt twice? What is forgiveness? OMG…see, you’ve unleashed so many “whats”. Of course, that’s what a really good story should do, and this is a superlative example of good.
Hello my good friend @itsostylish,
They just held a memorial service for my brother (this past Saturday). He died of dementia at a residence. It broke my heart. I could not visit him. I could not go to the service. Air travel is impossible for me now, and the one trip I tried to take with my daughter did not end well. We had to stop short of the mark.
I know my sister-in-law could not care for him by herself, but he wanted to go home. They always want to go home.
So, as is always the case with writing for me, I was working out my emotions, the right and the wrong of residential care. It's such a hard thing.
I know you cared for your uncle. I know this is close to you. It is to many families.
Writing is wonderful, because it lets us hit the sore spots without wounding (I hope).
Thank you for your insightful comment.
I'm so sorry for you loss, @agmoore. You are quiet as a church mouse about these things. But you endure. You carry on. And your life experiences, your losses and your amazing mind emerge in your writing. You do have an incredible gift with words, and you use it well. Writing offers a way to take the most angst-ridden, grief-causing stuff life sends our way, and turn it into art. Incredible.
All that said, losing family members is horrible. I'm just so sorry. I wish you were nearby, and we could just sit and chat over coffee, and you could tell me about your brother and what he was like in his younger days, before his dementia. I hope those memories remain strong. May your brother rest in peace.
Thank you, @jayna. I'm grateful I can usually express myself through writing. It is imperfect, but works much better for me than conversation. I can stop and think when I write, Do I really mean to say that? When I talk, there is not as much control. I tend to blurt out what comes to mind and that can be very inconvenient.
My sister-in-law asked me to write the obituary. That was a great gift. At least I participated in a way that mattered to her, and that allowed me to process my thoughts. She knows my heart and trusts its intention.
Thank you for your heartfelt words. I read them before going to sleep. We did have coffee, virtually, and afterwards I had a sense of peace--and gratitude.
♥️
I struggle to contemplate the pain you’re going through with so many, incalculably, losses. Ultimately, we will meet on the other side. I’ve always thought that the other side is a gift worth spreading.
I sighed at the end of this piece, not with relief but a mix of pity and frustration towards this couple. What a heartbreaking and deeply poignant story!
Your story imparts this powerful lesson—relationships are never perfect but love can be if we express it always and when it matters most. Jabez failed in this aspect and now he seeks closure, redemption even which he may not find. My heart aches for Marisa who is burdened by resolved issues that she can't voice as time slips away from her. (See my frustration?) They say silence is golden but in this context, it's not.
Well done, @agmoore. You capture the stark reality of life with this beautifully written story. ✨
Hello Dear Kemmyb,
We are imperfect. If not for that, how would we ever have stories to write? We go through life, and every day the mistakes pile up.There are the good things, but it seems the mistakes are the actions that haunt us.
The prompt for this story was guilt (which I should have mentioned I guess as a post script). When I saw that prompt, so much came to mind. Who can reach my age and not have guilt?
They say guilt is pointless, but I think they are wrong. Guilt makes me a better person :)) I don't want any more regrets. Jabez learned that too late--the tragedy of the story.
I appreciate that you read my story and that you understood the heart of it.
Hope you are going to have the best week possible.
Well said. I totally agree. Guilt should inspire self reflection and motivate us to do better. Thank you! Have a lovely day.
!PIMP
Frustration? Sadness? Pity? Loneliness? Anger? I felt them all. It must have been hard for her... very hard crying all alone while he... while he...
I want to be glad he did her right at the end, but strangely, I am not so sure. Feels like she needed to hear those words and feel those emotions when she was well.
And that's the rub. That's the guilt. He can never take those years back. He can never erase the past. Not only is it too late, but you can't undo what has been done.
The essence of guilt, and you capture it beautifully in your comment. Thank you for reading with such insight, @balikis95.
This story is charged with an untreatable feeling only not recognized mistakes could give. What a portray of guilt this is!
Thank you, my friend @gabmr. It is a burden he will have to live with. One must feel for this man, I suppose.
I appreciate your sensitive reading of the story :)
@agmoore, this is such a lovely, poignant and painful story. We all carry burdens, guilt, misgivings, large and small... and what do we do with them at the end of the day?
You captured so much in this beautiful and sparingly written story. It's a truly splendid example of "show, don't tell," as he wrestles with his guilt, and we come to fully understand the root of that guilt without it being stated in so many words. That is an art.
There is something uplifting about this for me. I think it's his loyalty and devotion... perhaps too little and too late, but undeniable and unrelenting. And in some sense I think she cries because she finally receives the apology she deserved for so long. And maybe some part of her psyche knows that she is is one true love.
Hello Dear Friend,
I agree with your interpretation of Marisa's crying. Silence had to be his burden. There is a sort of Karmic justice in that. But when I wrote it, I imagined the tears indicating a couple of things. One was that awareness was there, somewhere, and both cruelty and kindness could be experienced although she did not have the capacity to articulate a reaction.
Also, Marisa in her final days felt on some level the love that he finally expressed and displayed toward her.
Guilt...what a prompt. Those of who refuse to experience it, I think they are missing an important part of the human experience. We're going to make mistakes, large and small. Do we repeat them, or do we learn from them? I think guilt has a role to play in that.
Your comment means a lot to me. I stayed up the night before publication trying to get the piece right, to have it express my intention. Thank you, @jayna, for reading, truly reading and understanding.
A beautifully written, poignant story that I found myself reading with a lump in my throat. My own father died with dementia and though I looked after him for as long as I could, I still have regrets about eventually placing him in residential care.
When I first planned this piece, the protagonist was going to be female. Then I realized the dynamic didn't work. The spouse had to be larger than the patient. There is the physical reality of lifting and carrying. There is a story about my family that one day I might tell (what am I waiting for....time is short!) where just such a dynamic arose. There was no good way around the reality.
Unless you had the resources to hire help around the clock to care for your father, it would have been impossible for you to keep him at home. At least you wanted to.
Have a cheery day. You deserve it ☘️
Beautifully written @agmoore, regrets often come too late!
As you say, his penance is not being able to say sorry even though she is right there with him, much worse than only repenting after her death😥
Thank you, @lizelle. I think those of us especially who have lived a long time, and have lost, can relate to the story (and the guilt). I'm amazed at the sensitivity of young people who 'get' it. We do have some amazing young people on this platform. It's heartening.
We for sure have some young people with wise old souls who have amazed me here!
'If only I knew it was to be the last time...' is something I've said many a time.
Your story tugged at many heartstrings @agmoore💔