ERNIE AND ERNESTINA: The Writer, His Wife, and their Afterlife

Book One, Part Two, Chapter Eight: Feeling Homeless

It’s almost one a.m., by your watch. Sleep won’t come, so I sit up, turn on a lamp, and reach for pencil and paper.

When I’ve been especially active or have engaged in long conversation, my mind is too full of images and echoes to sleep. When you were with me, I talked to you to unwind, to unburden. It was our habit to talk in bed, in the dark. Now, I realize we didn’t tell each other our darkest thoughts, our deepest fears, not even in the dark, not even in the dead of night. Not even lying next to one another. Not even when you awoke in the middle of the night to clutch your wrist, feeling for a pulse. I watched you do this. I didn’t think about what you were thinking when you did this. I closed my eyes and shut my mouth, pretending sleep.

Toward the last, you said to me:

“You don’t have a sentimental bone in your body.”

“When I’m gone, you’ll throw out all my papers.”

“When I’m gone, maybe you’ll appreciate me.”

When you said these things, you were expressing your anguish. When you said these things, my mind went blank and my heart went cold and I turned mute. I remember thinking this: When you die, I’ll sell out, move to Sonoma or the Russian River Valley. Work in an apple orchard or a lavender field or a vineyard.

Sheer fantasy. In reality, I go where you and I always went. To the library. To the grocery. To the park. To the cafe.

At the library, I use a computer to send e-mails. When we were together, you wanted to learn about computers. You wanted an e-mail address. I balked, so you didn’t do it. I thought of myself as a nineteenth-century person. I didn’t want to be on a computer, to stare at a screen. I didn’t even watch television. Now, I have two e-mail addresses, one for you and one for me. Yours is the one I use.

At the grocery, with you, we routinely got large orders. Now, I buy only enough for a day or two. Green tea — it’s supposed to fight cancer. Blueberry and pomegranate juice. Organic bread. Milk from grass-fed cows. Cocoa. I can’t be without my cocoa. Cups of cocoa in the morning, at night, in the middle of the night. But it’s no fun to eat by myself. At first, I put together soups, but not anymore. Too much trouble. And I don’t like to smell onion and garlic and ginger. Too remindful.

At the park, I see couples holding hands. Often, we walked in the park. How often did we hold hands? I balked at that, too. What did I think? Did it make me feel as if you were leading me along? That I was a little girl? I was. Now, I envy those couples holding hands. I want to be one of them.

It’s taken me months to return to the cafe. I go to our table by the window and linger long after I finish my meal. I study my fellow diners. I listen to the background jazz. I watch Katie behind the counter, filling orders and making change. You called her Katy-did. I stay until Katie counts the money in the register and takes out the dollar bills from the tip jar. She smiles. Says good-by.

I don’t want to leave. I don’t want to return to the home I shared with you. It doesn’t feel like home anymore.