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

Book One, Part Two, Chapter 109: Our Greatest Teacher

I run into Connie in the lobby. She’s dressed in bright white slacks and a white top printed with a splash of vibrant flowers.

“You look as if you’re going to a garden party,” I say.

“In a way I am. It’s Anne’s birthday today, and I’m taking flowers to her.”

Connie and Anne were life partners and best friends. Anne died about six years ago. Connie is taking flowers to Anne’s memorial stone in the cemetery.

Last Christmas Eve I knocked on Connie’s door to give her a box of chocolate-covered caramels sprinkled with sea salt; my sister Tish had sent me two boxes of them. I felt sad and I felt lonely. It was Christmas Eve, and I wanted to share something with someone. That night Connie said: “The death of someone you love will bring you to your knees. You will feel fear, perhaps for the first time in your life. And no one can prepare you for this.”

Now, we continue our talk.

“It’s still hard for me to get up in the morning,” I say. “At night I can fall asleep reading, but in the morning . . . ” I stop myself.

Connie nods. “Even now my first thought often is: Anne’s not here. What do I do? Before she died she said to me: ‘Carry on. Feed the dogs. Do your photography. You have a good eye. You see things in a way others don’t. Capture that.’ Anne knew, even before I did, how important my photography would become.”

“Ernie told me I would write about him. When he said this to me, I thought to myself: You arrogant son of a bitch. You think I’ll write about you? Or write about anything? I’m not a writer. I don’t write. You’re the writer.”

Connie nods. “Oh, yeah. Don’t tell me what to do. Don’t tell me what to think or write. Don’t tell me how to live my life.”

“Exactly. I was defiant, stubborn, resentful. Such an immature little girl I was.”

“I thought I was strong,” Connie says. “So much bravado. But I did know, always, that Anne took my breath away. She overwhelmed me. She’d say to me: ‘Connie, I’m just vanilla ice cream. You’re the one who can see right through me. You can get to the heart of the matter very quickly.’ ”

It’s clear to me that four of us are standing here, talking to each other.

“I feel her,” Connie says. “She’s more present to me this year than she’s ever been. I don’t know why. But it comforts me. I like to think she’s looking out for me.”

“I know Ernie’s with me when I’m writing. I couldn’t write what I’m writing without him. I couldn’t even remember it all. But how I wish I’d stumbled on the truth about us long before now. When it could have helped both of us.”

“We only know what our psyches are prepared to know at that time,” Connie says. “You weren’t ready. Now you are. Death is our greatest teacher.”