ERNIE AND ERNESTINA: The Writer, His Wife, and their Afterlife
Book One, Part Two, Chapter 153: A Thanksgiving Promise
Last Thanksgiving Ernie lay in a hospital bed, unable to eat, barely able to drink, almost weightless. He said: “If I just had some oatmeal. Oatmeal’s gotten me over the hump before.” So I went home, fixed a helping of oatmeal, and took it to him.
We were both drenched in denial. Fools we were, fooling ourselves and each other. But not really. We were actors knowing we were acting but unable to stop ourselves. We had to keep up the act, say our lines. If we didn’t, what would happen? If we stepped out of our puppet/puppeteer roles, what horrible truths would we each have to acknowledge, to tell each other?
This Thanksgiving my family is gathering at my brother John’s house. His wife, Rhonda, has roasted two turkeys. My sister and nieces and nephews will bring side dishes.
My brother Rich calls me shortly after four. “Do you want me to pick you up, dear?”
I don’t want to be around people. I don’t want to be around a mound of food. I’m too steeped in sadness. I thank Rich, tell him I’ll see him at Christmas, then roll back into bed.
Yes, I’m still on my pallet on the floor. I’m sleeping because when I’m not, I hurt too much. I remember what Ernie said during his last months of living: “I hurt. I feel bruised all over.” Jesus, I want to take him in my arms, hold him, console him. I want to take away the hurt that was with him far longer than the tumor was. Why didn’t we find a way to take away your hurt, Ernie?
About five-thirty, the phone rings. I hear my sister Jude’s voice on the answering machine. I listen to her message. “Do you want a visit? We can be at your place in half an hour.” But I don’t pick up. Instead, I walk to the grocery to buy garlic and baby kale, intending to make oat cakes . . . but the grocery is closed for the holiday.
I walk down the mall’s deserted concourse to the cafe. The blackboard next to its entrance, which always listed the day’s specials, is scrubbed clean. I peek through the door. It’s dark inside, the only light coming from its dessert case, empty now. All the sweets are gone.
Heading back home, I pass a house I’ve always liked — a narrow white frame with a half-moon of jeweled glass over its big front window. Light pours out a long row of side windows. A family is gathered inside; I can almost hear their laughter.
Next Thanksgiving I’ll remember this day, which I’ve spent in solitude and sadness. Next Thanksgiving, perhaps I’ll choose to be with my brothers and sister and their families. I do have something to be grateful for, don’t I?I have a family. I don’t have Ernie, my true love, whom I didn’t know how to love, but I do have a family.
Perhaps I can learn how to love. Perhaps they will help me.
