said,
“What?” Then I burst into tears, and then I immediately stopped crying and apologized. I said, “What can we do to help?” Dennis came into the room and put his hand to the R a i n
87
small of my back, a question, and I grabbed on to it and squeezed. Michael’s brother said it might be nice if we visited him at the hospital, but not that night, as he’d had a lot of visitors already. I said we’d go tomorrow, and his brother said maybe in a few days would be best: his surgery was tomorrow.
I hung up the phone and said to Dennis, “Let’s just eat.
I’ll tell you later.”
After we got into bed, I told Dennis what Michael’s brother had told me. We said the usual things: How could this be, what did this mean, what if he dies. We talked about the last time we saw him, how he had seemed fine.
And then Dennis said, “I always wondered. Did you ever sleep with him?” I said no. He said, “Maybe you should.”
I stared at him. “Are you serious?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. Yeah.”
“Well, which is it? ‘I don’t know’ or ‘Yeah’?”
“I guess it’s ‘Do you want to?’ ”
“ No, Dennis.”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t know why I said that.” He turned out the light and rubbed my arm. “I don’t know why I said that. I guess I always thought you two were attracted to each other. And now that he’s . . . Never mind. I don’t know why I said that.”
We lay awake, silent, for a long time. Another episode of off-the-mark communication, a problem in our marriage, as I supposed it was in countless others. So many of us dream of complete honesty in our love relationships, believing it to be the way to achieve true intimacy. Then we discover that the truth can be dangerous, even cruel, and we struggle with what to offer and what to withhold.
It wasn’t true that I didn’t want to sleep with Michael.
I’d always wanted to sleep with him, and all these years 88
t h e d a y i a t e w h a t e v e r i w a n t e d later, I still did, and I thought I understood the confused generosity of my husband. He was making an offering of his wife against sorrow and fear, and in deepest friendship.
He had assumed, for a moment, at least, the wide perspec-tive that the prospect of death can bring.
And so the cards. The phone calls. The visits to the hospital bearing homemade soup, books, funny slippers. The hope that the tests would come back one way, and they came back another. The hope again, that maybe he would defy the odds. Then, finally, the end of the road. Everything tried; nothing successful. What was left was for him to go home and try to keep comfortable for as long as possible.
We visited often at first, Dennis and I. All Michael’s friends did. But our visits fell off: the distance, the necessity of living our own lives, the way one becomes used to anything, even a good friend dying.
In mid-July, I got a call from Michael’s brother asking if I could drive Michael to the hospital the next day; he couldn’t stay at home any longer, even with all of his friends and neighbors checking in on him, it wasn’t safe.
His doctor had called Sam that morning and told him it was time. Sam asked if I could deliver Michael to Mass General tomorrow by four; Sam couldn’t, because he himself was hospitalized for a hernia repair. He could ask one of Michael’s other friends, but they’d already done so much, and they were all so busy at this time of year. Could I do it? Yes, I said, yes, of course.
“When was the last time you saw him?” Sam asked.
I confessed, guiltily, that it had been a few weeks.
“Be prepared. He’s pretty bad off now. He might need help with . . . He might need help. He’s not walking too well.”
R a i n
89
“I’ll take care of everything,” I said and hung up the phone as though it were made of thinnest glass.
I arrived the next day much later than I’d intended; there’d been a bad accident on the turnpike that had stopped
“What?” Then I burst into tears, and then I immediately stopped crying and apologized. I said, “What can we do to help?” Dennis came into the room and put his hand to the R a i n
87
small of my back, a question, and I grabbed on to it and squeezed. Michael’s brother said it might be nice if we visited him at the hospital, but not that night, as he’d had a lot of visitors already. I said we’d go tomorrow, and his brother said maybe in a few days would be best: his surgery was tomorrow.
I hung up the phone and said to Dennis, “Let’s just eat.
I’ll tell you later.”
After we got into bed, I told Dennis what Michael’s brother had told me. We said the usual things: How could this be, what did this mean, what if he dies. We talked about the last time we saw him, how he had seemed fine.
And then Dennis said, “I always wondered. Did you ever sleep with him?” I said no. He said, “Maybe you should.”
I stared at him. “Are you serious?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. Yeah.”
“Well, which is it? ‘I don’t know’ or ‘Yeah’?”
“I guess it’s ‘Do you want to?’ ”
“ No, Dennis.”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t know why I said that.” He turned out the light and rubbed my arm. “I don’t know why I said that. I guess I always thought you two were attracted to each other. And now that he’s . . . Never mind. I don’t know why I said that.”
We lay awake, silent, for a long time. Another episode of off-the-mark communication, a problem in our marriage, as I supposed it was in countless others. So many of us dream of complete honesty in our love relationships, believing it to be the way to achieve true intimacy. Then we discover that the truth can be dangerous, even cruel, and we struggle with what to offer and what to withhold.
It wasn’t true that I didn’t want to sleep with Michael.
I’d always wanted to sleep with him, and all these years 88
t h e d a y i a t e w h a t e v e r i w a n t e d later, I still did, and I thought I understood the confused generosity of my husband. He was making an offering of his wife against sorrow and fear, and in deepest friendship.
He had assumed, for a moment, at least, the wide perspec-tive that the prospect of death can bring.
And so the cards. The phone calls. The visits to the hospital bearing homemade soup, books, funny slippers. The hope that the tests would come back one way, and they came back another. The hope again, that maybe he would defy the odds. Then, finally, the end of the road. Everything tried; nothing successful. What was left was for him to go home and try to keep comfortable for as long as possible.
We visited often at first, Dennis and I. All Michael’s friends did. But our visits fell off: the distance, the necessity of living our own lives, the way one becomes used to anything, even a good friend dying.
In mid-July, I got a call from Michael’s brother asking if I could drive Michael to the hospital the next day; he couldn’t stay at home any longer, even with all of his friends and neighbors checking in on him, it wasn’t safe.
His doctor had called Sam that morning and told him it was time. Sam asked if I could deliver Michael to Mass General tomorrow by four; Sam couldn’t, because he himself was hospitalized for a hernia repair. He could ask one of Michael’s other friends, but they’d already done so much, and they were all so busy at this time of year. Could I do it? Yes, I said, yes, of course.
“When was the last time you saw him?” Sam asked.
I confessed, guiltily, that it had been a few weeks.
“Be prepared. He’s pretty bad off now. He might need help with . . . He might need help. He’s not walking too well.”
R a i n
89
“I’ll take care of everything,” I said and hung up the phone as though it were made of thinnest glass.
I arrived the next day much later than I’d intended; there’d been a bad accident on the turnpike that had stopped
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