Author of Breasts Don't Lie

Posts tagged ‘death’

Memories of Not Greece


Hospital chairs are cold, especially in waiting rooms of the emergency department on a late night. Or was it now early morning? A Friday night? Saturday morning? The cold air of February buffeted her being every time someone walked or ran or pushed a gurney through the doors leading to the covered parking area where ambulances and cars parked with the injured or dying or just frightened stop to unload their people, the most important people in the world, to them. She pulled her knees into her chest making herself as small as possible. The chairs were weird, hard plastic in washed-out shades of green and orange stuck together with poles against the puke pallid walls. Like anyone would seriously think about stealing from here, or maybe they would create a scene throwing a chair through a window or door or block the paths of the gurneys and the EMS team wheeling people in.

He had held her hair back as she vomited into the toilet, as exploding blueberries and raspberries covered in cream, careened out of her nostrils and mouth. Her eyes felt so swollen like they could bulge right out of their sockets and plunk like overripe fruits into the sea of puke, but he had her head too in his hands, elongated fingers that suited his large frame. She wasn’t frightened just uncomfortable and wishing it was over and that she hadn’t had so much to drink on their Valentine’s celebration in her special dress. The one she had saved for this occasion, crushed red velvet with the tie-up bodice and long swirls of skirt; a little like the dresses Anne Boleyn wore for Henry the Eighth, before the animosity and beheading. She always whoopsied when she was excited, always. And her hair was red and curly not in any way like Anne Boleyn’s thick brown strands before her husband lopped off her head. She looked up at him with only love, love, love silencing the tummy ache of crab cakes and chocolate éclairs and one too many glasses of champagne.

She had been an ill bride, just out of the hospital, still under a doctor’s care, when they said, fuck it. And got on a plane with thirty-two dollars and a new visa to fly to her homeland where the food was bad, and the scenery was lush even in October with the birds of prey circling close overhead and never landing. Her family kept them for a few days; the In-Tourist Centers set them up with bed and breakfasts for the other nights. Somehow she managed to drive a stick shift on the wrong side of the road because he was too large to fit behind the wheel of the small car they rented. But even if he did fit, he couldn’t drive a stick, so she was stuck. Even when she told him, I think I’ve made an awful mistake. He poured some more tea, added milk and sugar, pushed the heart-decorated mug towards her, before saying, we’re here now, let’s make the best of it, shall we? They did, walking old railroad tracks through one town, washing their undies in one city, downing port in the pubs in another, sprinting through brisk mornings for a newspaper. Two days before their departure, they took a detour. Look up the sign said, and they did see a blue sky, air frigid but clear floating above the dilapidated runway doubling as a road. They found castle ruins sitting on a mossy hill, beaten by the harsh winds of the North Sea. The foam sprayed them from deep below as he pulled her back from the edge, wrapped her in his elegant arms, to drive to a tea shop in the nearest town, where life seemed okay, and marriage was not so scary or smothering or settling down. She woke him up that night to listen to the couple next door having wall-pounding sex. Giggling from their secret snooping, they tried for a syncopated rhythm but couldn’t stop laughing, and fell asleep to sounds of a headboard crashing like the waves from earlier. No time for showers the next morning but she led him to the sink, tipped his head forward and washed his hair, letting the blue-black strands iced with silver, thick as her wrist, slide forward into the basin. Never cut your hair she said, and he replied as long as you wash it for me. The shampoo was slippery making his head silk-shrouded, sleek as a seal, heavy with hair and head and gray matter to become heavier again as she poured jug after jug of warm water to rinse. She smiled thinking of the times they would have together, traveling around Greece on rented motorcycles, renovating their little house, caring for their dogs and cats instead of the children that she couldn’t have. Jug after jug, she rinsed out the suds and promised herself to wash his hair, always.

They had been playing Trivial Pursuit, a game she was lousy at except when playing on a team but they were playing alone that night, drinking tequila and dark beer in the only circle of light of a dark woody bar. She felt giddy with the completion of the semester, contemplating another round. That night was before the crackdown of DUIs and MothersAgainstDrunkDriving and their maturation, so another round was possible and even probable when he asked her something else. She had been caught unaware, concentrating on the sunny yellow wedge of pie missing in her wheel, when he posed the question of marriage or Greece. Without hesitation she said Greece, been married before don’t want to do it again. He pushed the long hair away from his face and held her gaze with those long-lashed green eyes, moo-moo mouth pursed, white skin so soft that it showed the bruise of her words. Tears ran down her face knowing her time was up and this was it, and he would leave her if she chose Greece but still, she tried. Can’t we do both, no, why, not enough money, I want to go to Greece, I want to get married? Full stop.

After two days of him feeling not quite well, she worked late that Friday until checking on him she saw he looked worse than that morning. Color grim, and she called his doctor, but he was not worried, flu season, and she said to do something please for my husband. Pharmaceuticals didn’t help, and her beloved looked at her as he said, I’m so scared. She didn’t know what to do so she asked him. Stay at home. They knew they knew. Blue, the skin around his mouth and eyes turned blue, and they knew as the seizures came that his brain wasn’t getting enough oxygen. She asked again. Stay at home. Massaging him as muscles died, rocking him when he shook, whispering little love memories into his ear until he smiled. Then the smiles became fewer, frozen in pain. She dialed 911. Paramedics jumped through the door, attaching lines and tubes, speaking to him in progressively louder voices as the gurney wheeled in. She watched from the hallway, out of their way, shaking.

She twisted the heavy gold ring on her finger; first one way, then slipped it to the middle joint, then back down and twirled it the other way. The hard edge of the plastic chair cut into her thighs. Her sweater was not warm enough against the aseptic cold air rushing through the room and down her spine. She shivered and fidgeted as a way to keep warm, keep away the thoughts of the other room, what they were doing. The slip-sliding sound of the doors announced a visitor even before she saw his green-clad booties, stained scrubs, red-raw fingers wringing together. I will not look up. Nothing good will be said.

She knocked her head against the patched wall of the waiting room. Straight back. Bouncing her scalp against the plasterboard, feeling trickles of blood plaster hair against her neck, many feet scurrying towards her, hearts-blood from her scalp, the give of the wall, trying to knock out all the little love memories of Not Greece.


This weekend was the 23 anniversary of my husband’s death. This piece was originally published in 100 Voices: Volume 3 by Centum Press. It developed from a writing class through the IWP; the prompt was to write a non-linear segmented story.

What We Remember


I miss the Fish-Fucker. Twenty years after his death, I don’t think of him every day or even every month. But now and then, when my face is half-turned or my body settles into the space between breaths, the death pause, I hear his laughter and expect to see his large green eyes crinkling at me. Then guilt rushes in because I haven’t been thinking of him or even missing him. Because I have moved on. Grown away. Like the lover who was once the center of your universe but now you struggle to remember his name.

While the features of his face have become fuzzy, I remember him as Fish-Fucker. He earned that name. It was given by friends one night when life had a summertime feeling of infinity. Love was taken for granted – it was rock solid.

We had gone to our friends for the night. They had a big house with a wall of floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking their dock. Our usual group of friends had gathered for a potluck and billiards. We drank and ate plenty. The kids were enjoying some Disney Princess tape on the big screen TV covering one wall of the den and we were settling in for the night. Couples had grabbed extra bedrooms. We had lain out our stuff on the beds to drift back to the den.

“Let’s go skinny-dipping,” Peg said.

“Yeah,” said her husband.

“In the pond?” I asked.

“Yeah,” they said in a chorus.

Rod had looked at me. I shrugged. “Go. I’ll stay with Denise and look after the kids.”

“Okay,” he said.

I think the skinny-dippers got naked outside on the dark porch. There was a rustle of leaves and some thuds as they must have made their way down to the pond. Denise and I heard a series of loud and not so loud splashes.

“Guess they made it in. Trevor give your sister back her Barbie,” Denise said. We played with the kids as the tape wound down to the end. Various splishes and splashes were heard from the area of the pond.

The night was dark. No moon or stars to throw light so were we surprised to hear a line of feet running across the deck, hooting and hollering, then a mass of pale bodies streaking across the long line of windows.

“Is that Daddy?” asked Trevor with his toddler lisp.

“Yep,” said Denise.

There was a clamor as doors were thrown open and naked people scattered into their rooms. Denise and I turned to look at each other.

“Kids let’s get ready for bed. First one dressed and under the covers gets a tummy tickle,” I said.

A half hour later, the kids were tucked in as the adults floated into the den, showered and smiling. Smiling pointedly at me. It was unnerving. I looked around for Rod.

“Where’s Rod?” I asked.

“Do you recall stocking that pond with bass?” asked Denise’s husband.

“Sure. We helped build the dock.”

“Well. Something out there said thank you,” said Peg.

Oh no. I walked, walked fast to our room. “Rod honey. You okay?” Muffled sounds came from the bathroom. “I can’t hear you.” Some slight whimpering came from under the bathroom door. “I’m coming in,” I said twisting the door handle.

My husband was sitting in a t-shirt, pant less on the commode. He said, “Something bit me.”


“Something in the pond bit me,” he said with a catch in his voice.

“You’re kidding?”

“No I think it was a fish.”

“Where did the big ole fish bite you,” I said in a not very sympathetic way.

He pointed down, down there. “I can’t see it.” Rod tried to bend his 6’3” frame to look at his down there.  “Do you think I need to go to the ER?”

“Well. Let me have a look,” I said mentally squaring my shoulders. Taking a deep breath, I looked at his dinkie. Sure enough, Rod had two tiny, really teeny little bite marks.

“A vampire bass?” I asked trying to smother my giggles.

“It’s not funny,” said my husband.

“Okay dokey,” I said trying to assume a serious face.

“It was a bass,” said Rod without a hint of a smile.

“Sure, large-mouth. Uh huh,” I said.

Out in the den, I asked our friends, “Any hydrogen peroxide available. Maybe a bandage?”

Everyone fell over laughing, belly spasming, whooping laughter.

“How is the Fish-Fucker?”

“I’m sure he’ll recover nicely or his dinkie will fall off,” I said. Always the soul of practicality.

From that night on, among a few select friends, Rod was known as the Fish-Fucker. He took the name in the spirit it was given – the good-natured poke of friends. Always responding with the caveat, “It was a large-mouth bass.” I will never forget this memory.

Tonight, to avenge Rod, the Fish-Fucker, I am going to eat fish.

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