Mrs. Mercer

Merely being in the same room with him is not enough anymore, talking to herself, answering herself.  No, it seems there is something lacking, something not quite right.  And telling herself that things will eventually turn, that there will be some incredible change in the course of things that will make it all go back to the way it used to be?  Well, this is the most nonsensical thing of all, and only serves to fuel her already depressed state.

Her mind wants to rest, to be set free.  As vulgar as it sounds, she needs him to go.  And how to tell him?  This, of course, is always the question.

Mrs. Mercer? 

The attending appears out of thin air, or perhaps from the recesses of her mind.  Summoning her, now, it seems.  Mrs. Mercer gets up, follows the nice, young nurse, her hospital smock a blue the color of a clear northern sky.

It is November.  Outside, lawns are still green and flecked, here and there, with spots of brown, patterns of fallen leaves, reminders of a changing season - reminders that change is imminent, clouds that have shifted shapes, reminders she does not want.

Inside, white painted walls, sterile corridors filled with bleeps and the humming of machines, framed prints of flowery landscapes and sandy beaches, places the inhabitants of the Hearthstone Manor Rest Haven will likely never see. 
         
Mrs. Mercer is led through a set of double doors marked Employees Only and into another room contiguous with the faculty break room.  It is here where they gather and talk about their families, their troubles, sometimes their patients.  Probably not, however, the patients, what with constantly soiled bed pans and under-garments, crying through the night and begging to be set free of this plight, as if old age or illness or an accident has somehow happened to them, an evil prank. 
         
And one of these patients is a Mr. Franklin Mercer.  Franklin waits for his wife every day, inside of a room that he does not share.  She had requested a private room for him, the very most private of rooms, for they were still incredibly young – too young to imagine this life-changing atrocity - when the accident occurred, of course and, well, a private room was only appropriate at the time.   

         Now, it seems, none of that matters, and she sits down in an over-sized leather chair opposite the wide, freshly polished mahogany desk that is Dr. Bloom’s.  She has not been to his office before today, and wishes never to be here again.  It has an ominous feel to it, dark and desolate, a rainy day turning to an even rainier night. 
         
Dr. Bloom extends an arm, offers her a chair, the attending retreating to a dark corner of the room.  Will she wait there for this meeting to be over?  Will she listen to every private word the two, Doctor and Patient’s Wife, share in this most intimate moment?  Mrs. Mercer hopes not, but then realizes it does not matter in the least.  She plans only on listening.  She can almost predict the words that will escape the good Doctor’s mouth. 
         
Mrs. Mercer.

She waits for him to speak, to continue, stares at the corners of his mouth, how they seem to turn ever so slightly up on one side and down on the other. 
         
All right, then.  Mrs. Mercer, your husband.  I do not give him more than two weeks at most. 

He does not mince word here.  He speaks in a dark and forward tone.

His health is only deteriorating, and he still will not breathe on his own, of course.  It is my professional opinion that you call the family in to say final goodbyes.
         
Mrs. Mercer?
Mrs. Mercer?
         
Dr. Bloom has come out from behind his desk, having been standing the whole conversation, unable to sit down, wringing his large hands inside and out of one another.  He sits now, opposite Mrs. Mercer in a matching leather chair, and takes her hand in his.  It is ice cold, though she does not feel him take it. 
         
Mrs. Mercer?
*****

At home that evening, having completed her wifely duties of visiting her husband, and having decided not to apprise him of the Doctor’s news that afternoon, Mrs. Mercer runs a warm tub, takes the bottle of bubble bath off of the tub’s ledge, and pours a quarter of it into the steaming water.  Dropping her clothes to the floor, she spies herself in the mirror and gasps.

What she sees both surprises and excites her! 

What she sees she cannot believe!

Could it be?

Attractive?
         
She runs a hand over her breast, down the still soft curve of her belly, her hip, her thigh.  It is unbelievable, really, and as she slips into the tub still thinking of her body, her somewhat youthful, still-attractive-to-other-men body, she has just the slightest twinge of happiness, of joyous, guilt-ridden happiness.
         
The days go by.  They are uneventful, really, and Mrs. Mercer does not alter much from her routine.  Coffee in the morning, sometimes a walk to the end of the road and back, two hours at the hospital with Franklin, feeding him a soft lunch of pureed split- pea soup, chocolate pudding and a lukewarm cup of coffee, black, then back home to tidy up and prepare for bed, prepare for the next day.
         
True to the Good Doctor’s word, Franklin Mercer’s health does deteriorate.  He can no longer speak, does not seem to recognize his wife upon her entry into the hospital room.  She brings him his favorite books and reads short passages from them every afternoon following lunch, but her stays grow shorter and shorter, until finally, on the day after Thanksgiving, she does not go at all.  She shops that day, as many do, those who want to get a good deal on early Christmas presents.  It is an annual tradition, one that Franklin had always accompanied her on, except that this year, of course, is different.

Mrs. Mercer goes alone, amongst the hundreds of other shoppers - mostly women, she notices - and shops only for herself, buying dresses and shoes and skirts she never would even have dared look at had Franklin been by her side.  Too short, he would have told her, too risqué.  She finds herself marveling at how, at turns, she feels good to be by herself, and how equally guilty she feels for having this thought enter her mind in the first place.

*****

December comes with the usual gusts of wind and falling temperatures, snow eventually descending right around Christmas Eve and Mrs. Mercer, all alone in the big house, has decided to accept any and all invitations to celebrate the holiday.  Very lonely without Frank, she says to sympathetic friends, just doesn’t feel right, and I do feel that I owe it to myself, after all I’ve been through, she says.  It will do me some good to get out, maybe get used to being alone again.  And they all understand, all pat her on the shoulder, give her warm hugs, and gently tell her that everything will be all right.  And she knows it will, of course.  It has to be. 

The evening, then, is highly eventful for Mrs. Mercer. Her very good friends, most of them divorced through one turn of events or another, make sure to invite the most eligible bachelors to one of the best holiday parties ever. They know, of course, that their friend needs to begin looking into starting fresh, and companionship is just what Mrs. Mercer needs.  And Mrs. Mercer, for her part, finds herself intoxicated by all of the lavish attention aimed at her by single male suitors; she finds herself eager to forget about Franklin (Oh, but shouldn’t there be guilty feelings? Horrible, guilt-stricken feelings?), eager to move on with her new life.  She is incredibly, blissfully, guiltily, enjoying herself. 
         
To be free!

To be able to buy whatever she fancies, go wherever she desires, be with whomever she chooses!

Ah, life! 

Indeed!

*****

Christmas comes and goes under a big tree trimmed with blinking lights, popcorn strings, and late night, romantic phone calls  She thinks about seeing Franklin somewhere around the holiday, but resorts, instead, to simply calling the Home, explaining to the nurse that it is just too painful to see him in his present condition, and with it being the Christmas Season and all, her first one without Mr. Mercer, why, she simply isn’t up to the task.  It is much too difficult for her to bear.

She listens to the nurse on the other end of the line, listens and waits to hear something about how truly sad it all is, and how much more he has deteriorated.  The nurse sighs (it couldn’t possibly be relief she hears) as she tells Mrs. Mercer that Franklin has asked about her today.  With it being Christmas and all. 

Mrs. Mercer, it’s a Christmas Miracle! 

Mr. Mercer is well!

Dr. Bloom assures us that he could be home by the New Year! 

Isn’t it simply grand?