September 25, 2023
Greetings from the companion,
She eased into his room, gently closed the door behind her. She hovered in the shadow for a moment, then he heard her sit down and let out a small sigh, a sound that felt like part of the darkness.
He had dozed off still sitting up in bed. He turned slightly to try to look at her there, just on the other side of the lamp on the nightstand. He slid a little lower, tried to ease the crick in his neck. She sat in the chair next to his bed, where she always sat. He could sense her in the middle of the night without even opening his eyes.
She said she thought he left the mayonnaise on the counter. Or did he put it away? He grunted, not wanting to get back out of bed to look. There was quiet and then she cleared her throat and told him about a story she read in the news about home invasions which used to happen during the day when people were at work, but now with so many people working from home they happened more at night. Did he lock the doors before he went to bed?
He turned on his pillow and pushed it into place under his ear. He could taste the toothpaste on his lips. He said, “I wonder what will happen with all those empty office buildings. Where people used to work. Maybe homeless people could live there.”
She tsked at him, didn’t dignify with an answer. “You should be more concerned about politics. Have you seen what’s going on?” He waited, expecting an example, and heard the toilet running in the guest bath. Probably a stuck float.
“Do you know what the insurance deductible is for the house? I mean in case there was big water leak?” she asked. He said he thought it was $500. She said she was sure it was $1000.
He shifted again, turned the pillow over to the cool side, felt the crick in his neck. How long had he had that? Probably not worth making an appointment, it was always something. Still, it bothered him to try to look left. She said necks were tricky, could be lots of things. She heard that MRI’s were not that reliable. Fewer doctors available nowadays. No one getting into medicine because of all the politics and the insurance and the lawsuits.
They changed subjects without prelude. Forgot his name? You’ve known him for years! Toilet paper on your shoe? They heard you say that, in church? The cringeworthy, the bad review, the better choice of responses. There was never a shortage of things to talk about and she was a willing companion. Too willing. So disappointing about the money. How many teaspoons in a tablespoon? Oh that explains it, no one at dinner wanted a second helping. He shuddered at the memory of trying to deduct eye cream on his taxes. The look the guy gave him at H&R Block.
He was especially aware of her in the early morning, usually an hour or so before he planned to wake up. She would say “Good morning.” And then “Were you going to call your sister?” Or something else he promised and forgot. She was better than coffee at waking him up, getting his heart pounding.
He sighed, pushed his hands under his head for a new position, knowing his fingers would fall asleep before he did. Now she was reminding him about the time he told that girl in second grade that he loved her, and she laughed, and then told everyone in class. Then:
“I need to tell you something,” she said, which was her punctuation between one thing and another. He blinked in the dark: “What?” Not wanting her to tell him.
“Grayson, you need to get ready,” she said. “I hate telling you this but no one else will.”
He stopped in midbreath and held it. He could feel his heart thudding, waited long enough to sense his body get curious about oxygen, feel that light ache in his lungs,
“Get ready?” he asked. He watched her outline in the dimness. He knew she would tell him this, knew the day was coming. Everything else they talked about was just window dressing to this.
She spoke slowly. “You need to put your things in order. Make peace. You never pray, do you? And no one knows when it’s ‘too late.’ It’s time.”
He swallowed, felt the cold ache in his chest. Thought of everyone he’d heard of who went to bed and simply didn’t wake up. Wondered if they knew too. He felt the sting of tears. He wondered if this thing in his neck… no, it wasn’t that. Maybe that widow-maker people are always talking about. He thought he could feel it in his heart. Damn. Mayonnaise.
“It’s done now, Grayson. It’s time,” she said, softer now. “I feel sad that you are alone.”
He turned on his back and crossed his hands over his chest, felt it thumping there. It seemed fine, but who could tell, not even doctors? Too much bacon. And mayonnaise. BLT’s were so good, though, and the bread is too dry without something. Suddenly he wondered who would find him. Did he clear his search history? Ecch. Ginsu knives and that cream for under his eyes.
“All right,” she said. “I’m glad we could have this talk. You try to relax, and rest. I’ll see you tomorrow."
“Tomorrow?” he asked, a new panic. “Tomorrow?”
“Yes, tomorrow. Tuesday. It happens every week,” she said. He could hear the smile in her voice.
“But, you told me, … I thought that this was the end. The End,” he said, his voice cracking.
“Hm. Yes, that’s right, it’s the end. It’s the end of today, of Monday. But you get to do it again tomorrow,” she sighed. “And the day after, I suppose.”
“Wait, what?” he sputtered. “Are you telling me I’m going to be here tomorrow?”
“Grayson, I’ve been telling you that every night for your entire life,” she said. “Tomorrow.”
He sat up. Tomorrow? There was tomorrow? He could feel his heart, healed now, hammering strong in his chest. Of course, he had a great heart, he walked like three miles every day. Well not every day, but he was in great shape. Well, he could eat better. He took a deep breath, felt the air in him, felt the life in him. He felt something else too, something new. He wiggled his head and felt his neck crack. He would call his sister, first thing. And pray. He laughed a little, and not worry about forgetting.
Tomorrow he would go to the park, and maybe the library, or maybe go see his aunt. Now he remembered, he did put the mayonnaise away. And locked the door. He sensed her shifting in the chair.
“I’ll see you in the morning,” she said.
“No.”
“No?” she said, a little too firmly. “What do you mean ‘no’? What are you trying to say?
“No,” he said. “I won’t see you, because you are not coming back. Ever.” He sat straighter, pushed the pillows back around him, like a boss. “You are never coming back.”
She laughed harshly. “Grayson, don’t be silly.” She didn’t sound quite as confident.
He leaned over and turned on the light and she dissolved in the yellow arc, the greyness scattered into the corners of the room. He felt the light seep into him. The chair was piled with folded laundry. He thought about putting it away. And then said:
“Tomorrow.” Somehow it sounded so much clearer.
Hope this finds you with a clear mind,
David
Copyright © 2023 David Smith
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