Till Death Do Us Part

Sixty years. More than that really, as he had courted her for a few years before they were married. But sixty years they had lived together in marital bliss, seeing each other every day, waking up next to one another, and falling asleep in each other’s arms. Martha now sat alone in her worn leather la-z-boy they had gotten together on their tenth anniversary. He had a matching one that sat empty to her left. She could still make out the indention his butt had left after sitting in it for fifty good years. Hers too, fit like a glove, a familiar hug as she sank into it. Martha eyed Walter’s recliner, thinking that maybe if she kept watching it, he would walk into the room and sit down with her one more time.

This morning she had woken up, the left side of the bed cold, and had gone into the bathroom, Walter’s shaving cream uncapped. She had stared at it for a long time, wondering how long the cap had been off. Walter had been gone a few days by this time, how had she forgotten to tidy up for so long? Martha picked it up, smelling the musky, familiar scent of her husband’s face. She could almost feel the scratchy facial hair she had loved petting on his cheeks as it grew, rubbing her lips over it, sprinkling his face with kisses as she did. Just that week he had picked up his razor and she pleaded with him to set it down and let it grow out, so she could run her fingers along the short hair. He had chuckled and abandoned the razor to join her back in bed. He was dead two days later.

Martha left the shaving cream uncapped and tidied up her hair before walking to the closet. Walter’s favorite dress of hers was any floral pattern, but especially her light pink one with roses and ruffled sleeves. She wanted to wear that one, but it was too cheerful to wear to a funeral, she thought. She heard a brisk knock at her bedroom door and for a moment her heart stopped. “Walter?” She croaked, knowing it was too good to be true, but it was instinctual. She realized her mistake as her daughter walked in the room, wearing a sad smile on her lips.

“No Ma, it’s just me,” Allison, her only child, said. They hugged, Martha laying her head on her daughters’ shoulder. Allison had gotten so tall, sprung up her freshman year of high school. Martha didn’t know where she got her height but was glad she had grown tall and womanly. “How are you, mama?”

“Is this dress too happy to wear today?” Martha replied, tugging the pink dress from her wardrobe. Allison chewed her bottom lip. She was wearing a flowing black dress and black heels. “It was Pa’s favorite dress of mine.”

“I think it would be nice, actually. If Pa liked it, then I think you should wear it one last time for him.” Allison smiled, watching her frail mother nod in silent agreement.

An hour later they were at the gravesite, huddled together with some old friends in attendance as well. The younger men, including Allison’s husband and oldest son, were the pallbearers. Martha watched with a lump in her chest as they opened the hurst and brought out her late husband. They marched him solemnly over to the six-foot hole in front of her. No one spoke except the priest, but Martha couldn’t listen. The open casket was yesterday afternoon, today was just the burial. Allison hugged her mother around the waist.

Walter was lowered into the grave, and Martha picked up a handful of dirt. Rocks and clumps of wet mud fell from her fingers into her husband’s grave. She added a few more handfuls, wondering how many it would take for her to bury him this way herself. Others joined in, until someone started shoveling the dirt. Martha backed off then, truly realizing that Walter was to be buried and alone. She looked at the space to the right of his grave. Her reserved spot. She had always hoped Walter would be the one throwing dirt into her grave.

Allison tugged her away from the grave and she left the graveyard wondering how long until she would be joining her husband underground.

Currently, Martha sat in her chair. Everyone had left a few hours earlier after the wake, having brought her homemade casseroles and platters of pre-cut fruit. Her house had become like a museum, as people walked the halls, pointing at pictures she had hung up, remembering Walter as he had been. A father, a husband, a best friend. Martha’s whole world. He should be at home right now, belly full of a dinner she would have made herself, a beer in his hand, and his other hand resting on the beer belly protruding over his belt. She stared at his chair still, her eyes glossing over as she imagined her husband belching and thanking her for making his evening a perfect one, just like always. But the room was silent and empty, besides Martha and her thoughts.

She sat like that for a while, until the sun dipped down below the horizon and her living room grew dark. From the corner of her eye she thought she saw movement but shook it off as her eyes being bad in the dark. Martha forced herself off her recliner and made her way down the hallway to her bedroom. As she opened the door, she flicked the light switch on and gasped as she noticed the figure sitting on the bed.

“Walter?” Her hands shook. It had to be him. His five o’clock shadow framed his sunken face, his eyes a darker shade than usual. His silver hair flashed in the artificial light, and as he smiled at her, she saw the cracked tooth he had broken eating a stale cookie years ago and didn’t care to fix.

“How are you, my lovely doll?” He rose to meet her at the foot of the bed. She trembled and reached out her hands. He took both of hers in his, and a cold shiver ran down Martha’s back. For a second, Walter’s image flickered, and she took her hands back quickly and stepped away.

“I… You… We buried you today.”

“And you looked beautiful in your dress. My favorite one.” He smiled a toothy grin, reaching back out to her. Martha didn’t match his gesture, and instead let him gently stroke her hair. His touch was freezing. “Come to bed dear, you look exhausted.” Walter said gently, taking her hand and leading her to the right side of the bed. Martha opened the covers and buried herself in, only her eyes exposed to watch as Walter crossed to the left side. The bed sank slightly with his weight as he laid down. He told her goodnight and that he loved her, and a few moments later he had disappeared, the bed leveling out again.

Martha blinked rapidly and peeked her head further out from under the covers. Had he really been here, just now? She knew it was impossible, but he had touched her, spoken to her. Laying back onto her pillow, Martha sighed. Did it really matter if he had actually been there or not? She thought for a moment before deciding that it didn’t, no matter how Walter had appeared to her, she missed him, and was glad to have seen him again. The loneliness of just a few days was already starting to get at her.

The next morning Allison and her family joined Martha for breakfast. Allison’s children ran to the backyard to play with Walter’s old tools in his workshop. They were old enough to be unsupervised, and Martha sat at the kitchen table as Allison and her husband cracked eggs and preheated pans.

“I saw Walter last night,” Martha began, looking at Allison for her reaction. Her shoulders dropped and she turned to her mother.

“Ma, you know you didn’t. You’re just grieving.”

“I’m pretty sure I did.”

“Here,” Allison handed her a steaming cup of coffee, light brown as the milk overwhelmed the actual coffee. “How’d you see him? A picture?”

“He went to bed with me.” Allison gave her a sideways glance, squinting her eyes.

“Uh, sure Ma. We buried him yesterday, you remember that, right?” Martha looked down at her hands which had held the dirt she sprinkled over his grave. She dug under her fingernails, picking out the rouge dirt still left. Allison sat down opposite of her and reached out to hold her hands. Martha obliged.

“I know you’re lonely now, Ma, but it’s just memories. He’s not really here, ya know?” She squeezed her mother’s hands.

“But… he liked my dress,” She wasn’t sure what she wanted to say, or what she wanted to hear from Allison. Martha really just wanted Walter back; he would believe her.  

“Right Ma, he did love your dress. We knew that. You’re just reliving memories. That’s okay,” Allison let go of her hands and went back to making breakfast.

Martha sat in silence for the rest of the morning, hardly saying more than a word or two at a time. The boys came inside and guzzled down breakfast, while Martha picked around her eggs, sipping slowly on her coffee. Their family left her shortly after, Allison asking her to call her this evening if she wanted someone to talk to.

With the door shut and silence falling over her home, Martha held her coffee cup and looked around the house. Usually, Walter would turn on the T.V. and watch the morning news, Martha refilling his coffee upon request. She made her way to the living room, avoiding looking at Walter’s chair. Sitting down, she set her coffee on the side table beside her, and squeezed her eyes shut. She wanted to see Walter, willing him to appear in his chair and watch the news with her like usual, to break the eerie silence that had fallen over their home since he died. She eased one eye open and peeked at his chair. It was empty.

Martha sighed and sunk back into her recliner. She was being ridiculous. Allison was right, of course Walter wasn’t there. She was in grief, her mind playing tricks on her.

Walter had always mocked her active imagination. Frequently she would wake up in the middle of the night, drenched in a cold sweat, mumbling about a shadow man in her dream following her around, convinced he would be standing at the foot of their bed when she turned on the light. Half asleep but fully in love, Walter would chuckle and snuggle her close, holding her head to his chest. She would listen to his heartbeat and let it lull her back to sleep while matching her breathing to his, and the shadow man would melt from her mind.

Recently, since his death, Martha hadn’t had any nightmares about the shadow man. But that might be because she hadn’t really slept since then. Now, despite drinking two cups of coffee, Martha let her eyelids sink down and her breath steady. Her head lolled to one side and she slipped into a nice morning nap.

She awoke with a start as someone clapped their hand down on her shoulder. After rubbing the sleep from her eyes, she watched in a groggy haze as Walter made his way to his recliner, beer in hand, and took a seat. He smiled over at her, raising his beer in salute then taking a long sip. He was wearing his dirty work shirt, something he hadn’t worn in years, since he retired from the repair shop. It was still stained with oil, despite Martha scrubbing and washing it several times.

“I guess it doesn’t matter, since you only wear it to work,” Martha had said after the third time washing it and pulling it from the dryer only to have the sweat and oil still imprinted on the white shirt. Walter had laughed and replied, “You’re the only one who cares, dear.”

She stared at him now, wearing the dirty shirt she hadn’t seen in years, and drinking a beer they had run out of a few days before he died.

“Could you grab me another one, when you get up, dear?” Walter asked, shaking his nearly empty beer can. Martha rubbed her eyes again and stared, not answering. Was she still dreaming, asleep in her chair? But she had felt him, his large hand had squeezed her shoulder moments earlier. She could hear the beer sloshing around in his can as he shook it. Martha readjusted herself in her chair and cleared her throat.

“I don’t understand, Walter,” Martha mumbled. He looked over to her, eyebrows furrowed.

“Understand what?”

“What’s happening. Am I crazy or are you dead?”

Walter laughed. “Is that an either/or question?” Martha buried her face in her hands. Walter was dead, and she knew it. She had woken up earlier that week and rolled over to find his face inexpressive, his hands cold, his chest unmoving. She had jumped out of bed and screamed and cried and called Allison, wailing over the phone that she found Walter lifeless in her bed. She threw a blanket over him, so she didn’t have to look at his slackless jaw and tongue lolling out to one side. The funeral had been open casket, but she hadn’t wanted to look. She knew he would be plastic looking and fake, the color of life drained from his eyes and his cheeks. So instead, she sat in the front row, watching friends and family walking up to the casket and saying their last goodbyes, before they buried him the next morning.

Her worst nightmare, one she never woke up screaming from, but rather woke up crying silently, had come true. She had never told Walter, but she had hoped she would die first, to save herself from exactly what had been happening the last three days. She didn’t want to die, just hadn’t wanted to live to see him die first. But he had gone and died, without warning, and now she was living in a nightmare, tormented by this new loneliness and her own mind trying to fill it.

“I just want peace, Walter, please…” She said faintly through her hands. She didn’t look up, but she could hear him shifting around in his chair.

“So that’s a no on the beer then?” He joked. Martha couldn’t help but laugh. Laugh at her husband, who, if he had really been there, and they had really been fighting, would have diffused the tension by saying something just like that. But she also laughed at herself, for being so distressed over Walter’s death, that she had created this figment of her overactive imagination to haunt herself. As if him dying wasn’t bad enough.

“There’s no peace for me here,” Walter began, and Martha peeked through her fingers to watch him talk. “Until you join me. Please join me.” He set down his beer and stood. He gave her a quick kiss on her head before he turned and walked away, fading into the dark hallway.

Martha stood up quickly, her head swimming. Her eyes stung with threatening tears. To think Walter was not at rest, six feet deep underground, and was waiting on her to join him? Martha’s hands shook as she tried to dial Allison’s number in her phone. Martha took herself outside, the cool air of autumn ruffling her hair.

“What is it, Ma?” Allison’s voice flowed soothingly into her ear, but Martha could hardly explain her distress­– that Walter wasn’t resting in peace, that he wanted her to join him, that she had seen him, felt him again.

“I’m coming to your house, I think I need to get out of this house, where he…” Martha stopped, unable to admit that he had died. Ever since she had woken up to his cold stale body laying beside her, she hadn’t been able to say he was dead. She didn’t want to say it, to confirm it to herself. Allison said okay, that she would be there when her mother arrived. Martha said goodbye and wiped rouge tears from her cheeks. She returned to the house and grabbed her keys from the bowl beside the front door, then locked up and walked quickly to her car. Her hands shook still as she started the engine and pulled out of the driveway.

Allison only lived a short way across town. Martha blinked away tears as she drove. Carefully, she eased to a stop at a red light. She rested her forehead on the steering wheel for a moment. Her senses were fried, she couldn’t think straight. Walter had scared her; he had never scared her before. She wished more than ever now, that she had died first.

Someone behind her honked, and Martha was shaken out of her stupor. She hit the gas before she glanced up and noticed that the light was still red before her. It was too late to stop, though, as she was in the middle of the intersection before she realized, and the next moment the window beside her exploded and her car was bent in half. A truck with a green light had plowed into her, also unable to stop due to his speed. Moments later her car lay on its side, crushed and shattered, just like her body that lay inside.

In all her distress she hadn’t realized that the car behind her had honked at someone else trying to merge in front of them, not her. She hadn’t realized the light hadn’t changed, as she had been thinking about too much to glance up. The truck had t-boned her before she realized any of this, and at that point, it was too late. She had been wearing her seat belt, and it had clung onto her frail body, bruising her across the chest and the shoulder, holding her in place as her car crumpled around her. But the truck hit her straight on, and the force was too much.

Her door opened, straight up in the air. Who peered in and took her hand, but Walter. He smiled down at her, his familiar grin spreading across his chapped lips. Martha reached up and took his hand, and he pulled her out of the car and into his arms.

“You know, I didn’t expect to see you so soon.” He kissed her forehead and held her closely. All around them, people yelled and cars screeched to a halt. In the distance, sirens blared and warned people that there was an emergency. Martha couldn’t really see, but she thought she could make out her own hands, still clasped tightly to the steering wheel as she looked at her crumpled car. She looked away and buried her face in Walter’s chest. He gently combed his fingers through her gray hair, scratching her scalp and sprinkling kisses on the top of her head.

“Let’s go, honey.” He whispered and led her away from the scene. They walked together, Martha letting Walter lead the way. She wasn’t sure where they were going, but she knew at least they would now both be at peace.