The Widow & The Poet

260

The Widow & The Poet

by

K. Simone Lyons

Copyright © 2014 K. Simone Lyons

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the work of this author. This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, places, events is purely coincidental. Any factual inaccuracies were made in the spirit of story-telling.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Acknowledgments

Glossary

Author Note

To Maeve and Siobhan

Never give up your dreams

Chapter 1

The boxes stood around the room, labeled, waiting. Ready to catalog a life, his life, their life together. It had been almost six months since the funeral, but she still found herself turning to see if he was in his office. He would chide her for avoiding the task for so long. But then he would look at her and smile and kiss her gently. She stared at the closed door now, wishing desperately that he would open it; that everything would be as it was. But he would never open it again.

Everything had been left just as it was, until now. During those first months she would find herself opening the wardrobe to run her hands across his shirts and jackets. She would open drawers to see his clothes folded and ready. Sometimes, she took out a t-shirt or sweater and put it on to help her sleep; his scent long gone. When they took his body away she had slept in those sheets, curled up with his clothes, desperately trying to hold onto him. After the funeral her sister Claire washed everything she could find and tidied him away. Now, Anna could only catch whisperings around his toiletries in the bathroom and his heavy winter coat.

But, though his scent was all but gone, he lingered throughout the house. The last book he read was on his bedside table; the walls of the house were covered with photographs of places they had been together or paintings they had bought. She ran her hand down the banister and remembered how he had carried her upstairs the first night they moved in. He could not do stairs towards the end. His hats were on the coat-stand, his favorite mug by the sink. She would not let him go. Claire offered to help pack everything up, but it was too soon. Months later, their good friends had told her it was too morbid to live like this, that she needed to accept things and move on. It wasn’t healthy, they said. But she wasn’t ready to let go. Keeping him close seemed the only way to stay sane. She was relieved when most of them lost interest or patience and stopped pestering her. Joe, his publisher, came by or phoned more than she liked, but he was eager to get to Edward’s office. He wanted to help go through Edward’s work, see what might be usable, and take a look at the manuscript he had been working on before he died. But she would not let anyone in the office. It was where she felt his presence the most, and yet, she rarely ventured in. It felt wrong to be in there without him, as if she were prying. He would not like that.

And then there was Greg, Edward’s friend, who had always liked Anna a little too much. They were close in age. She and Edward had helped Greg through a messy divorce several years ago and now it seemed he wanted to repay the debt. He phoned Anna every day around 10 am. A quick check to make sure she was awake and out of bed. He came by once a week to see if there was anything she needed to be fixed or handled. He mowed the grass, trimmed the hedge, took care of the compost and just yesterday had planted tomatoes. He had left her a list of tasks he thought she would need to have done before autumn. Some he could do and some she would need to hire someone to do. He offered to help with that too. She would always let him do everything, as long as it was outside where she could not see. It was harder when he wanted to be in the house.

Before Edward had fallen ill, they had made plans to move back to Ireland, where they first met. He had arranged to be a visiting professor at University College Galway, and intended to complete an anthology he had worked on for years. They had discussed, at length, whether she should do her PhD at UCG or Trinity in Dublin. Trinity would mean she would be travelling back and forth from Galway each week and they would not see each other every day, but in the end they felt that that might suit them. There would be no awkwardness of her being a student in the same department where her husband was faculty. They had, after all, blurred those lines before and it had stifled both of them. No, she must go back to Dublin and Trinity. Not UCD, her alma mater. That would be too painful, and despite the enormous changes the Belfield campus had undergone, there was enough constancy in the faculty to make it an untenable choice, even if she could have brought herself to overcome the ambiguous emotions the place conjured up for her. Dublin would also mean being closer to her father and siblings, and then there was Dublin itself. She and Edward would have the weekends, maybe more time, depending on how much her research kept her away. It would keep them yearning for one another and they grew excited about creating those anticipatory moments of tension between them again.

It was all about to happen that October. They had just returned from a visit to finalize everything. The house in Galway was large and perfect for him to work and for them to entertain, as he loved. It was August. All those hopes and dreams and excitement about a new stage rudely whipped away in what now seemed like seconds. As if a cruel wind blew over them and carried all that was good away, leaving him frail and ill, both of them vulnerable and scared.

As is so often the case, they had paid little attention in the beginning. They had just been on a trip. They both seemed to come home with the foregone malaise of air-travel and communal breathing space. But, he could not seem to shake it. He was tired, run-down. He started to sleep more, eat less. She was caught up in preparations and out so much that it really didn’t occur to her how sick he was until she looked up from dinner one night and noticed he had hardly touched his food. His face suddenly seemed thin and pale and old. His shoulders didn’t seem as broad and strong.

I just don’t seem to be very hungry these days he said with a half-smile. I’ve had to adjust my belt and my pants are almost too big to wear. I haven’t been in this good shape for years. He smiled again, but it was tentative.

How much weight have you lost? she asked, slightly panicking and wondering why she had not noticed these changes before. She registered the last time they had sex. It had not been since Ireland. Why had that not occurred to her until now?

About 12-15lbs since we got back. Hard to tell really. But that’s how long my appetite has been off.

15lbs in three weeks! That’s not normal Edward. This isn’t just a bug. We need to have you seen. Her voice was angry, scared.

Yes, I think we do he said gently and reached over and touched her hand. I am sure it is nothing serious and something I picked up on the plane. But probably best to find out as I can’t seem to shake it by myself and I really need to be able to finish up my work before we leave.

Do you want me to ring and make an appointment for you? You need to be seen this week. You need to make them understand that it is urgent. Maybe I should go with you?

No, no. I will call first thing in the morning and see if I can get in. No need for you to come. I am perfectly capable of going to a doctor by myself.

************************************

The letter from Trinity sat on the kitchen table. It had been there for weeks. Greg had asked about it. She knew he wanted her to stay.

What will you tell them? he finally asked one afternoon when he had finished helping her go through all of the paperwork from the lawyer.

I don’t know.

Do you still want to go? Without him?

She looked at Greg. How little he understood her and what she felt.

I am without him here.

But this is your home and where your memories of him are, and your friends. If you take this deferment and go this year, alone, without him, will you stay in Dublin? Won’t you miss what you have here?

I will be close to my family. I grew up in Dublin. It is my home.

Yes, I know, but…

It’s where I met him

Yes, but……who will look after you? He came close, his eyes full of care and worry. He gently put his hand on her shoulder. She found herself flinching and yearning for Edward simultaneously.

I can look after myself.

She had to make a decision if only to stop Greg pestering her about it. She knew she couldn’t stay any longer. The house had become her refuge and her prison. She could not breathe while she was away from it and yet she felt suffocated by his presence-absence and their memories when in it. Her mind was never turned off. It raced through all that had passed between them, relishing those warm, happy times and feelings, autopsying every negative, misunderstood moment of heart-ache and sorrow. She spoke to him as she went about her day, sometimes having entire conversations. It was exhausting and yet she could not let him go.

His decline had been fast, typical of the disease. There was time to say goodbye, but yet still so much not said. Edward talked mostly, made plans for her, tried to keep her spirits up, tried gently to prepare her for another life without him. A life that could span thirty or forty years, but she hated those conversations. It was when she became most upset. How could he think she could conceive of a happy life without him? Was she not allowed to mourn the man she loved? The life with him? Why did there seem to be such a rush for her to move on?

They played it safe and reminisced the positive together. They recounted favorite moments, funny stories, and reframed some memories in some silent pact that kept them going through those final weeks. Yes, there were times they apologized for things said or hurt caused. He was sorry she had stopped writing and made her promise she would take it up again. He felt neglectful and selfish for not encouraging her more and taking her so far from her family. She was sorry for all the times he had to abandon his work to care for her when she could not face the world. Neither of them ever mentioned his first wife during the end. Anna knew it was irrational, but there were times she felt they had brought this tragedy upon themselves. How could they have expected to be happy when they began so dishonestly? How ingrained that Catholic education had been that a grown, educated woman would feel her husband’s untimely death was a retribution from God. She never mentioned such thoughts to Edward. He was a proud atheist and would probably have scoffed at her.

And then there was the question of children. Edward had not wanted any. There were none from the first marriage. Anna did not feel a need for any children when she met him. She was in love with a brilliant man, and she had a career, her poetry. Where would they find time for children? How could they travel and be free to do all they wanted? It felt far too selfless a journey. But she had been young. It is hard to imagine at twenty three how you will feel as the clock fast approaches forty. She remembered turning thirty eight and being overwhelmed with images of children and babies. They were suddenly everywhere she looked and went. It did not take her long to admit that she desperately wanted a baby, his baby. It was an epiphany she did not dare to share with him, despite the emptiness she felt. There was no point. He had had a vasectomy. He never asked her if she regretted having no children, not even at the end. Before he got sick, he would run his hands over her and whisper how much he loved that her body was still as firm, as perfect as when they first met. How lucky he was, he would say. She wondered if a post-baby body could have competed with his giggling female students and the young women who showed up at his readings. Had she been that ridiculous when she met him?

*********************************

I’ve decided to turn down the deferral from Trinity. I wrote to them and told them that I no longer want to pursue a PhD.

Greg was washing his hands at the kitchen sink. He had just finished working in the garden. He was flushed and warm. Anna could smell how hard he had been working and it annoyed her. She wanted him to leave.

I think you have made the right decision he said turning towards her and grabbing the hand-towel. I know it must have been difficult and you feel you’re breaking a promise to Ed, but he wasn’t thinking the whole thing through. You are better off here with people who care about you than close to a family you hardly ever talk about.

Greg, it doesn’t mean I’m not leaving.

He stopped and looked at her. She suddenly wished she had not brought the topic up. He would not take it well and she really wanted him to go home.

What are you talking about? Why would you still go, if you are not doing the PhD? Where are you going?

I think I want to go to London. I always loved London when I was young and before I met Edward I thought I would move there and teach. You’re right about Dublin. I don’t want to be that close to my family after all this time and I’m scared it won’t live up to all of my expectations. I think I am going to try and find a teaching job in London. I’ve…

Teach? In London? Anna, you’re not thinking! You can’t just give up everything and run off to London. You don’t need to teach or do anything. Ed has taken good care of you. Can you imagine how stressful teaching will be for you right now? His voice grew loud. You have trouble getting out of bed some days. You drink too much and you barely leave the house.

Stop!

He put his hands around her and tried to pull her into him. I’m not blaming you and you are doing so much better than you were a few months ago, but you’re not ready for that kind of change and stress. She pushed away from him and walked to the other side of the table.

Why can’t you just be supportive? Why can’t you see how much I need to leave, to do something, to give me a reason to get out of bed? Her eyes welled up. She could not look at him.

I do understand that he said quietly, but I just don’t think it needs to be this dramatic. We could talk through options that might start off on a smaller scale. I have been thinking about some possibilities. It doesn’t mean you can’t go visit London, and Dublin for that matter. He moved closer to her again. I thought maybe I could go with you to Dublin for a few weeks so you could see your dad. I know you miss him and I am sure he wants to see you are ok. We could add on time in London too. He put his hand on her cheek. I want to help you. I promised Ed I would take care of you. You need to let me.

************************************

She did not want anyone to collect her from Dublin airport. She just wanted to go to her hotel and sleep so she could be in the right frame of mind when she saw her family. Claire and her dad were upset she was staying in a hotel. There was certainly plenty of room in her father’s house, the family home. But she was unsure how she would feel staying there. It had never felt the same after her mother had died. There were too many memories. Funny how the memories seemed oppressive and draining after her mother, but reassuring and necessary after Edward. She stared out the hotel window down onto St. Stephen’s Green. It was just as she remembered it. How many times had she walked through there as a child and young adult? She and Edward had eaten lunch on the grass on warm spring days. She remembered how he had held her hand as they walked. She had admired him greatly; his intellect, his talent, the way he made her feel about her potential. He embraced her in confidence and strength; saw things in her that others did not. There was nothing she believed she could not accomplish when with him. She had fallen so hopelessly in love with him so quickly.

Anna spent the afternoon walking familiar streets, soaking up the sounds, the smells, the crispness of the air, the soft breeze, the bustle and chatter, the traffic, the passing snippets of music, the shouts, the seagulls, the tourists, until she closed her eyes and let the cacophony wash over her, replenishing the memories and sensations of her past. She was home. This would always be home in some inexplicable, soul-comforting way.

Dinner was to be at her sister’s house in Ballsbridge. They were all there when she arrived, except for her youngest brother, John, who was always late. He was a columnist with the Irish Times, which he never let anyone in the family forget. It had taken him years of freelancing in Dublin and London to get the spot that Anna felt he rightly deserved and earned. But, what would appear as an understandable and meritorious level of confidence and pride in America was seen as overbearing arrogance and conceit in Ireland. There was no acceptable place for such attributes in polite society or close-knit families. It was a sign of rivalry and dysfunction. Anna cringed when she saw him begin to discuss the ever-so important work he did, his influential connections, his unique insight and persistence in getting his pieces in print without worrying about fall-out. She wanted to shout at him to stop trying so hard. Could he not see that he pushed them all so much further away? That the more he wanted their approval and accolades the more they switched off and belittled him? Did he not see that by his proclamations he implied they were not so important, did not work as hard?