One and One are Three

Grief and hope

One and One are Three

He approached, a stethoscope knocking against his stained green surgical gown, a well-prepared and crafted apology, sculpting his expression. I already knew though - the exact second she left. Part of me going with her, ripped out, leaving me broken. It was hers to take though. As much hers as mine. I just wish she had taken all of me though, and not just the best bits.

“I’m so sorry, we tried everything we could . . . but . . . she’s gone.”

“Yes, but where did she go to?” my voice a whisper.

“Oh, er no, I mean she’s passed away, I’m so sorry, there was nothing�"”

“I know that,” raising my eyes to meet his, “but where has she gone?”

“Can I call someone? Or a cup of tea, maybe? I know how distressing this must be, I�"”

“No, you don’t.” He doesn’t, he can’t. We’ve been together for more years than he’s been alive, he knows nothing. The surgeon splutters, reddening; but I’m already leaving.

The pain in my chest and the lump in my throat, remind me I’m still alive, which is a pity because I don’t want to be, and fumbling the key in the front door, I’m home - no, not home, not anymore. 

Staring out of the kitchen window, the Autumnal blanket was suffocating the last of the summer’s vibrancy; her presence, in every flower and shrub, being laid to rest under a blanket of russet and gold. I must give the lawn its last cut. So much to do . . . 

We were a couple, you see. Some folk call themselves ‘a couple’ after five minutes - but they’re not. A couple is a functional living and breathing organism with four arms, four legs, one heart and one soul. As it was for us, from the moment we met.

I’m in the living room now. Can’t remember how I got here. Funny name that, ‘living’ room. It can’t mean it’s just for the living, because she’s in here with me. She’s in the furniture, the curtains, every ornament; I tried to look interested when we chose them, joint decisions, people laughably call them. But I would have said yes to whatever she wanted. I wasn’t that interested. 

The pain stops my breath and I can’t swallow, but apart from that, I’m tickety-boo, A1, right as f*****g rain.

I should do things . . . there’s a pile of washing, and this place needs a good hoover and . . . 

Things look the same, but they’re not. Everything is dowdy now, faded, and . . . slanted. Out of kilter. I turn my head this way and that, trying to realign my world, trying to . . . adjust, but the pain in my chest reminds me I don’t want to adjust to a world where I can’t hear her breath, smell her skin, feel her touch. 

The intruding door-chime makes me growl and shake my head in irritation. It’ll be next door, wanting to know how it went. I skulk behind the door, out of sight of the window. The bell goes again, and I hold my breath, then the light in the room changes as they pass in front of the window - it’s safe to come out.

She’d ask me to come and smell a rose or look at the lupins (the red ones were her favourites). I wasn’t bothered, but she wanted to share it, and I wanted to make sure she always had someone to share it with. So I sniffed, and I aahed, and she smiled. 

I’d drag her in front of the TV to see a brilliant twelve stroke tennis rally. She couldn’t stand sports, but oohed and aahed and went ‘wow’ in the right places. But I wanted to share it, and she wanted to make sure I always had someone to share it with.

I flop down on the settee - my side, of course.

She always got annoyed that I had to have the last word. Well . . . you had the last one this time, sweetheart. You stroked my cheek and said ‘I love you’, and I choked; couldn’t get a breath out, never mind a word. But you didn’t need to say it. You shouted it loud and clear from those green eyes of yours, almost deafened me with that look; did I tell you, you had beautiful eyes? My eyes are closed now, I must have been crying, or maybe I’m crying now? There’s a gentle breeze coming from somewhere, and it’s chilling the tracks on my cheeks, I want to wipe them but�" 

I grab my chest, the stabbing pain coiling into a snake-like grip - then understanding blossoms, like one of her roses. She’s come back for the bits she left behind. And there she is, right In front of me, smiling. Her hand held out, that crooked little finger pointing skyward. God, she’s gorgeous. Nineteen again, thick waves of auburn tresses bouncing around her shoulders; and that smile, the one that always brought a lump to my throat and released all those butterflies. What must she think of this old broken thing in front of her? But she flaps her outstretched hand, chuckling musically, the smile radiating from her eyes - did I ever tell you about her eyes? I stand, taking her hand. Glancing back, I can see my eyes are closed, but a smile has replaced the grimace of a moment ago. I turn towards her, giving her a cocky nineteen-year-old grin and say,

 “You said you would never leave me.”

“You said you would never let me go.” she retorted. I look down at our clasped hands,

“I haven’t.” 

“Only because I came back for you.”

“So you did leave me then?”

Apparently, death does not impede the ability to swear like a trooper.

Out into the garden, we go, stopping briefly to smell the bloody roses.

Author's Note

Was his grief believable?

Reviews

[Zoinks8]

Yes. His grief is believable. It's grounded grief that makes it so (I hope that makes sense). What I mean is it's relatable (the laundry needs to get done) and not some fluffy prose.

I come away with a longing, or melancholy for lost love a bit more than grief.

Really liked the tennis on TV and flowers exchange.

The writing was a bit convoluted at times. Maybe try shorter sentences? Like the first sentence seems like it'd be stronger if it was three sentences and not one.

I thought you could get rid of 'though' after 'all of me' near the beginning.

Really enjoyed the exchange between the 19 yr olds.

[P. Alan Gunderson]

I really enjoyed this story. Even with the limited length you can glean a lot of insights into their relationship and the emotions he is feeling. For your note section, I do find the grief believable. I think that oftentimes reactions to death are presented by an overwhelming sadness, or something of the like, but I prefer the type that you present where it's just an accumulation of all the little things that are different now and will never be the same again. Very good writing and word choice.