The Widow's Broom
AUTHOR: Robbie
EMAIL: curlygurly87@hotmail.com
SPOILERS: Through On the Beach.
ARCHIVE: Have your people contact my people, and we'll talk …
DISCLAIMER: The characters used in this story are not mine, and I make no claims to them. They are purely borrowed for our/my pleasure.
SUMMARY: A look into how Elizabeth is coping with her loss, past and present. Enjoy …
AUTHOR'S NOTE: This piece has been brewing in my head for a couple of months now, as I've struggled to think of a fitting final conversation between Mark and Elizabeth. The following piece you're about to read is the product of many months of thought, etc … I'd really appreciate to hear your thoughts, positive and negative when you're finished with the story. Thanks!
-------------------------
A soft, salty breeze flows in through the open window, tousling my curls and grazing gently against my closed eyelids. I slowly open my eyes, leisurely parting from sleep's drowsy hold, but still suspended in a peaceful trance. I blink slowly, adjusting to the pale light of the moon that streams in from outside and brush a fiery red curl off my cheek. Out of nowhere, a hand, worn and weathered like soft leather, reaches out and meets mine, the cool touch melting into my own.
I turn my head slightly, my lips molding into a soft curve, and meet his tender brown eyes. A hint of a smile grazes his face and his grip on my hand tightens ever so slightly. I love waking up like this, being gently lulled into consciousness by his unrelenting gaze of love and admiration. With a sudden pang that shoots straight from my heart into my gut and nearly brings tears springing to my eyes, I realize that this could be it. But I brush the thought aside, and savor the moment.
"Elizabeth."
He murmurs my name so softly, barely breaking the silence of these treasured pre-dawn moments. The sound emerges from lips, barely sound at all, and dissipates softly into the now still air that surrounds us. It's both eerily symbolic of his deterioration and comforting as the sound joins the shadows of the room and becomes no more than a figment of the past.
"Good Morning," I whisper back, my voice equally hushed; a lilting sound blending into the dimness of murky night. My accent is sharply British, especially this early in the morning or when I first wake up. The sound seems harsh; cold and sharp against his soft spoken tones, warm and rounded.
"I've been watching you," He admits slowly, inhaling the strong scent of the sea that floats in on the breeze from the ocean down below us. " . . . You're beautiful."
Unable to think of a proper reply, I can only offer a pale smile, shrouded in the darkness of my pain and impending grief. He continues to gaze intently into my eyes and it becomes too much. I look away and blink back a fresh wave of tears. I bite my lip, swallowing the lump that's rising in my throat.
"It's almost sunrise." He reaches out and gently brushes a finger across my cheek, the softest and lightest of caresses. And I force myself to look back at him, meeting the intensity of his gaze full force; his beautiful dark brown eyes, swimming with tears. Right now, they're the only strength he still has left – the only part of him that can still be strong and proud.
I lean in impulsively and press a kiss to his forehead, where beads of cold perspiration have gathered. I furrow my brow in worry.
"Are you feeling alright, Mark?"
"I'm fine," he insists. There's a pause. " … Can you help me sit up so I can watch the sun rise?"
"Of course."
I sit up fully in the bed, and wrap an arm around his waist, helping him into a sitting position. Then, I carefully reach behind him to rearrange the pillows to better support him. A calm look of pacification suddenly enters his eyes as the first strains of light begin to creep up above the horizon. The soft breeze continues to caress us with its light touch. His eyes grow brighter, glistening in the splashes of the first sun beams. He looks almost … febrile. My heart clenches in panic.
"Are you cold? Do you have a fever … Mark?"
"I'm fine, Elizabeth," he snaps suddenly. His draws his eyes closed, looking anguished. "I'm dying, we both know that …"
"Mark . . ." I begin, reaching out and covering his clenched palm with my own.
"I'm sorry," he murmurs. There's a short pause. "I just … I never thought it would end like this. I feel like I've let you down, let Ella and Rachel down."
"No," I sigh softly, so quiet I'm sure he barely hears it. My voice emerges deep and throaty, revealing the tears that are slowly building in the back of my throat, burning like bile.
He looks idly into the distance, watching the miracle of nature unfold before us, like a tantalizing flower bud slowing uncurling it's petals. "I love it."
"What?"
"The sun rise. The way that all of a sudden, the light appears out of nowhere and the colors - the blues, the purples, the pinks, the oranges - melt together as the light gets brighter and brighter. The way the ocean turns from the deep, dark blue of the night into the crystalline bright blue of the day. It's so … beautiful, so peaceful."
He closes his eyes - again. Panic seizes my chest - again. "Mark?"
"Talk to me. I love the sound of your voice."
My heart slows to its regular beat.
"What would you like me to tell you about?"
"Anything. You, Ella, your day yesterday …"
I smile, squeezing his hand. "Alright . . ."
--------------------
"You'll never believe what Ella did yesterday, Mark. She has become such a beautiful little girl. She's really becoming a little person …"
I brush a curl from my eyes that the wind has displaced and chuckle to myself. Of course, he's silent.
"You always knew it would happen, didn't you? Kept telling me that she was going to become a little person and suddenly, it's happening. It's frightening and delightful at the same time to watch her stand up on her own two feet and run across the room. And when she gets there to see her open her mouth and watch as a string of coherent words come out."
I sigh.
"I suppose it was always hard for me to look at her and not think of the perfect pink wrinkled little baby that you handed me in the delivery room. That perfect little replica of a person who needed me for everything …"
My head idly turns to the side as the frantic chirping of a bird in the distance distracts me, mid-story. An unknown force seems to propel me to continue and I know that's what he wants, although he hasn't yet said it.
"Back to my story so soon, eh Mark? I'm so easily distracted . . ."
I heave a sigh and my lips melt into a smile at the memory.
"Ella made her first sand castle yesterday, without my help. I took her to a little playground a couple of blocks away, on the water. She swung on the swings for a short while and rode the slide a couple of times. But then, she waddled down to the coast line and took her little bucket and shovel and made a little castle, right there on the beach . . .
Then she stood back up and ran to me, grabbed my hand and pulled me to it. She was so proud. 'Dada', she called it. 'My dada Castle …'"
-------------
"Where's Rachel?" Mark murmurs softly as I finish my account of our day.
A hint of a smile, for his sake, crosses my face and I poke him gently in the chest "She's probably still sleeping. Not everyone gets up at the crack of dawn like someone I know."
The smile he returns fills me from head to toe with delight. It's one of those special smiles, the ones he seems to reserve exclusively for me and me alone. And in the chaos and uncertainty that's ruling my life right now, it feels good. Damn good.
He inhales deeply as the smile leaves his face, all too soon for my liking. The expression that takes its place is pensive and reflective. I can feel a difficult conversation pending in the air between us.
"You'll make sure they know?"
"Make sure who know what, Mark?"
"Ella. And Rachel. Make sure they know … how much I loved them and that I don't want to leave like this."
"They know."
"And the letters; make sure they get the letters."
"They will. I'm sure they'll cherish every single word."
He nods. "I hope."
There's a lull in the conversation, a momentary silence for us to collect our thoughts.
"Can you open the window some more?"
I nod and slowly roll out of the warmth of the bed to do his bidding. I can't help but unconsciously thank him for this moment to compose myself. I turn back around to find his eyes closed.
"Mark?"
"I'm so tired, Elizabeth. I hate to ask you …"
"Anything, what is it?"
"Can you describe the sunrise to me? I don't want to miss it, but I just can't keep my eyes open."
"Absolutely."
--------------------
"The sun rise is so beautiful, Mark. It's always been your favorite time of day. And this one is no exception, the colors are heavenly. All of your favorite blues and purples and oranges and yellows and pinks are splashed across the canvas that is the sky. You'd love it, if only you could see it …"
I take a moment, revel in the reflective silence and let the warm rays of sunshine, which are slowly winning their battle against the moon beams, play across the shadows of my face. They warm me, like a thick blanket in the dead of winter.
"Remember when we used to take Ella out to the park? We'd bring a picnic basket full of food and spread a blanket. And then you'd lie back and sit her in the crook of your arm and we'd watch the clouds pass by. And you'd point out all she shapes and she would clap her arms and giggle, just happy to hear the sound of your voice. She never understood a word of what you said; she'd just smile and laugh …"
I inhale deeply, sucking the sweet smelling air into my lungs.
"Or maybe she understood more than we gave her credit for …"
-----------------
"You've always had a way with words," he mumbles under his breath with a teasing smile, and opens his eyes to gaze at me patronizingly.
"I'll have you know that I never in my life attested to becoming an English Major. You're the one who always told me I had a way with my hands, anyway."
I chuckle softly as he closes his eyes again, silenced. "Do you have a headache, Mark?"
"A little. It'll pass in a little while."
"I can go and get you something …"
"It won't help. Just sit with me."
I nod softly, thrust into my sadness again as the lighthearted banter comes to a rough halt. Knowing that he's in so much pain and that as a doctor, there's nothing I can do, tugs at my heart strings in a way that nothing else can.
With careful precision, he slowly reaches his arm and wraps it around my shoulders. I nestle carefully into his embrace, reveling in the moment together and touched by his gesture.
"Are you going to keep the house?" He asks out of the blue, startling my from my deep reverie.
"What?"
"When you go back home, are you going to keep the house?"
"I don't know."
He opens his eyes again and looks at me plaintively, noticing the tears brimming in my eyelids before I can blink them away.
"I'm sorry, Elizabeth."
"Don't," I urge emphatically, slightly louder than I meant to. "This isn't your fault, Mark."
"But still …"
"Stop." I look away. I'm becoming an expert in composing myself quickly.
There's another moment of silence. Then,
"Do you think she'll remember me?"
"Ella?"
He nods, eyes still fused shut.
"I promise you that I'll do everything in my power to make sure she does, Mark. If nothing else, she'll know how much you loved her."
"I'm missing so much …"
It suddenly becomes too much, the tears that have been gathering this entire morning finally win the battle and spill over my eyelids as a strangled sob escapes my lips.
"Hey, hey … I'm sorry, Elizabeth."
With that same careful and slow precision that all his movements are, he gathers me in his arms and gently rubs my back, kissing my forehead along my hairline.
"Let me be here for you. Let it all go, let me comfort you now, while I'm still here to do it."
"Oh, Mark …"
---------------
"It's so hard sometimes, to know quite what to say; to know how to act around people. My husband is dying? My husband is gone, he's dead? And then the questions you have to answer, the looks of pity."
Feeling warm all of a sudden, now that the sun has risen, I peel the beige coat from my shoulders, setting it down on the ground beside me.
"I don't need any of it, Mark. Really and truly, the only person I want is you. You're the only who could ever comfort me. It's your comfort that I want, that I crave."
I take another deep breath before continuing.
"I'm only holding on for Ella, really. She's my last link to you. Long after your scent left my pillow, after I gave most of your clothes away to Goodwill. She's still around; smiling, laughing, a constant reminder of your love, of everything about you."
I laugh to myself, conjuring a picture of our feisty daughter in my mind.
"And then of course, there are pictures. But sometimes, those are too painful. As are your letters; the hurt is still too fresh, too deep. I don't really know how to act around men any more, either. A doctor asked me to coffee a couple of months ago and I refused …
I don't even really know why I refused. But I couldn't handle the thought of even talking to another man in a social setting. I told Susan and Abby that I come home everyday expecting you to be in the yard playing with Ella."
Another pause.
"But you're not …"
--------------
My sobs slowly subside and using his index finger, he tips my chin towards him.
"Better?"
I nod slowly.
"Yeah. Thank you … for being there."
"There isn't any place I would rather be."
"I know."
"I need you to promise me something, Elizabeth."
"Alright."
"Don't cry. Not on my behalf."
A half-sob, half- chuckle escapes my lips.
"I can only promise to try."
He nods. "And something else. Will you make sure that Ella still gets to see Rachel? There's so much that she still needs to tell her about me, about us."
"Of course, they're sisters."
Another awkward silence ensues.
"Elizabeth?"
I sit up straight, leaving the comfort of his arms. As he re-adjusts himself, I see him grimace in pain. I look away, dabbing my eyes with a tissue I found on the nightstand and pretend not to notice.
"Yes?"
"You know I love you, right? You know that I have never been happier than these last couple of years when I've been with you. You're my wife and the mother of my child, but most importantly, you're my best friend. I love you."
I bite my lip to keep from breaking into a fresh fit of sobs as he takes my chin in his hands and presses a kiss to my lips.
"I love you too, Mark. So much."
"I know." He nods softly, caressing my cheek. It's as if he's suddenly found an inner reservoir of strength that has burst open. All for the effect, I allow a soft smile.
"I'm in the mood for some tea. Would you like anything?"
"No, thank you."
"Are you sure you don't mind if I go? I'll be right back."
"Go ahead, I'll be right here."
I roll out of the bed and press a kiss to his forehead, flashing him another smile, which he returns. "I love you," I murmur against his forehead as he closes his eyes again. I turn away and quickly change into some clothes. Then, I walk to the door, ready to go downstairs to the kitchen.
"I'm just going to shut my eyes for a little while, until you come back …" I hear him mumble as I walk away.
----------------------
I pull a miniature broom from the pocket of my coat and finger the crudely formed object in my hand.
"It's been so hard, Mark. Every time I look at Ella, her blonde ringlets or bright blue eyes, I could swear I'm looking at you. Her laugh, her smile … sometimes it's just too much. What am I going to do when she starts asking questions about you?"
I brush idly at my face, surprised to find that it's wet. I'm crying and I didn't even realize it. I laugh; a cold, hollow, bitter sound that escapes my mouth, still sounding foreign, and echoes throughout the graveyard. I heave a sigh and continue.
"Look at me, Mark. I'm a wreck … I'm crying again. You see this? I promised you I wouldn't cry, but I never was any good at keeping promises anyway, now was I?"
Suddenly, the wind picks up, tousling my curls about my head in a whirlwind. I deftly sweep it back into a ponytail. The wind bites at my raw eyes, coarsely rubbing against my face like sand paper and my eyes continue to water. I desperately try to blink it all away; the tears, the pain, the grief.
---------------------
I stand over the boiling water, willing it to hurry. I'd originally planned on sitting down for awhile and enjoying my cup of 'English Breakfast' in the early morning calm before the children wake up, but something suddenly propels me otherwise. I find that I want nothing more than to sit beside Mark for many more hours, quietly talking; ignoring the world around us.
The water finally boils and I pour it into my mug. Hot wisps of steam float upwards and I inhale the soothing scent of the tea. Then, holding tightly to the mug, I ascend the stairs to the bedroom.
Quietly, as to not wake the baby sleeping a couple of feet away, I pad into the room and walk over to the bed. Mark's eyes are shut in peaceful slumber. I remember his soft reminder that he was tired as I left the room. My eyes focus on his peaceful face, finally calm, and not contorted in pain. I realize that the only respite he has from his pain is sleep. I warm my chilled hands on the steaming mug, turning my focus to the gentle rise and fall of his chest.
The gentle rise and fall that's absent.
I feel the familiar clench of panic in my chest seize my heart in its unrelenting hands. With shaking hands, I put the mug of tea gently down on the floor and grasp his wrist in the palm of my hand. Desperately, I search for any sign of a sign of a pulse, but there isn't one to be found. I squeeze his hand gently, willing him to show some sign of life, to prove to me that it's not over, not yet.
For a moment I don't know what to think.
"I'll be right here," he promised me. He's here alright, but only in body.
My husband, the father of my child, my best friend is dead.
Succumbing again to tears, I rest my head on his still chest and board the rollercoaster of despair.
---------------------
"I joined a support group a couple of months ago. I did it for you, and for Ella. She still needs her mother. I needed to get away from it all, the gaping eyes, the pitiful conversation like I was a child, the sorrow filled glances thrown in my directions when people didn't think I was looking. I needed to meet people who really knew what I was going through. I needed to regain myself as a person. Because as much as it hurt me, I had to learn how to be me again, a me without you."
I unclench my fist, revealing the familiar miniature broom and run a finger along its even more familiar rough edge.
"They call this a widow's broom, Mark. They give them out at the support group. It's what the program I joined is based on."
I pause slowly, brushing the dust that has gathered on my slacks as I sit here, kneeled in the dirt.
"They say that widows, especially young widows generally don't cope very well with their loss. Instead of reaching out to their friends and family and the people that care about them, they pent up their feelings and close themselves off to the world. And the pain, the grief, the sorrow, it just builds up inside them, festers like bacteria and eats them from the inside out … It's kind of ironic really; my grief was eating me like the cancer that took you away ate you."
I pause for emphasis.
"That pain, that guilt at not being able to save your husband needs to be let out into the open, needs to be dealt with. This little broom that they give us represents the actions that many widows take – the autopilot they put themselves on to remain functional in their new lives; the mask they put on to pretend that their new life isn't at all changed from before. But it is. And it will never be the same again."
Inhale, Elizabeth, I coax slowly. I'm suddenly overcome by an overpowering urge to burst into another wave of violent, gut wrenching sobs. But I promised him that I wouldn't cry. And although that's been just about my only means of coping thus far, breaking down in front of his grave is just crossing the line – breaking my promise, unsealing the covenant.
Exhale.
"It's almost like there's this natural, inherent reaction to sweep up all that remains of the grief – the dust and rubble, the ashes – they sweep it all up as if with a broom, keeping things nice and tidy around the edges. While inside, there are a roller coaster of emotions just waiting to crack loose and mess up the tidy surreal little life they've created."
Practice what you preach, Elizabeth, a little voice inside my head reminds me. Inhale. Exhale. Breathe.
"They say that when you're finally ready to cope with your emotional roller coaster, it's time to get rid of your broom. They tell you to put it somewhere that you won't be able to get it back; in other words, to get to an emotional place in your life where you won't need the safety of feeling the little broom in your pocket, of knowing that it's okay to be dealing with your feelings by sweeping them away for later. The idea is that once you get rid of your broom, you're ready to begin your healing process."
"Because sometimes, the ashes and the dust and the rubble just have to settle naturally, without any input from the meddling broom. The feelings need to stay put, the widow needs to wear them on her sleeve and let them consume her and antagonize her. Sometimes, you just need to let it all clear in the wind by itself, after you've dealt with things."
Realizing that I'm grasping the small, insignificant piece of crudely hewn wood for dear life, I let go, dropping it into my lap. The world suddenly goes blurry around me as a fresh wave of tears unwittingly fall from my eyes. Damn. I grope helplessly in my pockets for a tissue. Got it. I Blow my nose. And continue …
"I'm ready, Mark …"
With shaking hands, I pick up the little broom again, brushing my finger against its rough edge for the last time. I tenderly bring it to my lips and press a gentle kiss to its rough surface. Then, with every ounce of will power that's left in my body, I lean forward and set it on the ground so that it's leaning up against the gravestone.
For the first time this visit, my eyes give the hunk of granite before me a once-over:
Mark Greene
1963-2002
Beloved Father, Husband, Son
Forever in our hearts
I tenderly brush the gravestone with my hand, then stand up and turn around. I begin to walk away. And, although it's a cliché, I suddenly feel like a great weight has been lifted off of my shoulders. The sky seems bluer, the birds seem to sing a happier tune, and the air has certainly gained a couple of degrees.
I'm suddenly transported back to that day, the day I found you, Mark.
Quietly, as to not wake the baby sleeping a couple of feet away, I pad into the room and walk over to the bed. Mark's eyes are shut in peaceful slumber. I remember his soft reminder that he was tired as I left the room. My eyes focus on his peaceful face, finally calm, and not contorted in pain. I realize that the only respite he has from his pain is sleep. I warm my chilled hands on the steaming mug, turning my focus to the gentle rise and fall of his chest.
The gentle rise and fall that's absent.
I feel the familiar clench of panic in my chest seize my heart in its unrelenting hands. With shaking hands, I put the mug of tea gently down on the floor and grasp his wrist in the palm of my hand. Desperately, I search for any sign of a sign of a pulse, but there isn't one to be found. I squeeze his hand gently, willing him to show some sign of life, to prove to me that it's not over, not yet.
And you squeeze back.
~~//~~
Fin
"Somewhere …
Over the rainbow,
On the beach
You wait for me,
Now,
And for all eternity"