"winter is coming" (chapter 5, ezra - a trying winter) a minnesota story
[February 9th 1990] Ezra had told the nurse, clear as day, “I want to be notified if there's a sign, any sign of raised intracranial pressure or activity, if and when he wakes up, in particular, if his pulse changes, his respiration.” (Referring to Sammy.)
The nurse Mary, assured him she'd call, and if she could not get a hold of him, she'd call Roberta. Ezra had stayed in the hospital several days, off and on that is, out of the approximately thirty days Sammy was in, if anything he, it seemed—he, Ezra and Roberta took intervals, although they both were already convinced the third week Sammy would not pull through, that was the unspoken part between them. During this time Ezra became drowsy, and was hard to rouse…almost with growing resentment. He became a bee on the bonnet of the nurses. His kids never visited him, only the one from Columbus, Ohio.
He could see in Sammy, a deeper level of his mind was aware he was dying now, he even told him he was, a taboo I suppose in today's world, but he hoped when his time came, someone would tell him so he could say his goodbyes instead of avoidance. His dismay over the event of his death was badly evident. He fought his own resentment, as he seldom had to, but in this stale situation, it was oddly new and compelling.
December did pass, it kind of seems unkind to say so, but it was essential to move on, he held a long reserve of patience during this time and at the end he saw he had made no headway at all, he had to grieve like everyone else, and he cried night and day, quietly. I suppose what helped Ezra during these days was Roberta and they became closer friends. She waited with confidence, and edited her words to comfort him, she did not abandon him, his house became familiar ground, and she became more flexible, courteous and calm the month of January, as they grieved together. He became quite passive and lethargic, almost on the rim of content to be alone, hard to stimulate.
It was on February 9th, she called him, and he didn't answer the phone. She didn't like that he should simply vegetate, and presupposed that was his new stage. Thus, she drove over to his house. She had a key; Ezra had given her one, just in case, and as she walked through the doors, on the floor he laid. Her voice and her eyes added all to plainly, that she was going into shock, being ready to conceal the new event, but she shook herself, “Roberta stop, wake up, get back your senses”! She told herself. Somehow it was as if she injected herself with a wakeup pill; she paused on the rug, red rug; Roberta had felt her mind thinking as she walked about, waited for her to figure out the next move. He had an allergic reaction—she told herself, so it looked, his throat looked as if it had swelled up, “Sure,” she said, “he couldn't find or get to his items, breather or shots to counter the allergic reaction quick enough.” (It later on would prove true.)
“I'll ring up my Doctor,” she said outlaid so her second self, could hear it, confirm it in her mind for her. “No I'll call the police,” she then said, “perhaps I should call his kids, no they don't care, but will perhaps…yes, perhaps will care to check his assets…! (a reeking bitterness to her tone)” She walked out onto the porch, got the fresh air and arranged her thoughts.
She walked back into the dinning room. It was late morning: ‘Why am I part of these events…?' she asked herself. Two deaths, the first being, forty-three days after she met Sammy, then died—and now only forty-seven days after Sammy's death, Ezra dies (both old for sure, but is it not a coincidence?).
Yes indeed, it was a coincidence which was tolerant and almost amusing at the same time, surely not commonplace by far; fatigue came over her, and she was a little clumsy as she called ‘Regions Hospital,' the emergency, crises center.
It was late when she got back home, having taken in the sunny afternoon and now the dark night creeping in, days were short in winter, not long, it was in the evening she sat placid on the edge of her bed, in profound thinking, thoughts swirling about. She was on her knees when Donald her son came in, he stood on a rug by her bed, her face was clear in the glow of the lamp, she had been crying: “Ezra?” he said.
“Yes, he died today…!” Roberta paused after saying that, quietly, to familiarity, like the dwindling of time, days, perhaps hours, these were but a key in a lock someone was turning. There seemed nothing to say at the moment, nothing required. Perhaps Donald did not come in at the right moment, but he did come in, and now he was left to silence. Donald left, now she was alone again, as she wanted to be in her own comfortable well-ordered room, the moon shinning through her window, solitude made evident.
