Fading

The house was quiet. I sat with my eyes closed, breathing in the stale air of my empty home. Through the thin panes of the kitchen windows I could hear the birds outside chirping. I sighed. Their melodies were always able to soothe my restless thoughts. When I was ready, I cracked my eyelids. “How are you feeling today, hun?”

My voice fell into the void, and the air seemed to vibrate as I disturbed the sanctity of the moment. Across the dining table was my husband, John. He stared into some plane of existence unknown to me, and sat unmoving in his wheelchair. I allowed the moment to linger, just a little longer. He always looked so serene in the mornings, with the rising sun framing his aged face. Nowadays it was hard to tell what he was thinking, or if he was even thinking at all, but even so, I hated to intrude upon his quiet reflection. 

“Because I’m feeling tired, myself. I think I forgot to turn the thermostat up last night. I froze! What about you?” A quiet chuckle accentuated my question. I waited patiently for John to react, but I didn’t receive so much as a flick of the eyes in return. He stared slightly above me, towards the dusty corner where wall met ceiling. 

I grunted as I pushed myself up from the table and stretched my old bones. My body ached, my mind was exhausted, and I was almost at my wit’s end having no one to talk to, but I fought desperately to keep a smile plastered on my face anyway. “Do you want breakfast?” I asked. Without waiting for him to answer, I turned towards the counter, assuming his silent reply was affirmative. 

With my hand on the refrigerator handle and my back to John, I let my smile drop. It was hard having a husband with Alzheimer’s. Over the years I had watched him go from the strong, healthy man I had married to a comatose statue in a wheelchair. Sometimes I could catch glimmers of the old John, but those were few and far between. The only thing that kept me going was the thought that he was still aware of his surroundings, but he just couldn’t express his thoughts. As long as I was able to keep up my smiling, happy face, no matter how difficult, John would be happy.

I turned on the stovetop and retrieved a pan from the cabinet. While I waited for the eye to heat up, I strode over to John and placed my hands on his shoulders. My fingers gently massaged his stiff muscles while I tried to find exactly what he was looking at, but I already knew there was nothing special about the spot on the ceiling. 

“You feel warm. I guess you weren’t too cold last night?” I gave his shoulders one last squeeze before stepping back to the stove. The bacon hissed in the skillet, giving new life to the empty shell of my home. 

A smile found its way to my lips. “Remember when we were dating? You always said you were a furnace. I hated that in the summer, couldn’t stand it! But, remember when we went skiing? Your natural warmth was the only thing that got me through that god forsaken trip.”

I divided the hissing, crackling bacon between two plates already sitting on the counter. After taking a paper towel to the skillet to wipe up all the grease, I felt a tinge of sadness creeping into my chest. “Remember?” I whispered. 

There was no answer. 

“John...can you even hear me?” I wasn’t sure if I was talking to him anymore. I offered my words to the void, begging for any type of reply. The loneliness was eating me alive. 

“I can,” a gravelly voice replied. 

“John!” I spun around with a grin on my lips. It was one of those moments, few and far between. My husband was back, if only for a little while.

“You hated our skiing trip?” he chuckled. 

“I didn’t hate it,” I grinned. “I just didn’t like it.”

I glanced at John while he directed his gaze out the windows. The finches flittered back and forth on the branches of the old apple tree. Its branches were barren, save for the small blooms of pink flowers. Even though spring was on its way, it was easy enough to imagine the cold slopes in Aspen, and the nights spent by the roaring fireplace in our lodge. “What didn’t you like?” he asked.

“Well, the cold, for one.” I turned back to the counter and cracked open four eggs on the rim of a thick, ceramic mug, eager to get them cooking before the bacon got cold. “You know I hate cold weather.”

“What else?” he asked.

I lost myself in the repetitive clanking of the spoon against the ceramic as I whisked the eggs into a yellow, jiggling liquid. I allowed myself some hesitation—John was finally in his normal state of mind; I didn’t want to ruin it so quickly.

“That’s it.” I kept my back to him as I poured the eggs into the skillet. I scraped the remaining liquid out of the mug and then placed it in the sink, making sure to fill it with some water for good measure. 

“You sure?” John said. I heard his wheelchair creaking as he shifted, well aware of my hooded answer. 

I busied myself with finding a spatula and scrambling the eggs, making sure they didn’t stick or scorch. “I don’t want to talk about it. It’s not often you’re back, you know?

He sighed. “It’s not the women, is it? Atalie...it was a work trip. I have female coworkers. We invited you out to get some drinks with us, but you wanted to stay at the lodge.”

I gripped the spatula harder and tried not to react. There was a period in our relationship where we were forced to be long distance. When we had finally reunited, I battled with trust issues. Even though it was decades ago, thoughts of what John could have done still haunted me. “I said I didn’t want to talk about it.”

“You’re still not over it. Maybe we should talk about it, about how paranoid you still are.”

“We were apart for a year!” I turned, growling. I dropped the spatula and glared at John. He stood behind the dining table with his fists balled in irritation. His anger made him look younger.

“I didn’t want to be separated! It wasn’t my choice! I wanted to get to you! I didn’t have any friends for a year because you thought I would cheat on you!” John’s fist slammed into the table, rattling the salt shaker and knocking over the vase of flowers. 

I shrunk beneath his tone. He was always scary when he was mad. 

Grabbing the spatula, I turned back to the eggs and finished moving them around the skillet. A few moments later, I felt a warm pair of arms around my shoulders. I breathed deeply, so enraptured by his touch that I forgot my fear and anger. I leaned into him. I was home. “I missed this.”

“I missed you,” John whispered. He kissed the top of my head. “Now take the eggs off before they burn.”

I erupted out of John’s arms and lifted the skillet off the stove. There was that familiar smell—scorched eggs. With a guilty smile I divided the scrambled eggs between the two plates. After placing the skillet in the sink, I grabbed the two plates and started towards the table. John sat patiently in his spot, as young and handsome as they day I married him. I set my plate down and stepped to the other side of the table to deliver John’s plate to him, and as I did so, I caught a glimpse of my own hand—the skin was tight and free from age spots. I was young too.

Before I could walk back to my side of the table, his firm hand grabbed my arm. He pulled me in for a deep kiss, and finally, I allowed my tears to fall. 

I laughed, mostly in embarrassment, and wiped my tears away. John gently pulled my hand from my face and smiled. “I’ll always be with you, Atalie,” he whispered. I closed my eyes as the same young man I had fallen in love with decades ago wiped the tears from my cheek.

When he released me, I returned to my side of the table and lowered my head in prayer. I waited patiently for John’s voice to bless our morning meal, but it never came. 

I cracked my eyes open, and immediately felt a cold sense of dread and realization ice my blood. There was no one sitting across from me. The vase of flowers still laid on its side in the center of the table, revealing the white card I hadn’t noticed before: In Memory of John Gregory. 

I swallowed hard. 

That’s right.

John passed away a few months ago. He wasn’t...here. 

I couldn’t bear to look at my shaking hands, or the full breakfast I had absentmindedly prepared for my deceased husband. My eyes found a comfortable spot near the ceiling and stared into space while my brain tried to rationalize my actions. 

This was exactly how it had begun with John. And now…

I stared at the ceiling, until my thoughts were lost among the chirping of the birds outside.