THE WOMAN WHO LOST THE STARS

When Susan came downstairs, the maid was helping the Salvation Army men squeeze the last box through the door. The living room looked much larger without the armoire, the end table and sofa. The bookshelves, too, had been cleared of their vases, onyx bookends, Mexican pottery, and other souvenirs she'd once happily collected. Now only an old battered rocking chair shared the room with a large trunk.

Donnetta closed the door behind the laboring men, shaking her head.

“The room sure looks bare. Now you gotta buy more furniture. What you gonna put in here?”

Susan shook her head. Even if she could explain, she didn't want to tell anyone about the black dog which was ruling her life. She'd had depression before, but this was different. She couldn't work and couldn't sleep without medication, and spent the day huddling inside, sleeping sixteen hours a day. There was no hope left. She'd gotten a few days off work from her job as a grant manager in the cardiology department of the medical school, but now she'd have to make something else up. She'd been used to working fifty hours a week and usually loved her stressful job. She couldn't tell them the truth. Even though depression was supposed to be a medical condition, it wouldn't fly well with her demanding boss. But she had no energy to think about fighting anything anymore.

“I like it cleared out. Did you find any of my clothes that your daughter could use?”

Donnetta frowned. “I didn't know what you wanted me to take. You put all them dresses out on the bed—they going to the cleaners?”

“No, I don't want them. I'm not going to wear them again. Kamesha can have whatever you want to take, it's okay.” Susan went to the book boxes on the floor and began loading the heavy decorative books.

The maid was still standing uncertainly by the door, dust rag in hand.

“You're getting rid of all the picture books, too? That's a lot of good money you paid for  those books.”

Folding the carton flaps and reaching for the tape, Susan shrugged. “I don't want all this stuff around me. It feels heavy, like everything's on top of me. Did you want any of them?”

“Maybe this one with all the pretty stars.”

Susan handed Donnetta a hardback copy of the Hubble Telescope Anniversary Gallery and smiled as the chestnut brown hands turned pages of photographs of star fields, dust clusters that looked like an eagle, and an exploding nebula whose pink streaks were like a flower unfolding. Donnetta couldn't possible understand how they'd been produced, with color filters for oxygen, hydrogen, and other atoms.

“You remember when you showed this book to me? When I was growing up we had a lot of stars back in the country. But here in Dallas they wasn't as many as they was then. I thought maybe they had gone away, in a natural way, you know? When I went back to east Texas to my auntie's, they still had the stars there. So I guess they was there all the time?”

Susan's dullness gave way to shock. She knew Donnetta had dropped out of school in the third grade, but obviously she'd never understood what that meant. Imagine not knowing that it was the light from the city that blocked the stars, thinking that they had faded like endangered species.

“Yes, they were there. There are still a lot of stars you can see even in the city, you know,with a telescope. Wait a minute, I have a little one.”

Looking for the three inch refractor she'd put in recycling, she refused to think of her CelestronNexStar 130 SLT with all the accessories she'd sold last week to Murray Turner, an old friend in the Sidewalk Astronomers Club. His eyes told her her didn't understand why she let him have her prize reflector at a tenth the cost she'd paid for it. But he'd loaded it onto his battered pickup after counting out worn twenties into her hand. Another part of her life she didn't want anymore.

She found the telescope and frowned. Donnetta's grandkids wouldn't be able to see much without the tripod to steady the tube, which was why she'd tossed out the battered old thing, anyway.

“Donnetta, this is broken, but I think I could fix the mount. Can you wait a minute for me? Your grandkids would love it—they could look at the moon with it.”

Donnetta was shaking her head. “No, I'm gonna miss my bus if I don't go. I'll take the book and get a dress for Kamesha. You keep that telescope, Miz Waters. I'll see you Monday."

Susan nodded, but she was only pretending. She wouldn't see anybody Monday. The room was quiet and empty. Sunset poured orange through the windows and made the bare bookcases glow. After getting a glass of water, she started to set the glass on the end table, caught herself, and put it on the floor. She lifted the lid of the trunk and took out an old quilt, wrapping it around her tattered Saturn T-shirt and the paint-stained pants she'd crawled into. She opened her purse and caressed the medication bottles. Soon all the blackness would be over. Now she had enough pills. She had counted them twice today. But did she want to take them with water, just like an ordinary day? Surely she had some wine.

She went to the yellow-tiled kitchen and checked the refrigerator. A half-empty six pack of beer looked back at her. She hated beer. This was leftover from Ron's last visit weeks ago. There was no wine. From the back of the pantry she pulled a dusty bottle of Kahlua. It wouldn't taste good without coffee, and did she want to brew any? It might keep her awake longer. The hell with it, she thought taking the Kahlua back to her rocking chair.

She was fingering the plastic bottles again when her cell phone rang. She froze, letting the voicemail pick it up. When she looked at the caller ID, she saw it was her sister Jillian, leaving a worried message.

“Sue, this is Jillian. Please pick up. I'm really worried about you. Please call me.”

I shouldn't have quoted from The Wasteland in that email. Susan thought. “This is the way the world ends, not with a bang but a whimper,” would probably worry anyone.

But now a beautiful crescent moon had succeeded the orange sunset, with Venus bright above it. She picked up the Kahlua, drank it straight from the bottle, and shuddered. Going back to the kitchen she saw again the battered old telescope. It had been the first thing she'd ever bought with her own money, saving up quarters and dollar bills from babysitting and extra chores, poring over the scientific catalog for months until she began to despair of earning enough. Impressed by her concentration and determination, her parents had surprised her, giving her the rest of the money as a present.

For years as an eager amatuer astronomer she had watched dark sky objects and distant star clusters, trading up to bigger telescopes, pondering her next accessory purchase. This little tube was no more than a toy, used to amuse her nieces and nephews when they came over. Suddenly, before she knew it was even coming, a tear slipped off the end of her nose. I'll never have children to share this with. I'm 50 and the man in my life has dumped me for someone who could still give him...

She reached for the purse and its pills, but somehow the little telescope was in her hand. She looked again at the crescent moon. When she steadied the tube on the window sill and looked into the eyepiece, she caught her breath. The jagged edge of dawn was spreading across the moon. Dark mountains at three hundred degrees below zero were giving way to a sharp bright glare as the sun caught them. This had been the first view of other worlds she'd ever seen, and she could still remember her teen-aged awe.

It wasn't possible to look at the sky for long without the tripod, and she found it, back with the other metal recycling. The mounting screw was stripped, but she could duct tape the tripod and mount together for a rough fix. The duct tape was right there on the mantel.

I'm tired,she thought. I don't want to do this anymore. The blackness wasn't responding to the meds, or the sleeping pills, or anything, which was why she had a different new bottle in her purse. This probably wouldn't work either, but she could add this bottle to the other medications she had saved.

She tugged at the corner of the old quilt, wrapping it around her. The moonlight fell on an old scrapbook in the trunk, her report on Galileo. One of the things that impressed most about him was that he'd made his marvelous discoveries with a telescope not much more powerful than the toy next to her. When he published the movements of three tiny moons of Jupiter, he'd shattered the certainties of his world.

She picked up the duct tape. It wasn't Venus she wanted to see. Wrapped in her quilt, careless of how she looked, she carried the tripod, the little telescope, and the duct tape to the elevator. A couple dressed for an evening out looked at her curiously, but she ignored them. When she got to the roof, it seemed like a bad idea. The edge of the roof was calling to her. But the building was only five stories high. People had survived those kind of falls. She found the strength to move away from the edge.

On the dark cool roof she could see that Jupiter rode high in the ecliptic. She bent to the viewpiece and saw the ruler of the solar system with two tiny dots next to it. Tomorrow if she looked again, the little dots would be in a different place. Those tiny lights were enough to revolutionize all of astronomy and shake the foundations of the Church.

Looking at the windows of the apartments around her, she felt a tug of pain, thinking of all the people who were together and happy. But maybe she wasn't really alone. The way Murray had looked at her spoke of his interest, and she had the other club members and her sister.

Holding the quilt more tightly, she gazed at the sky again. Who had lost the stars, the woman who never knew they still existed, or the one who knew all their secrets and was willing to throw them away? For now it was enough to be here looking at her familiar friends, and to be breathing and alive. She'd call Jillian in a bit. Tomorrow she might call Donnetta and help her grandchildren look at the moon. It was time to look up.


_________________________________________________________________________________
Note: I was once asked the question about the stars dying out, and this was the basis for the story.  There are also many Sidewalk Astronomers groups whose only goal is to encourage enjoyment of astronomy. They are free to join, and you don't have to own any equipment. 

JOHN FELL OFF THE DOG TODAY

IMPROVING COMMUNICATION WITH CAREGIVERS AND CHILDREN

I've learned my lessons in the working mother field through on-the-job training, when a few notes might have helped me cope easier. For example:

ONE

Avoid the booby traps.

In the transition from work to home, try to absorb bad news without getting distracted.

Even though you may not be ready to hear about the dog episode when you cross the threshold, both the guardians and the guarded will have waited hours to spring this on you.

Don't stop to ask how eighteen-month old John got on the dog in the first place. If he is still breathing, moving all limbs and making the normal amount of noise, you may want to wait for that answer.

Keep your priorities straight. Let the kids follow you into the bathroom and bedroom as you change clothes, but don't respond to anything until you are sitting down with that cold glass of tea. Or wine if it sounds serious.

TWO

When the children get old enough to call you at work, don't let them.

No matter how many times you tell your children not to call except for emergencies, they will not figure it out. They don't know that nothing makes your heart race and your vision blur more than the words, “your child on line one.” Your competence, poise, charm, and simple sanity can evaporate as terrible scenarios flood your mind.

No. You are going to hear that the lizard is out of crickets, or there have been criminal conspiracies in Monopoly. If you can, bribe your co-workers into taking the calls so they can get the details calmly. Then you can listen to their child's Chutes and Ladders meltdown. Now the only thing that will give you the fear of impending doom is, “your sitter on line 1.”

THREE

Blood is thicker than water, but it looks like a lot more.

You will want to repeat this information often because we are genetically programmed to regard any blood loss as a life threatening event. Usually it's not. Have your child, or the person responsible for him, grab the nearest piece of cloth and press down firmly on the bleeding area. Forget about those cute little pressure points. If it's a nosebleed, tip the head back, pinch the nostrils shut and don't let up. Do this for five solid minutes. Get out the timer, because that's approximately two-and-a-half eternities when something is dripping. If it's still oozing, do another five minutes. This method will work 99 and 99/100's of the time. If it didn't, we'd all have been goners the first time Eve saw the red stuff.

FOUR

There WILL be the D.E.A.R. Times:

DROP EVERYTHING AND RUN

There will be those rare events no mother ever wants to experience, when a true emergency has occurred. If you had been at home when it happened you might feel less guilty, but you probably couldn't have prevented it anyway. Save your adrenaline surges for then. When you really do hear the sound of doom, run. You will amaze yourself when you hang up, smoothly transfer the client or the project or the patient to someone else, and calmly call the other parent or best friend to meet you. You will fight your way through rush hour traffic or the tornado sirens with the skill and grace the Earnhardts would envy, all without a tear or a backward glance. And you will do it because “you're the mommy, that's why.”

P.S. John fell off the dog because the 5-year old was climbing up the refrigerator at the same time and even you couldn't have been in two places at once. So thank your caregiver, and don't forget the Social Security.

WALK ON BY

  

When I lied to myself that I was only checking up on him, my cell weighed five hundred pounds. I was just checking to see if he were okay, like a friend would. I hadn't talked to him since that horrible scene two weeks ago. I handled hundreds of calls every day in the pharmacy. I could be cool and professional this one more time with him.

“Yeah, who's this?” He hadn't changed the way he answered the phone. Lady Gaga's “Bad Romance” was pounding hypnotically in the background:

“Ooh, la, la,la, la

Ooh, caught in a bad romance

Rah, Rah, ah ah ahh

Ro ma, ro ma, ma ah ah

Ga gah, ooh la la

Want your bad romance”

“Cris, it's Layla. Look, uh, you doing okay?”

“I don't want to talk. I'm putting your stuff outside in a bag. Don'tcha call me again. I've gotten nothing to say. I really feel like crap today—think maybe I've gotten some bad poison ivy.”

His words were slightly slurred. I imagined him at the phone in his white kitchen, clutching a glass of wine while he sliced an expensive round of cheese. He was a food snob, using the jargon he'd learned in cooking school to lord it over me.

“A full-bodied Merlot, isn't it? Such a fine finish it has, as if it makes any difference to you. God, Layla, don't wrinkle your nose at the Brie. I know it's not the Velveeta you're used to, but couldn't you try to develop taste buds like a grownup?”

I pushed away memories of his sarcastic monologues.

“Chris, I wanted to ask you if you were all right. I really meant what I said about wondering if you're depressed. You're just so angry all the time, and sometimes that is a sign of--”

“Cut that out. You're not a therapist, and don't try that crap on me. You're making my head hurt. I've got a migraine anyway. Look, it's over. Get over it.”

The pharmacy tech was already at my elbow, reminding me that I had only five minutes on my break. I turned away from her, trying to reach beyond Chris' rage to the man I'd fallen in love with. It had been so very good with him, his velvety warm mouth slowly brushing my breasts—my eyes were full as I struggled for words. There had to be something that could bring him back to me.

His short laugh distracted me.

“You can quit worrying about me being depressed. One of the drug reps I play golf with gave me some Lamictal. It's helping me not sweat the small stuff. God, I've got to go, Layla. I've got this frog in my throat and this damn poison ivy is killing me. Have to get after them at the golf course. I feel like dog crap. Don't even try to hook up with me again. I'm putting your stuff in a trash bag.”

My mind was falling into blackness as he spoke, but I was distracted by his casual mention of a dangerous medication.

“Chris, you shouldn't be taking Lamictal. Didn't you tell me that you'd gotten some Dekpakote, too? You can't take those together. Didn't you read the warnings?”

The click of the receiver was my only response. He'd hung up on me. I slowly folded my phone, walked out of the break room, and picked up one of the blinking phone lines. For the next twenty minutes, I filled new prescriptions, poured out the refills, and did patient counseling. I moved on automatic as I replayed the scene.

Chris wasn't feeling well, and thought he was getting poison ivy. He'd also said he had a frog in the throat. I had a terrible feeling that I know what was really happening. Lamictal was a good drug for seizures, and even for depression, but one really bad side effect was a severe rash which could blister the entire body, mouth and eyes. It was also a cause of angioedema which could cause the throat to close rapidly. And chances of both of these side effects were worse if someone was on Depakote. From the way that Chris was talking, he might be at the beginning of a crisis. I should do something, call his doctor, call 911. Or maybe he was just getting more drunk and slurring his words.

I nodded pleasantly to the elderly woman who'd been confused about her medications and who was now thanking me.

“You're such a helper to me. So sweet every time I come in here. You are an angel.”

The chief pharmacist overheard her and chimed in,

“Yes, Layla is our best pharmacist. She works hard, helps out everyone on the team, and never lets the pressure get her down. We could use a dozen of her.” The supervisor beamed in my direction, his round face and mustache cheerful.

But now I was growing faint, and I smiled weakly at him.

“Aiden, could you catch the front for a moment? I have to run to the bathroom.”

In the restroom I pulled out my cellphone and called Chris. No answer. I imagined him fallen on the floor, choking, blisters growing all over him. He was alone in his elegant kitchen, with the marble work station and the copper pans, and all the special spices he'd bought.

When we started dating, I admired him for his expertise with food, the quick way he could take a few leftover ingredients and pull together a special dish. Once he'd taken some leftover chicken, whole grain spaghetti noodles, soy sauce, and some honey roasted peanuts, and created a Thai dinner before my eyes. I had never learned anything about cooking. My family didn't think about anything but getting calories on the table.

He'd mock my efforts, saying,

“You probably think Vienna sausages in biscuits is the height of cuisine. And special sauce is what Mcdonald's puts on the Big Mac. What is this slop, a trailer park special?”

Surely I needed to call 911 to rescue him. I was about to hit my speed dial, when my tech opened the restroom door.

“Layla, you okay? Things are getting a little stacked up now, and Aiden wondered if you could come back.”

I leaned my head against the stall door. If I didn't do anything, who would know? It would be an accident. It wasn't as if I'd deliberately caused it. I'd warned him. Surely that was enough. He was an adult. No one would ever find out.

“Oo, oo, la la la

Rah,rah, ah, ah, ah,

I want your bad romance.”

But I didn't want that anymore. I slowly slipped my cell phone back into my pocket. My own soundtrack was Dionne Warwick:

“Walk on by,

Oh, walk on by, don't stop,

Oh, walk on by, don't stop,

 Baby leave, you'll never see the tears I cry”

In the white kitchen the music played on over the still figure on the floor. After a sudden thrashing fall that upset the cast-iron skillet and spilled olive oil and wine to the floor, there had been some strangled sounds, some jerking, and then no movement at all.

FRANK GOES TO THE DARK SIDE

 

As I levered the fifty-five pound sack of cat food into my cart, I practiced the new strength training I'd learned at the YWCA. I kept my back straight, lifted with my knees and guided the sack in easily with my new increased upper body strength. Maxine and Willie would now have a huge supply of their favorite food, courtesy of Sam's Club. Heading to the checkout, I reminded myself to pick up a new camera memory card. I planned to enjoy every minute of my Venezuela scuba vacation, and now I didn't mind my picture being taken. My new denim skirt was two sizes smaller than before, and the burgundy scoop neck T-shirt I was wearing with it looked good on me.

Bam! A grocery cart smacked into my back. I turned, annoyed, to hear a familiar voice say,

“No! No chifles tanto. You hurt the lady!” Frank Reyes was scolding a small boy of about six.

“That was a fast honeymoon,” I thought to myself. My mother had called that morning to say that she had spotted Frank's name in the bridal section of the paper, and she never did understand why we broke up.

“Gotta go, Mom,” I'd told her, “I'm leaving for Venezuela tomorrow.”

Frank had finally stopped scolding the frightened little boy, and was now looking up to apologize.

“I'm so sorry—Oh! Lanie? Is that you? How are you? I mean really right now—are you okay—did that brat of mine hurt you?”

He glowered down at the child who seemed no more than five.

“No, please don't worry. I'm fine. Oh, and my mother said you got married yesterday? I put the question into it because I really wanted to know about the little boy.

I checked out through the register as he continued to talk.

“Yes, she's wonderful, her name is Vanessa. She has a son, Gabriel here. He's six.

I smiled and nodded. Etiquette had been preserved. I headed to the exit.

Before I could leave he had caught up with me and tugged at my arm. His voice was as captivating as it had ever been, smooth and low.

“Look, I haven't seen you in ages. Can you have a cup of coffee with me? It really hurt me to get your email. You hear about people breaking up that way, but I never thought you were that kind of person.”

But I had been that kind of person, needing to cut him off without getting hooked in by his gorgeous smile and fantastic kisses. I'd been in thrall to him and let him cut me off from my friends, give in to his demands, and receive the brunt of his jealous accusations. The slapping and finally forcing me into the bedroom had come, I saw now, as a logical extension. But I didn't want to make a scene now, so I said only “You never listened to me. I told you I was going on to college and that I didn't think it could go anywhere with you, and you never listened to me.”

He never listened, I reminded myself silently, because I hadn't had the strength to speak loud enough. Sometimes he could be brilliantly funny, tender, romantic, giving me little gifts and surprises. I never knew which Frank he was going to be when he came through the door. Now I wanted to get away without making a scene. He was still holding my arm.

Fumbling on, I said the wrong thing, “I wanted to get on with my studies, and you wanted to go right into construction work.”

His face reddened. “Yeah, well, I did good with the construction work. Got my own company, got a new F-350, and this Rolex is the real thing, too.

He could have added that he was still handsome. He filled out his blue Polo shirt better than he had in his skinny high school days, and with an open shirt and long hair he could have posed on a romance cover.

Trying  to pull away from  him, I said, “We had different goals. I teach at UTSA now. I'm doing what I want to do with my life, you're doing what you wanted to with yours. Excuse me, I need to go.”

“It was your parents, wasn't it? They put you up to sending that email because they didn't think a Latino was good enough for their daughter. I could tell that.”

“Actually, my mother--”

Now he was starting to yell. “I can't believe you threw away the best loving you'll ever have in an email! An email!”

People were starting to stare at us, and all I wanted to do was placate him and get away. Then a sense of calmness come over me. He hadn't changed, but I had.

Taking a deep breath, I said, “Frank, I'm sorry that I didn't tell you in person before. I really broke up with you because you wanted me to give in to you all the time, and if I didn't you'd get angry and completely out of control. Now get out of my way.”

He stared at me, eyes obsidian with rage. I shoved my cart past him, and headed to the new Civic. My heart was still pounding, although I was proud of myself. Getting free from the need to please angry men—I had thought the counseling could never pay off. I drove off smiling, thinking of blue waters and gorgeous fish.

FRANK TAKE ONE

Standing in the line at Sam's Club with a fifty-five pound sack of cat food, I begin to lecture myself.

      “It's got to stop. You can't save them all.” 

 

But I had raced to the shelter yesterday after spying on Frank's wedding, and liberated a calico kitten, and now there would be nine cats in my house.

It had been a gaudy wedding with five bridesmaids in purple and the groomsmen's cummerbunds in the same color. Dozens of brown skinned, dark-haired children had skittered up and down the steps of St. Rita's, defying the summer heat. My car had hidden in the shade of tall live oaks, as I watched the photographer take picture after picture of the lovely bride and proud groom.

Bam! A grocery cart smacked the small of my back. I turned, furious, and heard a familiar voice say, 

 

      “Mijito, no! You hurt the lady. No chifles tanto!

Frank, Francisco Reyes, was scolding a small child and hadn't looked up yet. I thought about wheeling my cart away quickly, but I had a sudden rush of desire and couldn't move.

The next instant his handsome face was creased with apologies and he was beginning to say, 

      “I'm so sorry...” when he recognized me and blurted out, “Lanie! Oh my God! It's—how are you? And right now, are you okay, did the cart hurt you—this is my son Panchito.”

      “Your son? But you just got married yesterday?”

      “Now how did you know that? But I guess it was in the papers. I'm divorced.”

He laughed out loud, exposing two gold crowns not present when we were sweethearts in high school ten years earlier. His blue Polo shirt fit his frame, now filled out and solid. A big gold watch on his left arm might be one of those fancy name brands. I didn't know. I was wearing one of my series of watches from the Dollar Store.

      “I mean, I was divorced. I have two children, Panchito here, actually Francisco Junior, is six and Gabriella is eight.” He looked down at me, still smiling.

      “Panchito must apologize to you, but I don't know your name now. Is it still Decker?”

      “Yes. I'm still single. I'm a professor at UTSA, never had the time.” 

      “So you really were that serious about your studies after all. I must admit, I was really hurt by your email. You hear about somebody breaking up that way, but I never expected you to be that type. I would have thought you'd come talk to me. Tell me to my face.”

His expression closed and his black eyes questioned me.

      “It was my parents,” I suddenly hear myself saying, words I've wanted to release for years. I stared down at my faded green sweatshirt and my scuffed SAS loafers.

      “They told me that if I kept dating you, they wouldn't pay for college, not a penny.”

Now my voice quavers, but I glance up. His eyes are like obsidian, fathomless.

      “Why? Why did they want me to disappear from your life?"

I can't answer him because my mind is full of images from high school, when we spent hours in each other's arms, breathing in each other's breath.

“I am ashamed to tell you but it was because...”

      “I already know. They made their attitude towards Latinos clear from the beginning. But you went along with it and that hurt.”

      He sighed. “You made that choice--”

      “It was them”--He must understand that it wasn't my fault, not my responsibility.

      “No. It was you. You accepted their values.”

Then he smiled again, that agonizingly beautiful smile.

      “It was for the best, because I met Elena that fall, and without her I never would have had Gabby and Panchito. I'm sure it was the best for you, too.”

Our carts had reached the parking lot now, and he headed left towards a new Chevrolet Tahoe.

      “Goodbye, Lanie. Have a good one.” And he turned to his son, arranging the carseat straps on him with practiced hands, unconscious grace and strength in his movements.

      “Bye, Frank,” I answer blindly, thinking that the Humane Society shelter would still be open. Ten cats is only one more than nine. Ten is a good number. I had hit the speed dial for the shelter by the time my cart reached my old Honda Civic.



 

AND AN ISLAND NEVER CRIES

I leaned my forehead against the sliding glass door and told my mother that I didn't know when we could have my husband's funeral. The Texas Hill Country was green with live oaks, but powdered dust lay on the road. We really needed rain. "Mom, I asked Randy to do an autopsy. He's doing me a favor to put Mac ahead of the rest. I don't know when he'll finish. A day or two, maybe."

 "Maybe? Georgia,  honey, the whole family is here and"---she bit her lip. "I'm not trying to worry you, but your Dad's blood pressure has been way up. He forgets his medication and gets agitated when I remind him, and--Lord, I know it's so hard on you."

"Something's not right," I said, still leaning against the cool glass. "I want to be sure. I'm not going to tell Randy to stop now. Look, I never thought I'd have to think about a funeral when I'm only thirty-nine. It's so crazy for me with Mac not being here."

 She was silent for a moment, an unusual thing. I watched the children playing outside. We had two acres of land just outside Boerne, ten miles north of San Antonio, with tall twisting live oaks and a lawn we'd sown with wildflowers. In a few months there'd be a glorious blanket of Indian paint brush, bluebonnets, yellow daisies, and pink primroses, an amazing show of God's beauty. Now it was dry with yellow straw. Mac McIntyre and I had built this house as a refuge from our jobs at University Hospital. He'd been anesthesiologist, and I was a surgical pathologist. We had driven one car to work, sharing a ride, sharing our lives. Three days ago I'd had everything I ever wanted.

 My sixteen year old, Elizabeth, was hunched on the porch swing with her favorite pink sweatshirt pulled over her knees. Two of her cousins were with her, but she stared ahead blankly, not seeing them. She'd pulled away from me every time I'd reached to comfort her. My son Andrew, eleven years old, had curled up in my lap earlier today, wanting to be cuddled. This afternoon he was defending the top of the wooden fort from another cousin. His red curls bobbed bright. Suddenly I saw my big red-headed bear of a husband laughing as four-year old Elizabeth stood on top of the fort for the first time. My eyes blurred and I couldn't see anything.

 "Mom, I'm going for a walk. I'm sorry if everyone feels cooped up, but they can go home if they want to. I'll bury Mac all by myself if I have to." I walked down to the gate, refusing the offer of Spunky and Rambler to go with me. The dogs crowded disconsolately against the gate when I let myself out, then loped off toward the back of the house, the yellow lab leading the black mutt as usual. As I walked on I noticed that the prickly pear was dong well along the fence line, purple fruits shining against the gray-green pads. My neighbor's huisache tree was sending long silky lemon-yellow streamers down over its branches. The scent always meant the beginning of spring to me.                                                                                                  

In five minutes I was at the corner where Mac and I walked three times a week. We always turned from Marlin Drive onto Aqua on the way home. The houses were a mix of old and new Hill Country living. Behind me were the frame houses of Tarpon Springs, set back from the road with chain link fences and open metal gates, typical of rural Texas. Ahead was the Fair Oaks Ranch subdivisions, with mansions topping the low hills for a better view. Our own home was a hybrid, a large lot with huge live oaks, a metal fence with a gate, and three thousand square feet in a contemporary design.

As I looked at the new construction,  I realized that Pam and Terry had come up behind me. My neighbors were artists, cheerful bohemian types who called their house the BOMOMA, Boerne Museum of Modern Art, and decorated it inside and out with eccentric touches. Outside sculptures in their yard popped metal heads above their weedy natural grass lawns. Mac and I chuckled about them, as Terry and Pam no doubt laughed about our barbecue grill, sprinkler system, and massive log fort. But we had become good friends just the same.

 Pam nodded a greeting to me, a muted version of her usual cheerful hello. Her graying hair hung down in the style she'd had since her college days, and she carried a print cloth bag slung diagonally across her body. I had run out of the house in my oldest jeans, a dirty white long-sleeved T-shirt, and a down vest. I turned to face them.

 "I had to get out of the house. I'm glad you guys are here. I haven't been able to get a walk..."I stopped talking as I realized just where I was. We all stared at the scars on the road, the swerving black skid marks which stopped about thirty feet ahead of me. It was too easy to imagine the speeding teenager, the thud, the broken body tossed to the side of the road. Suddenly I was overcome by my hatred. What an idiot I had been to start walking without thinking! But it had happened so close to home. Was I forever going to be trapped in my house because my husband had died four-tenths of a mile from his front door? Everything and everyone was closer in a small town. The sixteen-year old driver was in Elizabeth's grade at Champion High School. He had worked at the HEB grocery store where we shopped. Would I have to leave my place of refuge, as well as the love of my life, just to avoid all memories of Mac's death?

Today, though, it was definitely too soon to be here. I bent over the ditch, vomiting and crying, and only stopped when Pam patted my back comfortingly. Looking at the road again, I still saw the horrible black marks, but now I noticed something odd about them. "Look at that," I pointed."the tracks stop in the middle of the road. I thought the kid came around Marlin too fast onto Aqua, and caught Mac at the corner, but look. What was Mac doing way out in the middle of the road? Our house is to the right."

 Terry advanced to the end of the skid marks, his gray ponytail hanging over his denim jacket. "Georgia, you're right. From what the paper said, I thought it was like you said, at the corner. But didn't the boy say that Mac was out in the road?"

"Yes, but I didn't believe him. The police said he'd been speeding, and they gave him a breathalyzer, which he passed. I thought he was lying about where he'd seen Mac." They were silent, then Pam said, "But couldn't he have been walking a different route that morning?"


"No. He'd been gone for thirty minutes. He was coming home." A cool breeze rumpled my hair and I shivered. The down vest wasn't enough to keep me warm. I'd never been cold in it, but then I'd always had my husband next to me.

All of a sudden I wanted to be anywhere but at this intersection. "I've got to go. I've got a house full of people. They all want to help, but because I want a full autopsy on Mac, it's slowing down the services."

Pam grimaced. "Why do you want one? I would think that as a pathologist, you'd be the last person to want it. You know what they're really like."

 "I do know. But this is the only way I can know for sure how Mac died. Coroners always said that it's the last debt that we owe the dead."

When I got back to the house, my brothers were watching a football game on TV, but they clicked off when I came in Respect for the widow, I guess, For the first time in my life I envied the Victorian women. At least they knew they had to wear black for a year and not go out into society. Today mourning roles were unclear. After a funeral and a reception at the bereaved's house, everyone but the family could return to their lives.

My family had come down to support me. I had let them down by my delay. I took a deep breath before telling them I'd get on with it. The phone range, almost unheard in the crowded den. My sister-in-law grabbed it and handed it to me over the heads of several small children. I took it into my room. Clothes and coats were stacked on the king-sized bed, which helped narrow its achingly large emptiness.

. Randy's high-pitched whiny voice broke into my thoughts. "Georgia? I'm glad I could catch you. You were right to suspect something. This was absolutely fascinating, quite a combination of natural and traumatic causes of death. Quite unique, actually! I'm glad I got to see this!"

Randy Farnsworth had been the ultimate awkward nerd of my medical school class. He might have had Asperger's, or just been very shy. He always meant well, but had no communication skills at all. The rowdies of the class had teased him, and I had laughed then,too.

 Now I hung anxiously on his words. "I don't care how exciting it was, tell me what you found!"

 "Oh, sorry, sorry. Mac had a cerebral aneurysm. It was a berry aneurysm and it bled, badly. It had spread pretty far and was already compressing his brainstem. They go very fast once they get to that point, you know. Sure, the accident caused a lot of trauma, but he wouldn't have lived another two hours. Nothing could have saved him, Georgia."

 I set down the phone blindly. That's why Mac had been out in the middle of the road. He had been staggering wildly as the enemy in his own brain launched its assault. The boy was right about his story. Even though he may have been speeding around a corner, he wasn't the sole cause of Mac's death. When an aneurysm burst, it caused the worst possible headache in the world. Then came the loss of motor control and vision. Mac would have become confused and terrified. He had probably never seen the car at all. Even the pain of the impact might have been lessened if he were semi-conscious from the bleeding inside his skull. Being struck down like that had probably saved him hours of agony. I had asked for an autopsy and now I knew the truth. I could feel the edge of my icy hate for the teen driver start to melt.

 "Mom!" I shouted as I burst back through the door, startling everyone."Mom, it's okay. They finished the autopsy and it's okay. He had a bleed in his head, and now that I know that, it's okay. We can have the funeral tomorrow." I ended up sobbing in my mother's arms.

 A week later I lay curled up under a quilt in the too-big bed. I thought about the job Randy had offered me. I wasn't sure I could face University Hospital anymore, alone. But Randy had offered me an opening at the Bexar County Crime Lab downtown where I could re-certify as a forensic pathologist. Concentrating on a new field of study would be a distraction from my grief. After all,it was because of the medical examiner's office that I had any peace at all. When I learned the truth, I had been given a gift. Maybe in the future I might be able to give it back to someone else. I made a decision. In the morning I would call Randy and take the new job. Pulling my pillows as tight as I could against the empty space that would never go away, I took a deep breath and closed my eyes.