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I think we both always figured I'd go first. It wasn't ever anything we talked about, exactly, but it made sense. I still smoked on occasion, and I smoked more than he ever did, for longer than he ever did. I was the one who damaged his liver, kidneys, ears, and who knows what else with years of drinking, drugs, and just not giving a shit. He was the one who exercised every day, who watched what he ate, who took care of himself. I only ate healthy because I'd been with him for over thirty-five years. Unless it was because of some psycho or some accident, which he'd certainly had his share of, it made sense that I'd go first.
So when he started getting short of breath, when he started having some chest pain, when he went to get checked out and we found out he had heart disease, it was a surprise. It shouldn't have been—we were both in our seventies, our late seventies, and I'd been on blood pressure medication for ten years—but it still shocked me.
I'm not sure anymore that it shocked him, actually.
Still, I was convinced I'd go first.
I woke up that morning, briefly, when he got out of bed to meditate, just like I had countless mornings before. Just like always, he brushed a kiss across my forehead and told me to go back to sleep. Sometimes I'd ignore that advice, get up with him, go watch the sun rise, but it was January, and it was cold, and it was going to be dark for another hour or so, and I was tired, so I rolled into the slight depression he left in the bed, curled around his pillow, and went back to sleep.
A couple hours later, when I woke up, I wasn't worried, even though I didn't hear any activity anywhere. I figured he was reading, or maybe had fallen back asleep on the couch, something that happened to him (and to me, to be quite honest) a couple times a week.
He couldn't go swimming like he used to every morning, not anymore. Activity intolerance, they called it. That's why he'd read, or fall asleep on the couch. I'd tried to convince him we should move to a lower altitude, that maybe he could do more if he had more oxygen available to him, but he refused to even consider it.
"This is our home, Bill," he said. And I certainly knew him well enough to know when I wasn't going to change his mind.
So I wasn't worried. I got up, pulled on a flannel shirt, a sweater, and some pants, shivering a little in the cold—once I hit 70, I just couldn't seem to stay warm. Sarah kept threatening to hire a personal chef to fatten me up, then showing up herself and cooking us months' worth and sticking it in the freezer, but I had less fat on me than I'd had since I was with the Hard Cores, no matter what I ate, and once fall hit, I was nearly always cold. I brushed my teeth and went out into the living room to say good morning, figuring a little cuddling on the couch might help me warm up.
He wasn't on the couch, though.
That's when a tiny, niggling fear blossomed in the back of my mind. I pushed it away firmly and called his name.
No answer.
Shit, I'm half deaf from years of rock and roll, and I sure as hell won't wear a fucking hearing aid—even if he'd answered me, I might not have heard him. I called for him again, though, and decided to check in the meditation room, which I'd breezed past without a glance a minute earlier.
I almost didn't see him at first, because I was used to him sitting there on his zafu and zabuton. I didn't expect to see him on his side on the floor.
I knew, right then, even though I pushed the thought away immediately, even though I called his name again and dropped on my fucking bony, arthritic knees next to him and reached for his shoulder to shake him gently awake (he's just asleep, he's got to be asleep). Even before I saw his eyes were open and felt that his skin was cool, I knew.
I thought about calling 911, thought about doing CPR, but his skin was cool, getting cold, and it was a little grey, and I knew he had to have been there at least an hour or more, because he didn't meditate longer than an hour in the morning, and it'd been at least a couple hours since he—
And that's when I lost it, when I swore at him and started to cry. I pulled his head and shoulders into my lap and stroked his face, god, his beautiful face. I leaned down and kissed his cheek, his cooling skin, and I cried. I told him he was a fucking asshole for leaving me, and I told him I loved him, and I told him the same thing I'd said 35 years ago, on our honeymoon, that he'd better be right about that reincarnation shit, because I was not letting him go, and even if I came back as a fucking earthworm, I was gonna be with him again. Still. Forever.
Fuck, why hadn't I gotten up with him? Would it have been such a hardship? I could have been with him, could have maybe done something, would have at least been there with him. . . .
I kept stroking his face, remembering all the other times I'd done that, the times he'd been in the hospital, how he'd always woken up eventually. But he didn't this time, and finally I realized I was going to have to get up off the ground and—fuck. What the fuck was I supposed to do? I was going to have to call the girls and tell them, and how was I going to make it through that?
I decided the first step was doing something about his body. I didn't want to let go, didn't want to put his head back on the floor, but if I didn't move soon, I wasn't going to be able to get up, and his body—it was his body. It wasn't him, as much as I wanted it to be, not anymore. He wasn't there anymore. I tried to close his eyes, but they wouldn't stay shut, and I thought, he'd know why; if he were still here, I could ask him. But he wasn't there anymore.
Even so, I couldn't bear to let his head just lie on the floor, so I grabbed a zabuton and let his head rest on that while I struggled to my feet and went to get the phone.
I came back into the meditation room, phone in hand, and saw him there, and it hit me all over again. "Jesus, Timothy," I muttered, pulling a chair over to him so I could spare my knees any more trauma, but I couldn't reach him that way, so I ended up back on the floor.
I looked at him again, touched his face, just looked at him.
I don't know how long I sat there before I finally dialed the phone. I didn't know who to call, so I called the hospital and asked for Jason Barrios, who kept threatening to retire but never did, like someone else I knew—fuck. I took a few breaths while they paged him, and by the time he picked up, I was back in some control.
"Bill?"
"Yeah, Jason. Listen—fuck."
"What's wrong? Are you all right?"
"It's Tim," I said, then couldn't say anything else for a minute.
"What happened, Bill?" Jason asked urgently. "Do you need an ambulance? Why didn't you call 911?"
"He's gone, Jason; it's too late. I woke up, and he was already getting cold. He must've—I figure it's been at least an hour or two already."
"Oh, Bill, I'm so sorry," Jason said after a pause. Then he got down to the nitty gritty, promising to fax me a list of funeral homes, to send one of the docs out to pronounce, taking care of some of the horrible, mundane details, then hanging up, leaving me with the phone again, knowing I couldn't put off the other calls any longer.
Sarah kept late hours at the restaurant, and it was an hour earlier in California, so I figured I'd better call Ruth first. I'd have to call her at work—I hoped like hell she wasn't in court, because the idea of explaining to her secretary why he had to page her out of some judge's chambers was too much for me to deal with.
She picked up her cell phone after one ring, though.
"Hello?" Her voice was short, perfunctory, 'I'm in the middle of a busy day,' almost a bark.
"Hey, Ruth, it's me," I said slowly, my eyes locked on a spot on the floor, away from Tim's head.
"Fuck, Bill, what's wrong?" she asked immediately. "Is it Dad?"
"Yeah," I answered heavily. "Yeah, sweetie—shit—your dad—I—"
"Is he dead?" she asked quietly.
"Yeah, Ruthie, he is. He's dead. He, he died, this morning, when he was meditating, it must have been; I got up and I found him—"
"Oh, fuck, Bill," she said, and I could tell she was trying not to cry, trying to keep it together. "Does Mouse know?"
"No, that's my next call."
"I—oh, jesus, Bill, I have to go, I have to—I'll be there as soon as I can—" and I heard her starting to sob as she hung up the phone.
Fuck.
I dialed Sarah's number with shaking hands, hoping she was awake, half hoping she wasn't, that she wasn't even home, that she'd turned her cell phone off, that she'd disappeared somewhere for however long it would take me to get ready to tell her that her father was dead. But she picked up after a couple rings, answering the phone with a cheerful hello that was so much worse than Ruthie's barked greeting.
I went through it again, and I managed to say it a little more smoothly this time—I guess practice really does make perfect—but Sarah started crying immediately, and asking me questions, and between her crying and my hearing, I couldn't understand what she was asking. After a few more tries I got that she was asking about funeral arrangements, and I added Tim's sangha to the mental list of phone calls I was going to have to make. Then she calmed down a little and said something that surprised the shit out of me.
"You need to get the list."
"The list? What list?"
"Of people to call, arrangements he made, the way he wanted things. He set it all up. He told me about it once, years and years ago. Right around the time you guys got married. I think he said it was in his desk, filed under D. He said he wasn't sure how you'd feel, knowing he'd planned all this stuff, so he never told you. I think he mentioned it again at Evan's funeral, so I'm pretty sure he kept it up to date."
"Yeah, I'm sure he did," I said numbly. "Filed under D, huh?"
"That's what he said," she answered slowly. "Fuck, Bill—he's really gone?"
I looked at his body again, touched his lips, cold now. "Yeah, he is, Mouse."
"Are you going to be okay? Is there anyone with you?"
"Jason's sending someone over," I said, not adding it was to pronounce him dead. "And I'll get that list, start making some calls—have to call Billie and Clint first."
"I'll be there as soon as I can," she said, starting to cry again. "I'll call when I know when."
"I love you, Mouse," I said, my voice cracking.
"Love you too, Bill. I'll see you soon," she said, then hung up.
Billie didn't answer her cell phone, and her work told me she was home with a sick kid, they didn't know which one. So I called her home phone.
"Hello?" croaked Evan.
"Hey, kiddo, I need to talk to your mom."
"Gramps? She's in the shower—what's wrong?"
"Tim died this morning," I said simply, wearily.
"Oh, jeez, Grandpa—oh, no. Oh, that sucks. What happened?"
"A heart attack, I'm guessing—he was meditating. I was asleep—" Fuck, why hadn't I gotten up? If I'd gotten up with him, if I'd been with him, maybe—
Evan started coughing. "Gosh, I'm sorry, Grandpa; listen, I think Mom's out of the shower. I'm going to go get her."
I heard him calling out to her, then coughing some more, then heard her voice asking him who was on the phone.
"It's Gramps," I heard him say. "Grandpa Tim died, Mom."
"Oh no," she said. "Oh, god; poor Dad," and I started crying again before she even picked up the phone. I didn't seem to have any control over it; the tears just kept coming.
I made it through that conversation somehow, although I don't really remember how. I do remember that she knew about the list, too, said Tim told her about it when Evan died.
So after I hung up the phone, I went to his office, looked in the files, under D, and found a manila envelope with my name on it. I brought it back with me to the meditation room, unable to leave him for long, wondering when the gate buzzer was going to announce the arrival of whoever was going to officially pronounce that Tim was dead, when I was going to have to call some funeral home to take him away, because he was dead.
Tim was dead.
Fuck.
Time to deal—the buzzer was going to go off any minute, and then I was going to have to call a funeral home. I needed to know if Tim had one picked out. I could handle this. Billie had handled this when Evan died, and again when it happened to Mary. I could do this.
I opened the envelope and looked at what was inside. On top was a letter in Tim's familiar handwriting, the paper a little yellowed with age.
Bill—
If you're reading this, it's because I'm dead. I'm sorry, Rock Star, sorry that I had to leave you.
Right now, as I write this, you're bunked down in the studio. We're getting married tomorrow, and I'm thinking morbid thoughts, because it was just a few weeks ago that someone tried to kill us. I doubt it's the last time, unfortunately, so I figured I should make some plans, just in case.
I love you, Bill. I'm hoping that if and when you do read this, it's after we've had many years together. Till we're 104, buddy. But even if some psycho crashes our wedding tomorrow, I hope you'll keep going without me.
In this envelope you'll find some arrangements I've made ahead of time, and some thoughts I had towards a funeral. If there's one thing that being a murder police taught me, though, it's that funerals are for the people left behind, not the person who died, so please feel free to make changes. I'd prefer a Buddhist funeral, but I really don't think it makes that much difference—if I'm destined to come back as a dog, I don't think anyone meditating to transfer merit can change that. Do what you think is best—I trust you.
That said, I have made some requests. I'll try to keep up with this through the years. I've also put a copy of my will here. I doubt you'll find any surprises there.
Take care of the girls, all three of them. And take care of yourself, no matter what. Remember the promise I made you? I expect you to do the same—expect you to stick around, to live your life, even if I can't be there with you anymore.
I love you, Bill. Always. Never forget that.
—Tim
I read the letter five or six times, until I heard the buzzer and had to let the doc in. It turned out to be Erika Hanrahan, Tim's cardiologist. She was young, not long out of residency, and I think it hit her a little hard, but she acted completely professional, examining the body while I busied myself with the contents of the envelope. In the end, she told me she figured he'd had a heart attack or a stroke, that there was no way to be sure which without an autopsy, but that by his posture she was sure he hadn't suffered. Then she gave me a hug and told me how sorry she was, that she knew how much Tim had contributed to the hospital and the community over the years.
After that, I somehow managed to make the other calls, to the funeral home he'd picked out, to a couple key members of his sangha, to the current head of the Adena Watson Memorial Fund, and to Kat, Chelle, and Deeja.
#
I don't remember much about the next few days. Flowers. I remember flowers, all around his body, and people chanting, before they closed the coffin and sent his body to be burned. And I remember the crying faces of our children, grown now, and our grandchildren.
I tried living on my own for awhile, but I sucked at it. It had been too long, and I—I guess I was lonely. I didn't take the best care of myself, lost some weight, started smoking more, until the nurse practitioner referred me to a pulmonologist for emphysema and the kids hit the fucking roof.
They all tried to get me to move in with them, but I told 'em I was fine. Truth was, I didn't give a fuck what happened to me, and they could tell. All of a sudden, Sarah announced she's sick of LA, wants to open up a new restaurant in a smaller, more friendly town. Before I knew it, she'd moved back home.
She's been living here a couple years now. I go and spend a month or so in Toronto every summer, with Billie and her kids, and a couple weeks, couple times a year, in Baltimore. And everyone comes here for Christmas.
They're all here now, too, for my 80th birthday. Tried to pull it off as a surprise party, which didn't fool me for a second, but I didn't let on.
So they throw me this huge bash, and everyone's here—Billie, Clint, Evan, and Gabe; Ruth, Alex, and Hannah; Kat and Chelle; Danny, his wife, their kids; Deeja; people from Good Sam and Flagstaff Medical; even Oxenburger. Anyone I've ever known who's still alive, it seems like, complete with kids. And grandkids. The house hasn't been this crowded since—since the funeral, I guess.
It's not that I'm not capable of having a good time. These people, they mean a lot to me. I laugh and joke around, tell some of the older kids some stories of my misspent youth, which they call me on for moralizing, and they're right, but it's all in fun. Thank everyone for their generous donations, because fortunately no one was stupid enough to think I needed any gifts, 80th birthday or not.
Still, it gets a little overwhelming after awhile. I can't follow the conversations worth a shit, thanks to my crappy hearing, and all the Jenifur and Hard Core Logo tracks in the background don't help any. Plus they bring back memories. So after I schmooze for an hour or two, I sneak off to the meditation room and watch the moon rise, relax a little in the peace and quiet, glad Tim had the forethought to soundproof the room when we designed the house.
It's a little harder for me to get into perfect position for zazen these days, but it never stopped Tim, so I get down on the floor as best I can. I've been in there about twenty minutes, and I'm just thinking of doing some kinhin, when the door opens and Ruthie steps in, closing it quickly behind her.
She doesn't say anything, just puts her hand on my shoulder before pulling out a zafu and zabuton and sitting next to me. I relax back into sitting, or try to, but I keep catching glimpses of her short, graying hair out of the corner of my eye, and all I can do is feel the ache of missing Tim.
It's getting darker, and despite my sweater, I'm starting to get cold. The twilight is evening twilight, not morning, but I shiver anyway, remembering the morning he left me.
I don't even realize I'm crying until I feel Ruth's hand wiping away a tear. I snort in self-disgust.
"I'm such a fucking putz. I'm sorry, Ruthie—"
"That's not buddies," she says mildly. "I miss him too. I guess you're not the only putz in the family, huh?"
"No, I guess not." I ring the bell, then get up to stretch. "They always say it gets easier with time. Fucking liars."
She smiles at that, then gets serious. "I love you, Bill. And there are a fuckload of people out there who feel the same way. They loved him, too, but today they're here for you."
I look at her wearily. "I know that, Nature Girl." The nickname makes her smile again. "I'm an old man, Ruth. 80 years old, and right now I feel at least twice that. Give an old man a chance to wallow, eh? I'll be back out there soon, I promise."
"That's buddies," she says, standing up and giving me a long hug. "He'd be proud of you, you know," she adds quietly. "I sure am."
My eyes burn again. "Thanks, Ruthie. For everything."
She shrugs, smiling. "It was Billie's idea."
"She's a good kid. All of you are, no thanks to me."
She cuffs me on the shoulder. "We love you. We loved Dad, and we always will. We'll always love both of you. You guys were the best parents we could have ever wished for."
"Go on, get out of here," I tell her. "Haven't I been through enough embarrassment for one day?"
She kisses my cheek with another smile and leaves.
I sit down again, and this time I don't even try to think of anything else. In a few months it'll be three years since he left me.
Fucker.
I still miss him so fucking much. I guess maybe it has gotten a little easier, but I still wake up every morning expecting to see him there, to feel his arms around me, his legs crowding mine to the edge of that huge fucking bed. It never felt that big when he was in it, taking up all the room, but it does now.
Back when I was unimaginably young, when the Hard Cores were just starting, the Police (also unimaginably young) had a song, "The Bed's Too Big without You." Fucking stupid song.
"The bed's too big without you," I sing under my breath. "A cold wind blows right through that open door. I can't sleep with your memory—dreaming dreams of what used to be. . . . "
I shake my head in disbelief at my own stupid mawkishness. Then I get up and head back to the party.
END