Date: Fri, 10 Jan 1997 10:56:28 -0800 Subject: SUB: VALENTINES: "ALWAYS,FOREVER": Short Story There's still time to send your entry! Check out http://web.mit.edu/mbarker/www/val97/val.html for details. Please reserve all critiques on contest entries until after Valentine's Day! ======================================================================= ALWAYS, FOREVER 2,350 words "I can't do this." Dorrie paused at the base of the granite staircase, looking up at the imposing brass doors of 'RejuveYou, Inc.'. She let go of her husband's hand, faced him squarely and repeated, "I can't do this." Reg smiled gently, a little sadly. "It's okay, Dorrie. You don't have to do this today. We've waited this long -- another day or two won't make any difference." Dorrie searched his old face. Years of hope and patience were evident in those lines. She drew in a deep breath, straightened her arthritic shoulders and said, "No. Not just today, Reg. I can't do this, not now, not ever!" "But. . ." She shook her head, turned and started back toward the parking lot. "I _can't_." Supper was more quiet than usual. After fifty-three years of marriage, Reginald and Dorrie Claebrooke had refined their conversations to the point where only the important things were ever said: no idle chatter about the weather, no quoting useless market information -- just the good stuff, the right stuff. But at this supper, even the good and right stuff wasn't being said. "I'm sorry," Dorrie said, at last. She's made a mountain out of her mashed potatoes. "I know how much this means to you." She dug channels around the bottom, into which the gravy pooled. "I thought I could do it, but. . ." The sentence finished in a shrug. Pause. "You could still do it," she said. Reg laughed a dry, bitter laugh. "If you think that, then you have no idea at all. I don't want it for _me_. I want it for _us_." He pushed away from the table and stomped up the creaking stairs. For the first time in fifty-three years, he'd gone to bed without kissing her good night, and for the first time that Dorrie could remember, she finished her supper alone. Dorrie had spent three days in solitude. Reg talked to her when he had to, even sometimes when he didn't, but she knew she'd hurt him to the core. She could hear it in his voice -- not what was _there_, but what was missing. "Don't you see," he'd said last night, "this will end soon? We won't live forever, Dorrie. But I want _more_. That's all. Just some more time together." And that's all he'd said. Saving their money for joint rejuvenation was something they'd decided on years earlier. They'd planned it all out, budgeted and put every spare penny away. When Dorrie turned eighty, they were both going in to knock a good fifty years off their age, and live their lives all over again. Together. Like always. Forever. The granite steps of 'RejuveYou, Inc.' were no less imposing today. It was a grey day, a cloudy day. No wind stirred the leaves in the trees, and even the birds were quiet. It was as though the day had just stopped. Dorrie climbed the steps, her swollen ankles complaining all the while. She had to stop halfway, her heart pounding more from anticipation than from effort. Was it anticipation? Dorrie wondered, then decided no. Not anticipation. Fear. Fear of doing it all over again in a world that refused to slow down. It was all changing so fast, and she didn't think she could change with it. RejuveYou might be able to make her body young again, but her mind was old. So old. Was their hope for an old soul? She climbed, and she wondered. "I'm here," she said into the phone. "You know where -- 'RejuveYou'. Yes, inside. What am I doing here? You know what I'm doing here -- I'm waiting for _you_." "We don't know what happened, Mr. Claebrooke, not exactly." The doctor held Dorrie' chart and frowned. "Your wife had a small tumour in her pituitary gland, here," he indicated on the infra-red chart, "and we think that caused the problem." "Why didn't you know?" Reg asked. His voice was quiet. He didn't look at the chart, didn't look at anything but his sleeping Dorrie. "Your wife hadn't had a complete physical in many years," the doctor said. "It was too small a tumour to show up on preliminary lab work. . ." "But it was big enough to cause. . ." He didn't know what to say. To cause _this_?' He sighed. "Is she all right?" "She still has arthritis, mild diabetes, and her heart is a little enlarged." "She has medication for those thing," Reg said. Her hair framed her serene face with a soft, grey-white fog. "Other than that, she's in great condition for a woman of eighty." "I can take her home?" Reg asked. She looked so peaceful. "Let her wake up, Mr. Claebrooke. We want to ensure that there are no psychological repercussions from the mis-hap. If your wife is willing to go home with you, then. . ." "Willing?" Now, Reg looked at the man next to him. "What do you mean willing'?" "Well," the doctor said, "perhaps she might feel more comfortable going somewhere else, with people her own age, and . . ." He stopped, and swallowed hard. Reg had turned a deep shade of red. He folded his arms and said, "And _what_?" The doctor swallowed again. "You're free to go at any time." He held out his hand. "Once again, Mr. Claebrooke -- I'm very sorry." Reg didn't shake his hand. "Dorrie?" She blinked, and opened her eyes. God, thought Reg, they're so blue, so beautiful. He smiled at her. "How do you feel?" Her eyes opened wide, and she reached for his face. The lines were gone. "You look so handsome," she said, and started to cry. He encircled her hand with his. "None of that, now," his words playfully gruff. "No need for tears." "I'd forgotten," Dorrie said. "You were -- are -- a handsome, handsome man. Was your hair really that curly?" She shook her head slightly and wiped her eyes. "I'd forgotten." "Yeah." Reg ran one hand over his head. "I'd forgotten how much I hated these curls." "Do you hate them now?" Smile. "No." Pause. "How do you feel?" Dorrie took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. She blinked and said, "You know, I don't feel any different." She shifted herself into a sitting position, then stopped. "No," she said, her voice quiet. "Not one bit different." Her hands were the same hands she had this morning. Translucent skin, contours of veins, rivers of capillaries. Liver spots. Wrinkles. Not young at all. "Oh," she said. "Oh." "We can go home anytime, Dorrie, as soon as you're up to it." "Home? With you?" Reg opened his mouth to speak, then closed it, click. "Who else?" "But you. . ." She ran one hand along his cheek. "Look at you. You're young, you're strong." Tears again. "Why didn't it work?" "You have a small tumour, hon -- nothing to worry about," he added quickly. "But, it monkeyed with the treatment, Dorrie. They don't know why, but. . ." He held her in his arms as she cried. "Take me home," she whispered. "Dorrie, you should've seen me!" Reg beamed as he rushed through the front door, arms laden with groceries. "I walked all over the market, never lost breath for a second! And my knees" -- he put the groceries on the floor and did a deep squat -- "not one rattle or groan." He gathered the bags back into his arms and kissed her as he passed by on his way to the kitchen. "I got us a watermelon," he said. "It's been a while since we had some, hey girl." "You haven't called me girl' in years," Dorrie said. He grinned and produced the ten pounder from the bag. "Good lord, Reg -- what army's gonna help us eat _that_?" "I remembered how much you loved watermelon," he said. "I can't eat all that!" "I'm going to help -- and look!" A tub of rich chocolate almond icecream joined the watermelon on the counter top. That was followed by a family size jar of peanut butter, a bag of marshmallows, four bananas and a coil of garlic salami. Reg spread his hands wide. "It's a feast," he said. Dorrie nodded. "It's quite a feast, at that." She didn't remind him that he'd forgotten her oatmeal, or that now, she couldn't eat any of his bounty. She kissed him on the head. "I'm going to bed." His eyes never left the television. "Tired already?" "Reg, it's nearly midnight!" "Nearly mid. . . and we used to be such early birds." He smiled impishly at her. "You go on then. I'll be up in a while." As she climbed the stairs, dragging one foot in front of the other, she heard him change the channel. The sound of news reports was replaced by rock videos. "And what did you do today?" Dorrie sat in the big burgundy armchair by the window, box of tissues in her lap. Her eyes were red, and her nose was running. Reg jumped and closed the door. "I didn't think you'd be home. What happened to the bridge game at Marj's?" Dorrie sniffed and wiped her nose. "Marj passed away last night, in her sleep," she said. "Her son called this morning." She dabbed at her eyes. "She was seven years younger than me, you know." Reg pulled up a foot stool and sat beside her. He took her hand in his and said, "I know. When's the funeral?" "On the weekend." Dorrie sighed. "She was the last, Reg, the last of us old girls. There's only me left, now." And Reg squeezed her hand. "I know." His side of the bed was cold. Dorrie's heart flared into overdrive, pounding and pounding against her chest. "Reg?" She tossed her covers aside and shuffled into her slippers. "Reg?" Footfalls thumping on the wooden stairs. "Dorrie? Dorrie, what's wrong?" Reg was there, beside her, his strong hands on her trembling shoulders. "I woke up, and you weren't. . ." she pointed to the bed. "I thought. . . I thought. I didn't know _what_ to think!" Reg smoothed her hair back from her face and kissed her. "I came home later last night, hon. I slept downstairs -- didn't want to wake you, banging about in the bathroom. I know what a light sleeper you are." "Where were you?" "I joined a gym yesterday," he said. "I went to the pub for a beer after I worked out. Do you know they've got thirty- seven televisions in that place? You can watch any sport under the sun." He shook his head. "Things have sure changed since I last went drinking." "Yes," said Dorrie. "They have." He kissed her again. "Sorry I scared you," he said. "You know I love you -- always and forever, right?" "Right," she said. "Hello? I've been on hold for five minutes, dammit! I know, I know but my wife's missing. What? This morning, around ten a.m. No, she doesn't have any friends. No, she's not with a relative. Don't you think I'd call them before I called you?" Sigh. "Our kids haven't seen her, and. . . yes, I do have reason to think she might be in danger. We both went in for a rejuvenation, and hers didn't take. What? Eighty years old. Doris Claebrooke, but she likes to be called Dorrie. Yes, she's been depressed. What do you mean, tomorrow? Tomorrow might be. . . yes. Yes, fine. I understand." Reg slammed the phone down. He _didn't_ understand. He didn't understand much of anything, anymore. Television made less sense the more he watched it. The magazines on the newsstands had more ads in them than news, and nearly every one read like a rag mag. Sensationalism over substance. When was the last time anyone wrote anything honestly? Gimmicks. It was all gimmicks. Buy this' or try that', or pictures implying that he'd be a better person if only he had the _right_ car. Had it been like this, all along? He'd never noticed it before. Not when he'd had Dorrie. "Think," he whispered, tapping his temple this one finger. "Think, man. She has to be somewhere. . ." And she was. In a split second, he knew. "Haven't been here for a while, have you girl?" Dorrie didn't move. She sat on the bench and stared at the fountain. Reg slid beside her and reached for her hand. Dorrie didn't respond when he took it. "It's a nice day," he said, snuggling closer. "I brought you this, just in case." He draped a light blanket around her shoulders, one she'd crocheted before her fingers got too stiff. "Never know when a wind might spring up." "Why are you still here?" He thought of a flippant answer, but didn't say it. Dorrie didn't want flippant, didn't want glib. "Where else would I be?" "Down at the pub," she said. "Watching their televisions. At the market, wandering all over the place. At the gym, all the young girls looking at you the way I used to look at you." "You _still_ look at me that way," he said. "And do you still care?" There is was. Her fear, her worry, wrapped up in a five -word bundle. "Yes," he said. "I do. More than anything, and more than ever, I do." He pulled her to him, and she let him. "You know what I found out?" She shook her head. "You can change the body, but you can't change the mind." He sighed. "I don't know what I was expecting. I can run, I don't get tired like I used to, I can eat any damn thing I choose, but so what. Yeah, they've got thirty-seven televisions, but most of the stuff is crap. I tried listening to the music, but that's even worse! And those girls that you think are looking at me. . ." he shook his head, "well maybe they are, but I don't want any of them." Reg got down on one knee before Dorrie and looked into her eyes. "You, girl. I want you. Alway have, always will." "But I'm old," Dorrie said. "And so am I -- in here." He tapped his chest. "Two old souls, you and I, but one with new packaging. I want to take care of you, hon, the way you've always taken care of me. Always and forever." She smiled and kissed him on his smooth, handsome mouth. "Always and forever." ------------------------------------------- They say it takes money to make money. They're right. You even need a coin to scratch off a lottery ticket. Michelle winebird@inreach.com