Addie’s Dance

By Mary Sincell McEwen

Mark opened his eyes and tried to focus, scrabbling to recall where he was. He trained his eyes on the wheel of Addie’s bed, and sensed the ever-present odor of rubbing alcohol, and in a short moment remembered he was lying on a cot next to his wife in her hospital room. He looked up with a fleeting hope that she might be awake, but her face was unchanged. The oxygen tube was still on her face, and her eyes were still shut. He sighed and sat up. Maybe today he would see her eyes. Maybe today she would come back.

A stroke was not something anyone expects, especially when the one is just 46. A stroke is what old people have, and it’s often merciful, ending their struggles, getting them out of here after a long and tiring life. It doesn’t happen to a woman who is watching Jeopardy and eating spaghetti with her husband and 17-year-old daughter. A woman who has stuff to do, who is involved and engaged, who has a dental appointment the next day and a literacy board meeting to attend. And the store, of course. Addie was the proprietor of a little coffee shop, a dream she had kept alive while toiling for ages as a hotel manager. Mark was proud of her, to have planned so well, and to have finally opened the doors of the little shop a few years ago. And her circle of friends was so wide that the place was often crowded. Not necessarily because all those folks wanted coffee. But because they liked her. Everyone liked Addie.

Mark felt the familiar guilt rise up, looking at his still wife. Of course they had strife. They had been married for 22 years. All couples have strife. If not, then there are most surely repressed frustrations, which can manifest into something terrible over the years. Mark told himself for the millionth time that they had done the best they could in keeping things together, in trying to keep loving each other, in working together to rear Michelle and Clay. And they were almost through that part. Clay was already off to college, and Michelle was about to follow. Now both were stopped in their tracks, too, and terrified. Addie was the glue. And now she someplace far away, and no one could find her. And once again, against his wishes, anger tried to find its way into Mark’s brain. Why did she push herself so hard? What was she trying to prove? Always busy, always involved, jumping into things and taking on everyone else’s issues. And now, here she lay, not even opening her eyes. Why did she sacrifice everything? Mark got out of bed and pulled on his jeans, forcing the anger down. But it lurked, and he knew it.

“Good morning,” said Sarah, the morning nurse. She walked with purpose to Addie’s bed, adjusted the oxygen, and checked the IV and all the other tubes and connections running in and out of the smallish form lying there. Then she smoothed Addie’s hair back from her face with a most gentle stroke. An unexpected surge of emotion rose in Mark’s chest. Sarah turned to him.

“I’ll bring you some coffee, Mark, ” she said, putting her hand on his shoulder. He was shocked to feel his throat tighten. She was so kind. “Today might be the day, you know,” she said, her hand still on his arm. Her smock had little angels all over, and the fragrance she wore was so familiar, some pleasant scent he remembered from long ago. “You just have to be patient. The prognosis is good. She’s responding to things. Her vitals are good, she’s breathing on her own, and there are other good signs. I’ve seen way worse.” And her hand slid off. The warmth on his arm remained for a moment.

“Thanks, Sarah,” was all he could muster, even though he wanted to tell her that she was a wonderful nurse, and he wished he could reach out and hug her. She went out in her silent white shoes and in a few minutes reappeared with a tray. There was coffee and a plate with eggs, ham, and toast. “Now you eat some breakfast. You didn’t have much at all yesterday, you know.” He smiled.

“I’ll try,” he said. It was true, though. He had no appetite. After years of battling a middle-age spread, having trouble turning down any food, he now nearly gagged at the idea of putting that egg into his mouth. He was sure it would be like ashes. But he would try to please Sarah. She would be happy if he ate. So he forced it. And it wasn’t terrible.

The clock seemed to stand still at 7:45 a.m. Mark needed to call the office to check in, but no one would answer until 8:30. The ease and familiarity of work seemed a distant and suddenly enviable thing. To have coffee with Brad and talk about the basketball game, to check e-mail and the day’s agenda, to stop by Madeline’s office to see what she’s wearing, and to flirt with her a little. All so foreign now, in the span of four days. He had always heard of these things, of course — world-changing events in people’s lives that leave them reeling. But Mark had not experienced many in his 47 years. This was surely the most jarring and time-stopping thing that had ever happened to him. And he was treading water with his nose just breaking the surface. He didn’t want to know that Sarah had seen worse. He didn’t want to even be in a situation where he would be categorized like that. He would have preferred, most sincerely, that it had happened to someone else.

“Good morning!” came an overly cheerful voice from the doorway. Mark looked up to see Amelia Stone’s face. He almost said “ugh.” Instead he returned her good morning, but with far less fervor.

“And how are we doing this morning?” she asked like a kindergarten teacher, swooping toward the bed.

“We’re pretty much the same,” Mark said dryly.

“Oh, now, Mark,” Amelia said, already with the condescension. “Sarah just this minute told me that she is doing all right. You have to think positively! She’ll be back on her feet in no time. You know Addie!”

Mark wanted to say a lot. Amelia would be surprised at how often she was the topic of heated discussions in his household. Many a time Addie would come stomping into the house and slamming her notebook down. All he had to say was, “Amelia?” and Addie would be off on a stream of complaints. She was the president of the literacy board and Addie was the secretary. Mark knew, better than anyone, how Addie kept the board afloat while Amelia did next to nothing, yet managed to claim most of the accolades. Amelia had no outside job and had no children, but somehow was always far busier than Addie, unable to prepare things like agendas or luncheons, unable to return calls or follow up on anything, always texting Addie to remind her to handle it all. So many times Mark pleaded with Addie to resign, but she felt the board did good things, which it did, and didn’t want to give up “quite yet.” It had been “not quite yet” for years now. So Mark gave up the argument, but refused to engage Addie anymore when she was furious with Amelia, and that often caused chilly stand-offs between the couple. Seeing her now, perfumed and neat in a form-fitting jacket and pants, perfectly coiffed, smiling down at the motionless and pale Addie, made Mark want to throw up.

“She won’t be kept down by anything,” Amelia said, her shiny red lips breaking into a smile, uncovering her great enameled teeth. “And anyway, I need her! She can’t stay away from me!” And then she laughed. Her noise echoed in the room, shrill and wrong. When she reached her manicured hand out to touch his wife, Mark couldn’t help himself.

“Don’t!” he said, louder than he meant. She jumped back.

“Don’t what?” Amelia asked, stricken, her hand coiled back to her body like he had slapped it. He took a breath.

“Just don’t touch her, okay, Amelia? I don’t want you to touch her,” he said. She stared at him.

“Why in the world not?” she asked, her tone chilled.

“I just don’t. She’s asleep. She’s resting. I don’t want you to bother her. Anymore.”

There was silence. Amelia was lost for a moment, almost as if she had been exposed. At least that’s what Mark saw. Her eyes flitted around the room as she searched for words. Mark knew she was squirming, and before a few days ago, he would have come to her rescue. But not today. He let her squirm. And he liked it. After several silent moments, she finally made an effort.

“Well, I don’t want to ‘bother’ Addie, that’s for sure,” she said, not looking at Mark. “I’ll come back when she’s awake.” She stopped and waited. “If that’s all right with you.”

“We’ll see, Amelia. I don’t want anything to stress her, not here and not when we go home. I want things to be calmer. Less to do. Less to worry about. Do you know what I mean?” he stared at her.

“Well, sure, Mark. I can understand that,” she said.

“Good. I hope you can.”

Again there was silence, and then Amelia snapped back to herself.

“Well, I have to run. Always so much to do!” she said with the voice she usually used. She gathered herself and made for the door, her heels clicking, and she blew Mark a kiss. With enormous effort, he resisted the urge to duck. Mark felt a slight sense of victory. If Addie did get better, he wasn’t going to let that woman back into their lives, end of story.

Hours passed. There was little change in Addie. Mark called the kids to give them an update, bleak and hollow as it was. He read the newspaper to the motionless patient, and turned the TV up for one of her favorite shows. Sitting next to her bed, he put his head down next to her hand, and fell asleep.

He opened his eyes and jumped. Navigating the nap fog as fast as he could, he registered the fact that his neighbor, Bud, was sitting in the other chair. Mark sat up, swiping his hand across his face.

“Hey, Mark,” Bud said.

“Hi, Bud,” Mark answered. To be in the same room with Bud was odd. He was a recluse mostly, and only spoke with the family in passing. He was always nice, but not the kind of neighbor who shows up at cook-outs or calls to chat. He was in his 60s and a widower. A contracted worker who mostly tended his garden and talked to his dog. Not so much to anyone else.

“So I heard about Addie and thought I’d stop by,” he said.

“That’s nice, Bud. Thanks,” Mark replied.

In a halting, rather new-at-it manner, Bud made small talk, telling Mark about his dog Minnie and her antics, about the birds visiting the back yard this month, and other small things, all the while glancing at Addie. Mark nodded a lot and began to wish he would wrap it up. He just didn’t have the energy to keep a light breezy chat going with a neighbor he didn’t know well. When Bud began to show signs of leaving, Mark relaxed. Bud stood up and began to wring his hands. Mark could see he had more to say, but this seemed different.

“Mark, I wanted to tell you something, too,” he said. “I sometimes watch Addie…” Mark’s face must have changed, as Bud caught himself. “No, no! Not creepy or anything!” he said, waving his hand madly. “I watch her sometimes when she does the laundry.”

Mark wondered where this was going. There was clothesline in the back yard. Addie always said hanging clothes was a chore she liked.

“You know, Mark,” Bud began, earnestly, “She’s really good at that. Do you know she hangs up sheets so that they are already almost folded when they’re still wet?” No, Mark didn’t really know that.

“She folds them, you know, over on themselves,” Bud said, demonstrating with his hands in the air. “She puts them up folded over, and doesn’t put the over the line — she attaches them to the line, folded. Then when they’re dry, she does this thing… She unpins the one end, brings it around,” he said, still demonstrating, “and puts the ends together, and then unpins the middle. And they come off folded. It’s so perfect how she does that. It’s like a dance, Mark. It is.”

Mark had no words. But he had seen her do it. Now that Bud mentioned it.

“And you know, Mark, after my wife died, I was really sad for a long time. But somehow watching Addie, doing that thing with the sheets and clothes… Somehow it made me feel better.” He paused and Mark nodded, but not because he really understood.

“And watching her, I knew…” he continued, “I knew she did that for you, and for your kids. She did that thing so perfectly, like a dance, because she wanted you to have those sheets all warm and creased just right, and so your kids would put their heads down on pillowcases that smelled like summer. And just that… just that made me feel better. I don’t know why. But it did. Still does.”

Mark, overwhelmed, could only nod. Bud went to the bedside and looked down at Addie. He touched her arm. Mark did not stop him. He awkwardly shook Mark’s hand. “I really hope she gets better,” he said, and left.

Mark sat back down next to Addie and put his head down again, mulling over Bud’s words. Laundry. So simple. But something to Bud. And now to Mark. How odd, he thought.

And then he felt it. Her hand, touching his hair. He jerked his head up, and there she was. Her eyes were open. Just slivers of blue showed, but she was looking straight at him. He gasped.

“Addie!” he said. She attempted to speak, but couldn’t do it.

“Don’t worry,” Mark said. “It’ll come back. They said it would.” He worked to keep from shouting, and buzzed the nurses’ station. He didn’t know what to say or do. He stroked Addie’s face. She smiled, although her mouth was not quite right. He told himself it would get better, too. She pulled at his hand.

“What?” he asked. “What is it?”

Unable to speak, she simply pulled on her sheet, lifting one corner and folding it over. In a moment, Mark realized what she was doing.

“You heard Bud!”

She smiled slightly again, and nodded. And she put her hand on his, over the fold.