Imaginary Friend - Stephen Chbosky Page 0,42

he was a kid. Like his parents when he was a middle-aged man. Like the men he served with in the army. The only person he ever dared to love as a grown man was gone. And now, his only companionship came within the walls of Shady Pines. All of these old people like kids left in day care with Mom and Dad never coming to pick them up again. All of these nurses and doctors who tried their best to give them some quality of life. And that nice Mrs. Reese with the great smile.

His wife was gone.

By this point, everyone had told him in one manner or another that he needed to move on. “Move on to what?” was his response. He knew they were right. But his heart refused. He woke up every morning remembering the sound of her breathing. The way she wouldn’t throw away anything (except his things, of course). And right now, he would give anything for one more morning of a good fight with her over bacon and eggs. For the chance to see her flesh wither. As his did. And telling each other the lies about how beautiful their bodies still looked. But the truth of how beautiful their bodies actually were to each other.

That’s the kind of thing that Anne would say. A mixture of self-help and “walk it off” working-class Irish. Every morning now, he would wake up and turn over on the bed. And instead of her face, he would see a plastic cup of water. The old people weren’t allowed to have glass here. Not after Mrs. Collins’ mother cut herself up in a bout of dementia. The old man kept his wits about him. Thinking about escaping this place like Clint Eastwood and Alcatraz. He could escape Shady Pines, but there was no escaping old age. Not with two bad hips, two worse eyes, and enough arthritis to make a thirty-year-old cry. Not to mention war wounds, inside and out. Growing old was not for sissies indeed. And the physical pain was the least of it. He could take watching boyhood heroes become footnotes. He could even handle seeing his color memories become black-and-white footage. But the old man knew he would never get over the death of his wife as long as he lived.

Ambrose was raised Catholic, but ever since his brother died when they were kids, he thought that no God could let what happened happen. Seeing an empty room where his brother used to be. Seeing his mother cry like that. Even his father. Since that moment, there were no thoughts of God. There was only a staunch belief that we are carbon and electricity and that was that. When you’re dead, you’re dead. And his Anne was in a beautiful plot that he visited when the shuttle could take him. And when he was lying in the ground next to her, her photographs would be thrown in the trash because her face wouldn’t mean anything to anyone else. He was the last person alive who knew her and loved her. Like his little brother. Like his mom and dad. Like his wife, who said, “Don’t worry. Dead is just an asleep you don’t wake up from.” His wife, who made him promise to throw her a traditional Irish Wake with the joke, “You can’t have a good Sleep without a proper Wake.”

Right before he closed his eyes for the afternoon nap, he lay in bed like Clint Eastwood on Alcatraz. Trying to figure out a way to escape old age. He squinted through the clouds in his eyes and prayed in his heart just like he did every nap and every sleep that he wouldn’t wake up. He whispered, “God, if You’re up there, please let me see my family again. I beg You.” He wouldn’t know when his eyes closed. He would simply open them and realize that God was keeping him alive for a reason only God could say. For purpose or punishment. Or both. Then, he would turn…

And see a plastic cup where his wife used to be.

*

Kate was thinking what a nice man Ambrose was as she walked through Shady Pines. She looked at the old folks in the parlor. Some playing checkers. Some chess. A little Saturday afternoon television. Some talking. Some knitting. Mostly sitting. A few eager beavers lining up for lunch early to have first dibs on the Jell-O.

Mrs. Reese…this is your future, too, you know?