Eau de Vie: chapter nine

Lettres d'amour abandonnées

“The Kiss,” Victoria & Albert Museum, by Edvard Munch

Vie, though well-recovered from her fall, had entered a new phase in her deterioration, one in which her body rebelled at every turn, in its weakness encouraging her to climb back into bed, in its exhaustion and irritation seeking to focus only on tedious final tasks. Vie’s overriding need was to button things up. She was no longer interested in spontaneity. No more spur-of-the-moment junkets to exotic locales, lunch out with friends, or even an afternoon of abandon in her ceramic studio.

These days, whenever Vie looked into the fridge or pantry to consider what to gather up for lunch, she was also clearing away expired condiments and food staples so that Carl wouldn’t accidentally consume them when she was gone. As she finished the week’s gardening, she thought to mulch with alfalfa to thwart the next round of weeds that might emerge if she was not there to tend to things.

Following a soothing shower, Vie would explore the bathroom cabinets, which were filled to the brim with lotions and tonics, most of which were of no interest to Carl. She gathered up the bottles and jars, putting trios of product in the paisley gift bags she always kept stockpiled, then left the bags on the porches of her best friends where she knew the beewax hand salve or the lavender body wash would be enjoyed. In some bags, she also included a few pieces of her handmade costume jewelry, remembering which items had piqued one person or another’s interest.

Then there was Vie’s wardrobe — of which she was very proud. Vie was the consummate shopper, always choosing items of quality, seeking out beautiful colors and luxurious fabrics, searching for components that were comfortable, practical, and durable. And whenever possible, she enjoyed having custom clothing made: knitted pullovers and cardigans, sundresses, and linen trousers. It was unlikely that her family or friends would appreciate wearing her clothing — that would be far too intimate, odd, in fact — so Vie took all but a handful of her ensembles in for repairs and dry cleaning, after which she distributed the tasteful, ready-to-wear cast-offs to the women’s shelters around town. It pleased her greatly to imagine someone else enjoying her clothes and finding comfort in them.

The path forward could not have been more clear. There was to be no more looking back, no clinging to her daughter and husband for affection and comfort, no more doting on the grandchildren. The time for going through old photo albums and revisiting letters from friends had past. It was time to shove this life to the side and hard. Vie was leaving; it was time to go. She did not want anyone or anything pulling her backward nor did she want to be followed. No more lingering kisses and hugs at the door, no more heartfelt discussions, no more tears. Absolutely no tears. This was no longer her life, nor her place on earth. She refused to give mixed messages to those she loved.

Vie was headed to that selfish place, a place meant only for her. A place where she could finally lay to rest her misery, and pain. Death.

Left behind would be the birds, and the hillsides of sagebrush and scrub oak. The blacktailed deer and mountain lions would have to remain, as would the pair of red-tailed hawks with their offspring. Vie could not take any of them with her, nor did she want to. And she most certainly did not want Carl following along to wherever it was she was headed. He’d given her his all, and that was enough.

This was a peak moment for Vie, as there was nothing she loved more than putting every last detail in order, making sense of chaos, and finding purpose and meaning in mistakes. Vie was intent on savoring this intensely bittersweet pain. There was beauty in every nerve ending singing out, each voice a slight variation in pain and pitch, some voices louder than others. Was it cacophony? No. When one listened carefully to just a few pitches at a time, what could be heard was organum, that primitive polyphony of the Middle Ages — a melodic meandering where pitches intersect, then diverge, creating a primal tapestry of consonance and dissonance.

One night Vie had the dream, the one she had buried long ago when she was in Gesamtschule. In it, her father, a Catholic who had avoided detention in a concentration camp by making himself invaluable to the Third Reich as a firefighter and by making nice with his Nazi informant neighbor, makes a daring surrender to the Allied forces on behalf of his whole community. As part of his and the town’s surrendering, Franz directed Allied troops to those neighbors and town leaders known to have sworn fealty to Hitler. His valor, while commendable, was also startlingly frightening to his family, who on that day could easily have lost him, and their own lives to either side. Their city of Fulda was deeply divided politically, and Franz’s valor would not soon be forgotten, by either side. Franz would be both revered and despised and for years his whole family had targets on their backs, even after V-E Day. This heavy stone Vie carried to her new life in NYC, then to her home with Carl in California. Now, with a body weakened by chronic illness, these long-held fears began to resurface as nightmares.

Amongst Vie’s layers of terrifying memories — that hurt, desperation, and shame of WWII — were the incredible releases she had experienced. Carl’s soft and welcoming chest and large rough hands, the intensity of his lovemaking, his warm mouth. There were the beautiful children: Vie’s daughter, granddaughter, and grandson, and the gathering weight in her arms as they fell asleep. There were long hikes into the mountains, lunch on a rock at the top, and the joy of making it home before dark. Then, the aroma of delicious, bountiful meals and the warmth of the cat curled behind Vie’s knees during a long nap on a wintry Sunday. And there were the romantically thrilling rides down Highway 1 to Big Sur in the Porsche 911 in the early days of Carl and Vie. But the release that dominated was the wine, which over the course of decades destroyed all else in its wake.

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Unsure of the time remaining, Carl set to writing a love letter to Vie each day before bed. He had much to say and could no longer put it off, as he sensed Vie’s fading. Each morning, as Vie lay sleeping and before he headed into work, Carl left his handwritten letter on her nightstand, each note tucked into a linen envelope and tied, if somewhat awkwardly, with a blue satin ribbon. Sometimes, also on the nightstand, he left a favorite pastry and some sparkling water, other times a jar of cannabis cream for her arthritis. And every evening after a long day of work, he was rewarded with one of Vie’s inviting home-cooked meals. Their loving routine gave Carl great comfort. At least until its abrupt end.

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It was a Friday evening, after a long seminar in Sacramento, that Carl returned home to find a stranger in the kitchen, and his wife fast asleep in their darkened bedroom. The cook, as she appeared to be, spoke little English and had a difficult time explaining her role at the house. Carl had no option but to wake his wife to learn what was going on. He turned on the lamp next to his nightstand to find Vie comfortably propped up on her side of the bed, tucked under two thick duvets, and fast asleep. Next to her was the antique wooden box from Fulda and an array of medications, all of them new to Carl. The instructions were detailed and concerning, and listed were the symptoms that would warrant a trip to the ER.

Carl sat down on Vie’s side of the bed and gently stroked her forehead, needing to arouse her for more details and to understand the role of the stranger in their kitchen. Groggy, Vie opened her eyes, at first not recognizing her husband, then coming around enough to explain she now had a hospice worker who would be staying at the house to help them with everything and that Carl was not to worry. All was in hand.

Esmeralda was kind and affectionate with Vie, as well as Carl. That evening she laid out a gentle dinner of stewed chicken and vegetables over rice with fruit salad and yogurt for dessert after which Vie and Carl retired to their bedroom to talk and relax. Vie then took her medications and slipped into a deep slumber, with Carl left wide awake to contemplate what lay ahead on his own.

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Before retiring for the night, Carl peeked into Vie’s wooden box to see what treasures it held — there, within arm’s reach. In addition to pictures of Carl, their daughter and the grandchildren were Vie’s favorite See’s Candies and all of Carl’s letters, neatly filed, and unopened.