73. His Walk Down Memory Lane
Tim is feeling the pressure. Actually, he’s feeling a whole lot of things and he’s struggling with them. On more than a few occasions, I’ve woken to find Tim hanging out in his mission chair in the middle of the night. No matter how sufficiently drugged I am, I sense him near and am pulled to consciousness. Sometimes I raise my recliner and hang out with him, other times I just let him be — to work through whatever thoughts he’s having.
His nighttime disruptions are not the byproduct of keeping things to himself during normal waking hours. He’s pretty good at pushing into conversations — discussing with ease things he finds concerning or noteworthy. One thing that comes around and around is the length of time I’ve managed to stay on this side of living. “Six months. Only you, Sheryll. When you were hoping you’d get Christmas, and your birthday, and to see the New Year, I should have told you to relax because of course you’d see them — you’ll probably see the holiday season for this year, too.”
I’m sure he doesn’t really think that, but there’s nothing wrong with some wishful thinking — and there’s nothing wrong with the reminiscing that’s been going on. Take the other night, for instance, Out of the blue, Tim did something he’s never done before.
First, a little backstory. In blog 37, Who Has The Time? I wrote:
Mr. Wonderful and I began dating shortly after reunion. Eight months later, on April Fool’s Day, Tim O’Brien asked Sheryll Sneade to marry him at Dino’s, a wonderful Italian eatery with red and white checked tablecloths, Chianti bottle centerpieces, each with a melted to the nub taper, and a roasted pepper pizza to die for. At a booth for two in a quiet nook off the main-seating area Mr. Wonderful pushed his meal aside and said, “I’ve been thinking a lot, but I haven’t really planned anything yet, you know with rings and things, but I think we should get married.”
After a minute or two of silence I asked, “Are we engaged?”
After a minute or two of silence he asked, “Did you say, yes?”
After a minute or two of silence I asked, “Did you propose?”
He reached across the table, took hold of my hand.
He asked. I said, yes.
Apparently, Mr. Wonderful has been thinking of that night because Saturday evening, he showed up with a ‘roasted pepper pizza to die for’. It was the first time in nearly 36 years of marriage that he drove across the city to get takeout from Dino’s. He arrived on our driveway with just enough light left for me to see his approach. He was carrying two large pizza boxes which was somewhat unusual since I haven’t been in the mood for dinner surprises in a very long time. I certainly haven’t been able to work around my nausea to find myself wanting anything circular for dinner.
Anyway, Mr. Full of Surprises walked in, flapping his jaws about a vegan pizza pie he got, “It’s called Brutus, it’s eggplant and onion,” he announced to his sawdust-eating partner, Hannah. I read the name on the boxes as they passed by and knew what awaited me — the dinner he and I ate when we sort of got engaged. I ate most of a slice which pleased my man.
The day before our dining experience, Tim spent the entire day outdoors in the sunshine doing the thing he loves most in the world — working in our gardens. He took the day off from work — a rarity — spent some extra time with Mr. Chase, Mr. Sanborn, and Mrs. Wonderful — threw on his happy, crappy, gardening attire and made a mad dash out the front door. Several treks to and from the shed later, he had all of the paraphernalia needed to get down to business. I noticed he didn’t bother dragging the lime and grass seed spreading thingy from its winter hiding place.
That warranted a, “Huh,” from me. I sort of put two and two together, came reasonably close to four and ridiculed, “After more than three decades, it looks like he’s accepted defeat.” I didn’t say so when he came inside to get a bottle of water — I didn’t need to say anything.
“I’m done with grass. Whatever the fuck wants to grow out there is fine with me — so long as it’s green.”
That is some major progress, folks. And I say, “Good for him!”
And. Then. This. Happened.
“I want to see Phil Gagnon before I die,” I said.
A groan from Tim.
“So I asked Debbie if the two of them would like to come for a short visit.”
A groan from Tim.
“What’s with the groan? You don’t want to see Phil?”
“Of course I want to see Phil. I don’t want him to see my lawn. The man’s a landscaping genius for Christ’s sake.”
I laughed.
He sneered.
“I’m sort of dying, Tim, so this call is mine. I think you ought to be able to suck it up about the lawn.”
“Make sure they come at night, and we’ll apologize for the broken front light.”
“The light isn’t broken.”
“It will be.”
Gotta love him — I do.
I’m going to do a brain dump of things Tim has mentioned during one or another of his nighttime visits. As you’d imagine, some are funny, others not so much, some are sad or outright heartbreaking — and one is from the time when Tim was pissed at me. Hand to God, this was the ONLY time my husband raised his voice at me — and believe you me, he had cause to elevate an octave or two a time or two, but this was the occasion that he put me in my place. And I deserved it.
Scene: Tim and Sheryll planned a birthday breakfast for Jessica who’d turned four. At the time, Jessie was sporting a very short pixie haircut. For weeks, I asked what the Birthday Girl wanted for her most special birthday gift. “Long hair and I want it to be red,” she’d answer, over and over and over again. No matter the pleading from me to think a bit more inside the box, my kid held fast and firm, she wanted long hair. The. End.
So, on March 5, 1994, Jessica Kathleen Belle O’Brien found a shoulder-length wig of red hair hanging from the rail at the foot of her bed. Imagine our delight when she put the thing on, adjusted the bangs across her forehead and made her grand entrance down the stairs. Her parents and her sister squealed with glee that her birthday wish came true, then we broke out in song.
Are you wondering what would cause a fit of rage from my guy? Trust me when I say, all it took was the fact that I was in the house. Oh, and Marjorie and her then husband Ken were there with me. While Tim was in the kitchen doing his short-order-cook thing the ‘adults’ were in the living room taking turns trying on the wig. Every so often we’d call out to Tim to take a peek at one of us. He did. He laughed. He returned to the kitchen. I got up at one point and joined him. I tugged the wig onto his oversized cranium and left. Marjorie and Ken called out to him to come in, but he steadfastly refused. He should have. He looked absolutely ridiculous — think a really tall Sonny Bono on a really bad day.
Huh. Not sure what that means, exactly.
Anyway, we three continued calling out to him. He ignored our beckoning requests to join us. Round after round it went. We called out to him. He refused. Finally, I stood and screamed at the top of my lungs, “Fire! Fire! The house is on fire!” The carrot-topped Sonny Bono freakshow came flying around the corner with extinguisher in hand screaming, “Where? Where? Where?”
The idiots in the living room were engulfed in laughter. My man was ignited in rage. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” he screamed. We laughed. “What. The. Fuck. Is. Wrong. With. You?” he screamed louder. We laughed harder. Why? Because he’d forgotten to remove the wig. He eventually caught on, grabbed it from his head, pointed his finger in my face and said in a very controlled voice, “Don’t ever do anything so stupid again.” He tossed the wig my way and stormed back to his burning bacon.
My bad!
My really really really bad!
Tim has a new Phil Gagnon plan. Some background is needed. Over the years, larger and larger swaths of our yard have been designated as garden space. In the front of our home, on either side of the stonewall Tim built at the end of our driveway, there are beautiful gardens with an array of perennials to which he adds several colorful annuals to the mix. It is always a beautiful space.
Around an old tree stump, there is a Fairy Garden — it’s Hadley’s of course and it has lots and lots of Daylilies and other wonders. Attached to the crooked stump there’s a ceramic and wood fairy door that opens and closes. It is said that fairies use the door when they enter our world. On occasion, Hadley has noticed the door has been left ajar. In the past, she’s taken space on her little Adirondack and waited for the fairies to return. It’ll be interesting to see if she parks herself again — now that she’s almost eight.
And then there’s The Garden, the one that has expanded further and further onto the lawn. When we first moved in, the garden was maybe 10’ long by 2’ wide. It’s hard to say exactly how big it is now because it curves and swoops here and there, but I’d say it has to be at least 50’ long and 20’ at its widest point.
It’s going to be longer and wider before Phil visits.
On a recent night when Tim found his way near me I suggested he talk — just talk. “Tell me some of your favorite memories, or things about our lives together.” He started rambling a list of stuff he was going to miss. They were mostly things we do now. I listened for a bit, then asked him to think about times we’ve had in the past that made him happy or that he liked the most.
“Spooning,” he said immediately. “And talking right before falling asleep. We used to talk about everything.” It got quiet and then he said, “I used to love walking the Marginal Way with you, and putzing around Perkins Cove.” Some silence. “And I love that we honeymooned in Wells. It made it so we could return year after year to the place where we began our lives.”
He started laughing — the kind where he might have passed out from lack of oxygen. I started laughing too, although I had no idea why.
He gathered himself enough to say, “You built a damned swingset in the kitchen.”
“Yeah, well, someone had to build it. We had it for weeks and the kids were tired of waiting for you to fit it into your schedule.”
“So you built it in the kitchen.”
“Just part of it. I thought we’d be able to move it out through the slider.”
“Thought wrong. I had to take the thing apart.”
“Okay, the plan had its faults.”
He started laughing again. Really laughing.
“I know what you’re thinking,” I said on a laugh of my own.
We said the words, “Hope chest,” simultaneously.
“That. Was. Your. Fault.” I hissed.
“Because I hid your Christmas present inside that beautiful piece of furniture?”
“Because you locked the chest. As soon as I saw it was locked and the key was gone, I knew my gift was inside. What did you expect me to do? Leave it there?”
“Yes.”
“Really? You expected me to just go about my business?”
“I didn’t expect you to break the lock off the front, and strip the screws on the hinges.”
“Yeah, well. I couldn’t find a screwdriver so I had to use a butter knife.”
He laughed.
I began crying. When I stopped, he escorted me to the BR and back to my perch. Before I sat down, he took me into his arms and held me — he just held me.
“I’ve loved every day we’ve shared.”
I buried my face into his chest and wept.