The Pakistani Spectator

THE SCENT OF A WOMAN

A chapter in my forthcoming book,

GRAVEL TO GOLD

By

Charles Towne

I can’t tell you exactly how the accident happened; after all, I wasn’t there.

I was lecturing in the public school system at the time and on the day it happened a buddy of mine was helping with the driving.

We stopped at another friend’s home that day to pick up their youngest daughter. The girl’s mother was going into the hospital for an operation and my wife had agreed to take care of the little girl while her mama was recuperating.

We were sitting in their living room visiting when the phone rang and the lady of the house called my friend to take the call. A short time later he walked into the room and told me that our plans had changed, “we have to leave, now!” And when he spoke those words I knew something was wrong.

As we drove away he told me that my wife, Delpha had been in an accident and was not expected to live and that our youngest son, seven years old at the time had suffered serious head injuries.

My son had been taken to Saint Mary’s catholic hospital in Saginaw Michigan so we decided to stop there first due to the fact that it was on our way home.

At the hospital I was asked to go to the admitting room to sign some papers and then I was taken to see my son and was thrilled to see that all he had suffered was a small cut that took two stitches to close up. My little seven year old boy was sitting on a gurney flirting with a pretty nurse when I walked into the room and it didn’t appear that anything was seriously wrong.

My spirits were soaring with optimism. If my son wasn’t hurt any worse than this than certainly it stood to reason that my wife also was o.k.

After leaving our little boy I was walking down a long hospital corridor just as a little nun was walking towards me. She looked into my eyes and for a moment I thought I could detect the glint of tears as she said, “God bless you Mr. Towne.”

She obviously knew something that I didn’t at that time.

I thanked her and continued on to where my friend was waiting. As we were driving away from the hospital I was saying something about my wife being alright when my friend pulled to the curb and turned off the motor.

We sat there in silence for a few moments before he spoke.

While I had been visiting with my son another phone call had come for my friend. It was probably this news that had moved the nun in the hospital corridor to greet me as she had.

He turned to me and again I could see those tell tale tear glints in his eyes as he said, “Charlie, there are some thing you just don’t know how to tell a friend.”

I am sure the question was written for him to see on my face

.

He looked away for a moment and then turned back to me. His voice cracked as he said, “Chuck, my dear friend, Del is dead. She was killed immediately in the accident “

I knew that I was going to throw up. I couldn’t breathe. I opened the car door and more fell out than stepped out and I lay there on the cool grass and with people walking along on the side walk past me, I wept and pounded the ground with my fists and screamed my frustration at God.

At that time and for days afterward I felt nothing but stunned disbelief; I was in a state of shock. In retrospect perhaps that dull, drifting sense, was merciful.

It wasn’t until later when I had time to think about it that the wounding began to bleed and the blood was a combination of anger, loneliness and loss unparalleled by anything I had ever experienced before in my life.

One day she was there and the next she was gone.

One morning we woke up, talked about who knows what, hugged each other and kissed and sat down to breakfast together.

And then the next thing I knew, she was gone.

That same morning she held our children, made sure they looked their best for school as she always did, talked to them, solved some little child problems, kissed them and held them as only a mother can hold her children and then she sent them off to school.

And then she was gone.

Have you ever had to gather your children around you and tell them that their mama wasn’t going to be coming home?

Have you seen those looks of confusion, of fear and gazed into those questioning, fear filled eyes?

I hope you never have to.

Those days and weeks following the funeral were strange.

There were so many memories.

And then there was her presence.

I am not speaking of some ethereal thing, not that sort of presence. No, what I am speaking of is her presence, her scent, the things she left behind. Those constant reminders of a human being were there, someone dear that never again would whisper my name, never again caress me; hold me; love me.

Going to bed at night was difficult. I would lay down in the darkness of the night when all was still, close my eyes and she would be there. I could smell her perfume. In the morning I would wake up embracing her pillow, holding it close as if somehow I could derive some comfort therein but it didn’t work.

I would walk into the bathroom in the morning to shave and her scent would be lingering there, and tears would come unbidden.

I remember the time three or four years after her death when I was standing on a high overlook in Northern Michigan. There was a waterfall and forest all around and the sun was setting. It was beautiful. I spoke, “‘Del, honey, isn’t it beautiful!”

And then I was again reminded that she was gone. I was lonely, I wept.

It took time for me to accept the fact that I would never see her again, not on this earth.

It took time for me to accept the fact that I would never again hear her voice, feel the touch of her hand, look into her eyes, to accept that she was gone.

Murder takes many forms.

My wife was taken from us by a drunk driver.

Those days following her funeral were busy days. Perhaps that was merciful.

There were friends and relatives that dropped by and paid their condolences. There were cards and phone calls and all of the little things that demanded attention.

Did I consider the loss of my wife as murder at the time? No, only in retrospect, as I examine it with a somewhat jaundiced eye does it somehow seem so.

Now, these many years later I am here and I am looking at another form of separation, not of death but the separation of dementia, the separation that Altzhiemers brings and in its own way it is perhaps more frightening but it is just as much a separation as death, for today my present wife, my darling Nancy, this dear one that I love so much has gone on a long journey into confusion and it is highly unlikely that she will ever return.

Trackback URL