Don't You Forget About Me
Copyright © 2011 Suzanne Jenkins
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 1-4662-1900-9
ISBN-13: 9781466219007
eBook ISBN: 978-1-61914-888-8
HEART, we will forget him!
You and I, to-night!
You may forget the warmth he gave,
I will forget the light
.
When you have done, pray tell me,
That I my thoughts may dim;
Haste! lest while you’re lagging,
I may remember him!—Emily Dickinson
Contents
W
hen Jack Smith had a heart attack on a train bound for Long Island, he was more surprised than anyone else. It was true; he’d had a premonition that he was going to die soon. His attorney had told Jack’s wife he didn’t think he was going to live much longer. His lifestyle was catching up with him. A major change that might redeem a few of his past mistakes was in order. However, a heart attack would cut short his good intentions. But a heart attack would be the last thing he thought would take him down. The doctor had warned him about his cholesterol; he needed to exercise and watch his diet, and for the past year, he had been compliant. But it was too late. A rich man’s lifestyle and maniacal stress, or the will of God, would do him in after all, and not his misdeeds.
In seconds after his head hit the floor, he was aware of his brother Bill taking his wallet. They had been arguing when the syncope hit him. Jack’s vision was limited to exactly what was in front of his eyes. Fascinated, he thought,
Blinder vision! I’ll google the phenomenon when I get home
. As he lay on the filth of the subway train, Jack saw Bill’s face, red-eyed and scared to death, leaning in sideways to grope around in his brother’s jacket. It was the same look he wore as a youngster when he was summoned to his father’s lair. Jack wanted to yell out to him not to be afraid:
I won’t let that bastard hurt you anymore!
They were no longer children, however, and now Jack was unable to talk.
Bill stepped out of Jack’s field of vision. Within seconds, another passenger found Jack and summoned help. Floating in and out of consciousness, Jack was often aware of what was happening to him as the paramedics tended to him and got him off the train and into an ambulance. It was so frustrating that he couldn’t respond, and in his mind he was screaming at them.
Call Pam!
The words repeated in a loop until they became a sort of mantra that brought Jack peace and took his mind off the searing pain in his jaw and the invasive, intrusive acts of his helpers.
In the next awareness of consciousness, during a brief moment when he saw the side of a woman’s face bending over him, he was able to say the words that had filled his brain for the past several hours.
“Call my wife, Pam.”
The young woman, a nurse, repeated the name. “Pam?”
“My wife, Pam Smith.” And he clearly spoke their telephone number at the beach. He closed his eyes and saw Pam’s lovely face, but then he took his last breath and died.
Pam Smith woke up early, confused.
What day is it?
Rolling over to look at her husband Jack’s side of the bed, she realized that he hadn’t slept there. The sheet and blanket were pulled up tightly, with the pillows stacked and undisturbed.
Isn’t it Saturday morning? He should be lying beside me
. Leaning on her elbow, she stretched over to see if he was in the bathroom. The door was open and it
was dark and empty. Looking back toward the window, she saw the pink early-morning light of the sun’s rays illuminating the sand, the water calm to the horizon. It would be another beautiful day at the beach. She reached for the clock. Her eyes weren’t focusing this morning. This was ridiculous; she had to find her glasses to read the clock. It was only five.
Why would he be up and out already? Was he fishing today or meeting someone for an early golf game?
She got up and went into the bathroom. It was empty. Looking up at her reflection in the mirror, she remembered. Jack was dead.
He didn’t come home last night because he wasn’t alive. She stared at the stranger staring back at her. Her reflection shocked her; she’d been avoiding looking at herself because the physical changes were so dramatic they had to have been happening over a course of weeks and not overnight. Pain showed in her face. Jowls replaced her once tight jawline; deep marionette lines had appeared on either side of her mouth. Her neck was wrinkled. Always proud of her shapely figure, she was now as flat-chested as a ten-year-old boy. Tired of the self-examination, she left the bathroom close to tears.
She put a robe on and walked out to the kitchen. Standing in the center of the large, light-filled space, she turned to look out the windows at the Atlantic Ocean, hoping to find that special peace the house usually provided. Not today. It was a sterile, empty shell. For the first time in weeks, she began to cry. Pam’s head dropped to her chest, and she allowed the tears to come. She was lonely. But it wasn’t only that she missed Jack. He had hurt her so deeply by the things she had discovered about him that
she was numb. Very fleeting moments of pain would magnify in enough intensity that they would penetrate the vacuum she was in. And it was only then that she would cry. It never lasted long. Just a couple of seconds, a few tears on her cheek.
As empty and meaningless as she felt right then, she would begin her day. Routine was a lifesaver. One foot literally in front of the other. A minute-by-minute surrender.
I can bathe and brush my teeth. Then I can do my hair and my makeup. Go to the kitchen and make coffee, go to the gym or not, come home and bathe again. Take a walk. Pull some weeds. Eat something
. She would make those activities stretch into a day until she could safely go to bed.
Someone might call her on the phone, her children or her sisters. Or Jack’s former mistress, Sandra Benson. That would take some minutes away from the dreaded clock-watching. Life was stretching out ahead of her with no purpose, no meaning. There had to be a way she could find something to do that was worthwhile again. She went back into the lovely room she had shared with her husband for almost thirty years, and as she attempted to put aside her grief for yet another day, she stopped and said out loud, “I hate you, Jack.”
I hope this guy doesn’t turn out to be a jerk
, Marie Fabian thought as she drove upstate to spend the weekend at Jeff Babcock’s. She had met him on the beach in front of her sister Pam’s house back in June. So far they had coffee together twice, lunch three times, and dinner every weekend for the past six weeks. When Jeff invited her to visit him for the weekend at his house in Rhinebeck, it seemed
like a great idea to get out of the city and not go to Pam’s for a change. But now, as she navigated the Taconic Parkway in weekend traffic, she wasn’t so sure. Doubts floating through her mind eroded the excitement she had felt when she locked her apartment door that morning. Walking toward the garage to get her car, dragging her suitcase behind her, she caught herself whistling a little.
Now she was questioning her wisdom.
What was I thinking?
She barely knew the guy. He had lived down the beach from Pam and her late husband Jack for twenty years, and she had never seen him before. Or hadn’t noticed him. Someone else was taking all her attention. Now she was faced with the possibility that Jeff would want to sleep with her that weekend. They hadn’t discussed the sleeping arrangements; Marie assumed she would sleep alone.
Do I want to sleep alone?
she thought.
For a forty-five-year-old woman, Marie had little experience with dating in general and men in particular. Or, more accurately, more than one man. She was simply allowing “things” to happen with Jeff, not putting up too many boundaries, but not getting overly involved too quickly, either. She was having difficulty figuring out his intentions. Although he pursued her, once they were finally together, he wasn’t acting very interested.
She turned the radio on to keep her mind thinking about something else. An old Don Henley song came on, and she belted out the chorus to “Boys of Summer”:
