Or Not to Be (5 page)

And that’s how Eddie Wixim, my hot
teacher, asked me to marry him without ever saying the words. Without actually
asking. Just the same way he loved me during our marriage—without actually
saying the words. That man got away with a lot of crap because I was so crazy
about him. After the tiniest feather of a kiss, he slipped the ring on my
finger without my verbal consent, but I let him because my answer to the
unasked question was clear when I kissed him back. And why bother answering a
question that was never asked? Logic prevailed. The car behind us beeped
loudly. Just like that, I was engaged to marry the best guy I’d ever known—my
favorite person on the planet—and all of my future plans succumbed to an
entropic scramble.

| | | |

Our wedding day
arrived
seven weeks later. My vintage dress didn’t fit me. It was too big in the boobs
and three inches too long. I wore heels and held my shoulders back. Mom, who
sniffled behind me, helped me get into the dress.

“Mom,” I asked, unable to see her face in
the big mirror, “are you crying?” I think it’s genetic: my mother doesn’t like
to cry in front of anyone.

“No, of course not, Anna.” But she was.
She’d made it clear all summer and even the night before the wedding that she
didn’t want me to go through with this. I couldn’t convince her and was tired
of arguing, so I just stayed silent and let her stew. But I didn’t want her
crying.

“I’ll come visit, Mom. You know that,
right?”

“No, you won’t. You can’t afford it. And
in a year or two you’ll have my grandchild and you’ll never finish your
education.”

I didn’t argue. I didn’t want to fight
with her on my wedding day. But in the end, as always, my mother was right.

Daddy walked me down the aisle, which was
just a path of grass between two blocks of twenty chairs. Eddie waited for me
in front of everyone, beaming like he was the luckiest man alive. I was dizzy
and relieved when Daddy transferred my hand from his arm directly to Eddie’s so
there wasn’t an instant during which I had to support my own weight. This was
good because during most of the ceremony I was certain I would pass out.

A giant oak provided shade, yet I sweated
through my heavy silk dress. Eddie wiggled his eyebrows at me and nodded to my
left shoulder as my too large dress began to slip off. I hunched it back up and
grinned right back at him.

The professor who married us had little to
do during the ceremony except to welcome everyone, ask that ridiculous question
of the spectators about whether anyone wanted to object to our union—as though
that would have had any impact on our decision to marry each other—and
pronounce us man and wife at the end. He did his part to start us off. I held
my breath and waited for my mother to object, and when she did not—Daddy must
have gagged her—I took my first full gulp of oxygen in almost twenty-four
hours. Then we took over.

Eddie went first.

He looked alternately from my eyes to his
wrist, where he had scribbled some notes, and began, “Anna, since our first
date, I have been unable to think of anything, anyone, but you.”

I smiled. My mother sobbed. Eddie’s
stomach rumbled.

He winked at me and continued, “You, my
Anna, are my other half. Your amazing mind, your sense of humor, and your
feistiness make you the missing piece that makes me whole. Though I worried I
might scare you away, it didn’t take me long to realize that you fear nothing,
and to know you are the one I need beside me for the rest of my life.”

He reached into his pocket and took out
the tiny gold ring, looked back into my eyes, and asked, “Anna, will you take
me as your husband, to have, hold, love, and support; do you promise to bake
cookies for me, rub my back, kiss my lips, and cherish me and us together until
death parts us?”

One renegade tear dripped down my cheek.
Eddie caught it on his thumb as I said, “Until death parts us, I do.” He
slipped the ring on my finger, and I sniffled.

Then it was my turn.

I took a tiny note card from my poufy
sleeve and said, “Eddie, on our first date, I was certain that we would never
speak again, let alone date and end up married. But you, my friend, did grow on
me.”

I heard my dad laugh.

I glanced at my notes and continued, “It
wasn’t your green eyes, your broad shoulders, or your smile that won me. It was
your humility, your intelligence, and your effortless way of caring for me. You
chased me down. You made me realize I was lonely when I’d never noticed before.
I want you beside me for the rest of my life.”

I took his ring from the cleavage of my
gown, and he wiggled those eyebrows at me again, which made me laugh as I
asked, “Eddie, will you take me as your wife, to have, hold, love, and support;
do you promise to change my oil, take out the trash, rub my neck every day, and
cherish me and us together until death parts us?”

He squeezed my hand, gave a sharp nod, and
shouted, “Until death parts us, I do!”

I put the ring on his finger, and when I
looked up, his face was in my space, stealing my air, and he caught me
breathless in a kiss. Everyone cheered.

The professor announced, “I now pronounce
you husband and wife. You may continue to kiss your bride.”

He did. Eddie kissed me and kissed me some
more. Our wedding photo album is full of pictures of that kiss. When we came
back down to Earth, the guitar dude had finished his recessional song, and the
guests were on their second drink.

| | | |

And there you have it
. Losing Eddie’s affection felt like dying before I
died. I couldn’t have lived my life without him anymore than I could have lived
without water or oxygen. I would’ve continued to suffer right alongside him for
the rest of my life. Though dying relieved me of having to face our problems,
the pain of our separation stings.

6

When I died
, I surrendered everything—my family, my life, and all
control. Now it seems I am being tossed around randomly, riding on the whim of
an unsympathetic universe, back and forth in time, only able to wallow in
sadness and regret.

It’s hard to get a grip on my perspective from the dead
side. From here, as I watch my family, I feel their agony, but not in my heart
as I always thought I did when emotional things hit me in life. In death, I
feel their pain everywhere, within me and without me.

I have no arms or legs or organs, no
ears, eyes, or skin, and yet I can
still sense everything.
The materials of me—my proteins and DNA—were stolen away by death. My well-used
carbon, nitrogen, and oxygen
allowed
me to exist on Earth and live my life and take care of my family, but
were
mere
ly a minor part of me.
Without my molecules, my family thinks I’m gone from them. But I keep coming
back, remembering the past,
and
somehow I’m maintaining a level of voyeuristic
interaction with them.

This is a remarkable surprise. When I
considered in life what death might be like, I never imagined that I would lose
only the use of my atoms. My power to think and love has survived my death.

The daunting notion that I may ponder and
observe for all of eternity is also glorious. Infinite time to contemplate
these mysteries should provide comfort to a soul like me who finds pleasure in
thinking. Now I sound like Eddie. He could always play devil’s advocate and help
me see the good side of a bad situation. He would always say I should try to
relax and appreciate the wonders around me.

“I think you’re preparing to depart,
Anna.”

“Excuse me?” Where
did that voice come from?

“Departure is a choice that all newly dead must make at
their own pace. You appear to be ready,” says the voice.

How did a voice reach me out here in nowhere? I’m all
alone. It should be silent.

My hard-earned equilibrium is shattered.

“Did you call me ‘newly dead’?” I demand.
“It seems to me that I’ve been dead for a very long time. I’ve been watching my
family and having flashbacks, and I do miss my body.”

“You don’t need your body anymore, Anna.
You have your soul.”

“Soul? Is that all I am now?”

“Soul is our human
term for it. And it’s not all you are
now
;
it’s all you have
ever been
.”

All I have ever
been, my ass. I was a mom and wife and teacher. I had a life, and I’m useless
here and dead. I need my damn molecules
to be
. When I’m greeted on the dead side, they tell me my
soul is all I have ever been? P
reparing to depart?
Damn it, I don’t want to depart. I’m not ready!

“Calm down. There’s no hurry.”

“How are you hearing my thoughts? Stay the hell out of my
head! Who are you anyway?”

“Are we having a full-blown mood swing
here?” she answers with a question. She seems calm, cool, and collected, but I
know that tone. There’s an edge to her voice that says, “Watch yourself,
missy.”

I’m afraid to respond.

Finally, she says, “It’s me, Anna. It’s
Mom. Latch on and let me drive for a while.”

Instantly, my resistance fades, and I’m drawn to her like a
magnet and willing to follow her anywhere. For the first time since I crossed
to the dead side, I’m not alone.

7

Eighteen years ago
, at four in the morning, I listened to the sound of
Eddie’s sleeping breath. Just short of a snore yet much deeper than his awake
breathing, I let the rhythm of his effortless intake of oxygen lull me back to
sleep for a few more precious minutes.

My water hadn’t yet broken, but with each
contraction I wanted to wake Eddie and share my exhausted excitement. The baby
had been quiet all night. He didn’t move or kick, hiccup or roll. Now I knew
why. He was getting ready to be born. I missed his kicks. I’d become accustomed
to our daily routines together. He, the passenger. Me, the vessel of life. Now,
the core of this vessel was squeezing the breath out of me and the kick out of
our baby.

I rolled like a whale from my back to my
side, and my belly bumped Eddie. He grunted in his sleep. I knew that grunt
like I knew our baby’s kicks. It was his sleepy hello. He wasn’t fully awake
but was aware of me. I stroked his stubbly cheek and grunted back. He rubbed my
belly. I stayed still while the next contraction wrapped me up, thinking I’d
ride out a few more in my warm bed with my best friend by my side. The cold
October wind whipped rain against our windows. It would’ve been a good morning
to stay in bed and sleep late. Mom had warned me. Our four years of sleeping
late on weekend mornings would soon end. We’d be at the service of an infant.

I burrowed into my pillow and relished the
quiet. I’d been in labor for hours. What began as cramps in my back had
developed into a periodic rubber band wrap, each wave ebbing soon after it
started. Now, with Eddie’s warm hand on our baby, the next contraction was more
intense. He felt it. His eyes opened wide and met mine. He raised his eyebrows.
I could see them in the dark. Those eyebrows and the sleepy eyes under them
asked me all the questions. I smiled back in response. He was fully awake by
the end of the contraction and felt it leave me. For the first time all night,
the baby kicked and bumped the hand of his daddy, the doctor, the anchor of our
lives. The doctor, my friend, nuzzled my neck and pressed his face into my swollen
breasts. He chuckled.

“Gonna have to share these soon, eh?” His
hands caressed me territorially.

“’Fraid so, Doc.” I pushed up against his
face as another contraction hit. This one was different, another order of
magnitude on my Richter scale. I breathed like I’d been trained to in those
ridiculous Lamaze classes. Eddie matched me breath for breath. I let my fingers
linger in his thick hair while my mind wandered away from the pain and visited
my normal early morning pregnant obsession: I wanted food. Maybe the breathing
worked. A little.

When the contraction released me, I asked,
“Can I eat, do you think?”

“Yeah. Let’s get me coffee and you and the
wee one some eggs and juice.” Eddie swung his legs over the edge of the bed and
his feet into his slippers, and then he came around to help me up. I was,
lately, like a turtle on my back and required being levered out of bed.