Only a Delay

The room is an eerie quiet, but I am used to that.  The whole house has been quiet since Summer and Autumn both grew up and flew the nest.  What I am not used to is the reason that the quiet is now eerie.  I do not think I will ever be used to it.  

The door to the house opens and I hear someone come in.  I ignore the sound, thinking it can only be my mind.  Impossible, I think.  She cannot be coming here; she is dead.  The sound of footsteps coming down the hall, however, is harder to ignore.  Finally they stop, and I sense another person in the room with me.  Against my better judgment, I look up. 

It is not her.  It is not my Leslie.  Instead, it is Augusta.  

Augusta Thenardier and I have been friends since high school.  She was always very proud as a teenager, and that pride never left her.  Augusta is proud of her hair, which, though white, is very long, almost to her knees, and very thick.  She is proud of her career as an author and a literature professor at Oxford, and she is proud of her immense library, where she spends most of her time.  She is proud to be an "old maid," though at the same time she mourns the events that led to that decision.  Today she stands in the doorway of my bedroom, her braided hair and black dress making her look like a witch that crawled out from one of her own stories, with mixed emotions on her face.  A minute later, her facade breaks.  

"Oh, Dex," she says with combined sympathy and misery.  Her voice reminds me now of breaking china.  She comes across the room, sits on the arm of the recliner in which I have remained since early this morning, and rests her forehead on my shoulder.  Her hands cover her face, but her tears still seep through onto my jacket.  

I put my hand on her head as she continues to sob.  One of the many qualities of which Augusta has always been proud is her ability to maintain a stiff upper lip.  But she cries for Leslie.  Of course.  Leslie was just as dear to Augusta as she was to me, albeit in a different way.  

When she is finished crying, Augusta sits upright.  Her eyes are red and swollen, but she is still as composed as ever.  "You know," she muses.  "I am not sure what I will miss most about her."  

"Yes," I respond quietly, speaking for the first time that day.  "Yes, I have the same puzzle." 

Augusta is silent for another few moments before sighing, in the same broken voice with which she greeted me, "Oh, Dex, I am so sorry I missed the funeral.  I could not get back from Oxford in time.  I came as quick as I could...." she covers her mouth and fights back a second attack of tears.  

"Don't worry about it," I assured her.  "Truly, you would have collapsed from grief if you had been there." 

After another silence, Augusta asked me a question that seemed to come from nowhere; "Have you written any of it down yet?" 

"Written what down?" 

"Your feelings.  Memories of Leslie.  Any of this."  

"Oh," I say in an undertone.  Of course.  I remember now.  When Danny, Augusta's long-time boyfriend, died suddenly - years and years ago when we were much younger - she channelled her grief into writing about it.  Matilda Sharpe - Augusta's closest friend - and I assumed that this tactic worked, since she lived the next sixty-plus years of her life happy, up until this moment.  "No.  Not yet." 

"Writing it down is the best way to deal with grief, Dex, believe me.  Like a purge; it cleanses you."  Th misery is ebbing from Augusta's voice, and now she sounds more like a doctor prescribing treatment, or like a professor helping a student with an essay.  More like herself.  

"I know it is.  You are proof of that."  I exhale, my shoulders sagging.  "Augusta, I do not even feel strong enough to lift a pen.  Physically, or emotionally.  My grief feels like sand burying me." 

"Declan Lambe," Augusta sounds hopeless uttering my full name.  I know how she feels.  She wants me to not stay in the mire of depression that surrounds me now.  She is doing all she can to pull me out.  I remember doing the same to her.  "Dex, what was it we have been saying for so long about death and love?"  

I smiled, just a ghost of a smile.  She nailed it.  "Death does not stop true love; all it can do is delay it for a little while."  I nod slightly while I answer her.  "The Princess Bride.  I see your point, Augusta, I really do.  I just... I have no idea where to go from here." 

"You say you feel to weak in the heart to even lift your pen."  Augusta stands up.  "Think of those words, and of our Leslie in heaven, and get your strength.  You will gain enough strength to lift a pen." 

I have been staring at the quilt on my bed for the whole conversation.  Now I raise my head and catch a glimpse of my reflection in a mirror that hangs on the wall.  My hair is white, and I am thinner and weaker than I was in my youth, but I am not very much changed, what might be called "well-preserved."  I think of the quote, and remember telling it to Augusta over and over after Danny's death.  I remember a time sooner, when I was telling it to Leslie instead.  I think of her, my Leslie, more beautiful than ever now that she is up in heaven where she longed to be, far happier than anything she ever felt on earth.  Thinking of this allows me just enough strength to stand up and grasp Augusta's arm for support.  

Augusta leads me down the hall to the guest room, where Leslie and I had placed a writing desk years ago.  It had been intended for Augusta or Matilda to use when they came to visit.  She helps me sit down, and gives me a pen and a notebook.  

"Now," she gently instructs.  "Just start remembering.  Remember and write.  I am going to make some tea."  

She exits the room, and the eerie silence comes back.  I stare at the blank page for a bit, and I do as Augusta asks.  I remember.  And what I remember, I start to write.