The French Man's Abandonment

They lie side by side in a large opened field. Together on a bed of Earth, just a man and his bride. She was an Irish woman whose cancer had eaten her chest. And beside her, an aged French man with long stringy gray hair, who’d been by her side for nearly all the decades they’d known of one another’s existence.

Parallel, they lie on their backs, staring above them. Hours begun to pass. No picnic was packed so nothing was eaten. The woman was never one to complain so she didn’t dare open her mouth to mention food, especially after the incident. Despite it all, and the distressing events that led up to this, it was a bit unusual because he always had to have three meals a day at exactly the same time and it was well passed supper time. The woman still did not say anything. Neither did the man. In fact, he could not even feel his stomach grumbling, begging for the sustenance.

They never glanced over at one another. They did not show affection of any type, let alone make love. Not a hug, or a brush of the hand. He couldn’t bring himself to kiss her ear and whisper how lucky he was, as he always had. Maybe it was her cancer that had repelled him from her. Where her hair used to be, she wore a pink kerchief. She was dressed in a beautiful gown to match.

Though, a bit too large on him now, the hushed French man still looked dapper in his suit. They had come from an event with nothing to speak of. Though he had missed her tremendously in the months leading up to this picturesque scene, this man of many words hadn’t uttered a single grunt all afternoon. He just felt at peace to be with her again, finally, after so long. With the setting sun, the night grew quieter. There was not a person around, only the old bride and her husband. It wasn’t too cold and they had a flowered blanket to cover them in the Earthy bed so they stayed where they were. Always the obedient, loyal wife, she dare not try to speak until he did. She felt at peace to be with him, still guilty, but at peace. She assumed her husband must be in shock, unable to speak, but she would wait forever until he finally did allow her back in again.

And when the sun rose again he still did not speak. So they continued lying next to one another. When the sun reached its highest point over the field, even in the shelter of the rock above them could not provide enough shade as to prevent her heavily caked on makeup from becoming sloppy. It began to soften and melt, sliding through the crevices in her worn face like little white rivers.

This went on for days and then weeks. People would occasionally come by as they lie in the field, but no one said anything about their ever more disheveled appearances. They must have thought the couple homeless and their hygiene surely had scared anyone away from saying anything.

The typically temperamental and most often overly sensitive man was never shy about voicing his mind when troubled. However, he appeared to be in a state of catatonia, that he, himself could not even explain. And so continue to lie in the earthen bed is exactly what they did. The woman’s quaint Irish lips remained closed. It was not difficult, nor unusual for the coy Irish woman to remain silent.

There was still not a word said between the husband and wife, even as months passed. There was not a single piece of bread broken between the two. Her hair and nails became longer, as did his, and naturally, they became thinner, until they were left swimming in their fancy duds.

The truth was, the man had been furious with his wife for leaving him months before they were finally reunited at the black tie event. In fact, he’d been devastated almost to the point of suicide. She had left with not one, but two other men and right in front of him, at that! She had spoken with one of them before while she had the cancer, but the husband was never threatened by him, as it was he who was the one who was by her side all of the decades. He was the one who took her to the hospital for chemotherapy. He was the one who spent the long nights and long mornings with her when she was ill from it.

He was the one who loved her. The couple was well off, so any suitors feigning an old woman with cancer couldn’t come off any other way but transparent. He resented the younger man, not for being younger and more attractive, but for letting his greed steal months of his time away from him and his wife after she’d just been getting through her cancer. He’d have gladly just given away the money without them having to manipulate her out of it.

“I’m not going to die. Am I?” The old Irish woman cried to her husband one night.

“No, sweetheart. I would never let that happen. You’re doing much better.” He stroked her bald head.

“You’re right. I’m starting to feel better.”

And soon, there were no more hospital visits and the husband and wife spent evenings by the large bayside window watching the sky change colors. They appreciated it, noticed every little detail again, as they had when they had first bought the large home many decades and many children earlier. He appreciated her even more. And her, him. When they looked at one another they knew that they had chosen the right partner to spend their life with. It all came down to that. She was old and sick, he was old and tired more easily himself, yet he never left her side. He didn’t give up on her when he had to take on the role of caretaker, something he had never done throughout the course of their lengthy marriage, while she was so very sick. He never learned how to cook, but instinctively he knew how to do it, and wanted to do it, if it meant helping his ailing wife.

But then, she left him, anyways. He felt a deep pain that went from his head through his heart and to the pit of his stomach. It never left him when she so abruptly, so callously left. Through his anger, he tried so hard to rationalize that her actions must have been demented from her age and from all of the chemo. The real her would never do that! No! He knew her! And he knew that she loved him. She was devoted her entire life.

His mind wouldn’t stop replaying the day that she left him, as if trying to simultaneously torture him and help him investigate at the same time. Perhaps there were details he missed on the day that his wife left. There had to be hope somewhere. Hope that she still loved him and wanted to come back to him.

He thought back to the dark colored sky. Dark purple and navy, slowly fading to black as they’d just watched the sun set together as had become their routine. Then, a knock. Uncharacteristically late. He couldn’t remember which one of them opened the door, but the next thing he remembered seeing was the young man with the shiny brown whom she’d spoken with some weeks earlier. They’d struck up a bit of a friendship, but it hadn’t occurred to him to be bothered by it. Behind him was another young man. He looked a bit meek, didn’t speak much. He had a mustache and was shorter in stature, but it was clear the two men were good friends. They looked nervous upon entering the home. At first the French man was completely rational with the two young men, asking them what he could do for them? The men became even more serious. The leading man looked him dead in the eye and stated, “We’ve come to take her away.”

The French man became tense but part of him thought that he must be joking. His wife made no movement to go with the men. Clearly, she did not want this. “You must leave. You’re insane if you think you can just have my wife. Now, go.” He blocked the doorway.

“Get out of our way!” one of the men yelled. “You’re only making this more difficult. Now you can fight if you’d like, but in the end, it’s not your choice.”

“You can’t take her!” cried the French man. He never cried.

“That’s exactly what we’re here to do. We were asked to come here.”

“Gertie… you told them to come here?!” he was panic stricken. She said nothing. She was ashamed, but too cowardly to tell them to leave.

“I know she still loves me!”

As the men moved closer to his wife, he became hysterical. His wife made no attempt to move away from the men. This hurt him deep in his soul. He felt so abandoned. So betrayed. Why couldn’t she just tell them to leave?! Did their marriage of all the decades mean nothing to her? He was ranting profanities, begging Gertie to back him up, but instead she just went. He was the only one fighting. It was as if she really did want to leave him for these young men. Her actions said it all, but she hadn’t the heart to use her words and tell him why. Why would she make such an outlandish decision on what appeared to be such a whim?!

“Sir! Calm down! We will take good care of her!”

“Don’t you love me, Gertie?! Just come back to me! I promise I’ll be better to you!”

“I do love you,” she thought. Though she couldn’t say it to him. She hadn’t the energy. Something out of her control was forcing her to go with the two younger men. It was something she had to do, though she didn’t know why.

The French man glanced out the bay window and noticed their large white vehicle waiting outside in the driveway. It still had its lights on. It was clear they weren’t sticking around to do any negotiating. He tried with his frail, old body to block the doorway once more and bumped his head as the men pushed passed him with his wife in tow. And the door shut with a slam which birthed the silence that would become his surrogate wife in the months to follow. He tasted blood as it ran down his forehead from the altercation with the men. Dark red blood. The sky was black. Midnight black. The white vehicle was gone. Gertie was gone. Everything stopped making sense after that. He was hoping for a phone call… some sign of hope that Gertie still wanted to be with him. She was sensible. She’d come to her senses, he told himself as he paced around the black and white tile kitchen. Yes. Surely, she’d just give them the money he was sure was their motive for snaking their way into her life, and then she’d just come right back home to him. She didn’t love those men. She was very, very confused.

Days went by and he didn’t leave the kitchen. He’d watch it get light and then dark and then light and then dark again. None of it meant anything to him. And on nights when it was darker than usual he would get a burst of adrenaline and he’d run into their bedroom, the bed still made, just as it was when she’d left, and he’d scream out her name as if she’d suddenly jump out of the closet or out from under the bed. He’d seen her leave. He just could not accept it.

Other nights, he’d get a burst of energy and he’d run out the front door and run down the long steep driveway, around the neighborhood, screaming her name. But she never responded.

A teenage neighbor boy with red hair and a red face saw the French man out in the middle of the night calling for his wife. “What are ya doin’? Sir? You okay?”

“Gertie! My wife! My wife, Gertie! Have you seen my wife?! She left me! I tried to stop her! I don’t know why she isn’t back yet!”

“Why would she leave you? What’d you do?”

“I don’t know. I’m so heartbroken! I need her so badly!”

“Well, you must have done something for her to want to leave.”

“No! I don’t know! She’s old. She was sick. I think she was manipulated!”

“These things happen all the time. I’m real sorry, man. I’m sure she’ll come back. Women get kind of nutty like that sometimes.”

The French man realized it was no use trying to explain himself to the boy. He was just a teenager. He didn’t know what love was.

He ran off yelling his wife’s name. He could hear the teenager yell something to him which he couldn’t make out. Likely something cliché about staying hopeful or not to worry because he’d find someone else. All useless advice. He decided talking to anyone was a complete and utter waste of his time.

He used every ounce of strength he had in him to heave himself on to the bed. He began sobbing and rubbing Gertie’s side of the bed with his hand, as if she’d turn up there. He was still in the same jeans and light yellow collared shirt from the day that she left. Once he finally had the energy and nerve to lay in the bed, he found himself unable to get out of it again. He stopped showering. He prayed every night and day that she would come back to him. He couldn’t sleep, but a lot of time he felt as if he were asleep and dreaming. His life was nothing without her in it. Months passed and he became resigned to the idea of life without his wife, though it did not make his life any easier. It did not make even the sheer thought of food without his wife any less nauseating. It did not make him feel any less ill.

And then, a sign of hope! The French man heard a car pulling in to the driveway. Seasons had passed and no one had come by. He jolted out of the bed and looked out the window which was almost directly above the bay window, high above the driveway.

A white vehicle! From afar, it looked as if it could have been the same vehicle she’d left in with the men. His face dropped and he could feel pins in his heart, when his son got out his white car and not Gertie. He let himself in with a spare key and was standing above the old French man in his bed.

“Jesus, Dad! Are you okay?!”

“No! Gertie! Why hasn’t she come back yet?! Son! Please! Tell me why she doesn’t love me anymore!”

His son started to weep. “I know you’ve had a rough time without mom being here… I know she still loves you.”

“Then why isn’t she here?!”

“I’ve been a terrible son. I can’t believe I’ve left you here, all alone, without mom. I can’t believe I have to see you in this condition! Oh my God! Where is my father?! Dad! Please! Just come back to me! I miss you Dad! I’m sorry! I’m so sorry! I’m sorry you felt so alone!”

Both son and father were crying. Between loud sobs, his son told him that he would be right back, “I can’t see you like this!” And he darted out of the room and out of the house.

A white vehicle pulled up to the house again. This time, he was sure that it wasn’t his son’s car. No. Even through his tears, he could tell it appeared much larger than what his son had driven. It appeared to be the same white vehicle she’d left in. Maybe, Gertie was finally coming home. He was so full of despair he didn’t even have it in him to be angry at her for leaving any more. He would treat her like a queen if she would just come back to him. He’d never give her a reason to leave again, if she’d just tell him what the problem was in the first place. She’d always been so reserved, so repressed with her emotion. And he was the opposite. Of course, she was nervous to tell him when she was feeling upset and she’d resented him. Oh my God, if he could just have her back, he’d never say a word again and he’d allow her to do all of the talking. He’d even work out. He’d dye what little hair he had left. He would try so hard to be the man she wanted him to be.

Just as the frail man was about to muster the strength to take his first eager step out the door way and into the bedroom hall, the men plowed through the main doorway, ran up the stairs, down the hall and into the master bedroom where he’d quarantined himself for months. Briskly and sternly, with what seemed like minimal effort, the two men grabbed the French man out of his bed. He did not see his wife. His wife was not there. There was no sign of her. He had no idea what they could possibly want from him. Perhaps more money..? He had remembered looking at the couple’s bank statements from months earlier and thousands had been deducted and he did not remember taking it out. That was what he had expected, and when his wife did not return immediately after, the fear and hopelessness came knocking to swallow him once again. But perhaps they were here now because they knew about the other accounts that Gertie didn’t have access to and they came to drain it all out of him. The accounts with any real money only he had access to and he would surely oblige and give every cent to him if Gertie would just come home to him. There was no amount of money he wouldn’t pay to restore his aching heart and to repair his love.

The man hadn’t the energy to fight the men off or to ask many questions. He just conceded and allowed the men to rip him from his home. He smashed his head against a wall again as they were so haphazardly pushing him through doorways. He couldn’t even feel any pain this time. Physical pain was nothing compared to the mental anguish he’d gone through. He’d bang his head a million more times if it would bring Gertie back to him faster.

“Where is my wife?” He finally choked out when they got him into the white vehicle.

Silence. “Where is my wife?!” He spoke up. It had been months since he’d heard his vocal chords make any noise accept for wailing screams. He’d had no one to talk to since his wife left and the brief encounter with his son but he was so worked up, especially by his son’s reaction, that he could only manage his words in the tone of more choking sobs.

“What do you want from me? What did I do? How could you do this to Gertie?” He demanded, his stern speaking voice sounding so foreign, so forced, as he’d felt so defeated.

Question after question went ignored, and the men would talk over him. They had him in the back of the large white vehicle, tied down and staring at the ceiling, when finally one of the men spoke up;

“You’re dead.” He threatened. “You’ve really done it to yourself.”

“Please! No! I’ll do anything! I just want to live! I want to live in peace with my wife!” He was wailing again.

The rest of the ride was silence, despite his outburst. They took him to a small building and into a silver room with silver walls and silver ceilings and floors. Even the tables and chairs were silver. He felt very cold being in that room. They didn’t feed him and he didn’t see Gertie. He had no idea how long he’d been in there but he scoured the room for Gertie. He found a dead man, swollen with bruises all over his head and he passed out. When he awoke, he was confused by his attire; a suit and a woman was combing his gray extremely thin gray hair. He pulled away from her and she stopped.

“Am I going to see Gertie? Does she want to see me?” he demanded.

A man ignored him and instead demanded money. “Six thousand dollars... No… Seven thousand…”

“I don’t care!” The infuriated French man stammered. “Take it all! Take everything! I don’t want the money! Just bring me my wife!”

They left him alone in the room again and shut out all of the lights. He didn’t want to see the dead man again. He didn’t want to end up like him. He sat in a corner in the fetal position, for would could have been a day or possibly a month. He had no way to be sure.

And finally, two different men came to escort him out of the freezing room in the cold building. He was transported in a large black car, what looked like a limo to him, and then finally he was at what appeared to be a large party. It had to be where Gertie was. He felt the hope well up in his heart and dart out to each appendage. He scanned the room. He couldn’t spot her colorful head wrap anywhere. He could feel the sun beating down on him through the window, and it looked to be early. He still had hope that she was coming, otherwise why would they have dressed him up and taken him to an event with all of his friends and family? They weren’t all his friends and family. Some of them he didn’t know, but they were all extremely nice to him. As if they felt sorry for him, as if they pitied him. He noticed a man towards the back of the crowd chewing loudly on a piece of gum. This made him think of food, but still he did not feel hungry. He couldn’t even remember when he’d last had a bite. It just wasn’t the same if he wasn’t eating it with his wife. He didn’t feel like socializing. All he could focus his thoughts on was Gertie. Nothing else made sense.

And then his son, and his grandson came up to speak with the defeated old man. They were crying. He could feel himself start to get upset again too.

“Is Gertie alright?” he asked. “Do you know where she is?”

“You look great, Dad. I’ve missed you. I’m sorry I didn’t come to help you more when you were going through all of this… I just… didn’t know…”

“I look great?! What?! I look terrible! I’m as thin as if I’d just left a concentration camp! And I don’t care! Just tell me if I’m going to see Gertie. Please… what has happened to her?!”

After a long pause… His grandson looked at him, but not directly into his eyes. He was staring passed him and said “Dad… he’s going to get to be with Grandma again now, right?”

He nodded. “That’s right. You get to see Grandma. You won’t be alone anymore. You don’t have to suffer, Dad. I’m so sorry.”

“When is she coming? Where has she been?!” Again, no response.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t a better son for you. I’m so sorry, Dad.”

With that, his grandson started crying again and ran back to his seat, his son following close behind, leaving the old French man alone once more.

Someone started praying.

They lie side by side in a large opened field. Together on a bed of Earth, just a man and his bride. She was an Irish woman whose cancer had eaten her chest. Her husband, an aged French man, now beside her, did not have cancer though it too had eaten his chest and the heart that was once beating inside.