Fruit Salad
by Diane Gold
I'm up in the corner staring down at the lump that is my body. The only person left in the room is the fat man with a receding hairline and nose hairs. A nurse steps in to fiddle with something, maybe the machine, or a tube, a wire. The stupid fat man snaps orders, like he's in charge. Then, he says, "Yous guys still need to pay attention. Mertle's not gone yet." Dear God, someone pull the plug! The fat man is my husband.
This husband of mine jabs his finger in the air as he talks and acts like the nurse is to blame for whatever has happened to me.
I try to recall a life with him, but nothing comes to mind. Nothing. When I close my eyes, the only images I can retrieve are a baby with no hair, an Irish setter and fruit salad. It's amazing what's left of life when you float above it.
"We're doing everything we can, Mr. Berneski."
Berneski? I married a fat man named Berneski? I suppose I was fat too, back when I had a brain and a life. I probably was a fat woman with an outer-borough accent and disrespectful children who fought all the time. I talked loud, like this man, and ate sausages.
"Well, she was beeping a good fifteen minutes yesterday and yous guys were doing nothing. I had to yell in the hall, for Chrissakes. While my wife was suffering. Suffering."
I was not suffering. I was not anything.
"I'm sorry you had difficulty yesterday. We had some technical problems."
He waves at her like she's a fly. He probably did that to me. I imagine I was someone who took his crap all day.
The nurse leaves, and a man in a suit nods to her as he steps into the room. He has a Roman nose and tassels on his loafers.
"How're things today?" He holds out his hand. My fat husband doesn't take it.
"Bad. How the hell do you think things are?" My husband sits by the bed and takes my hand, the color of mucus. My fingers are limp, like wet noodles. My husband stares at my noodle fingers like they are gems.
"We need to go over the details of the case sometime. Your son's lawyer has appealed the decision. It has to go all the way up the courts. If they win, we appeal."
"The tube stays in. You tell my son and his ambulance chasing friend to screw themselves."
The baby with no hair wants me dead?
"We're going to win this, Harold."
His name is Harold? I married a Harold Berneski who wants me alive.
"And even if we don't, we'll have a case, a sure case, against this hospital. They have yet to explain why she went into a coma. Your wife comes in for a hysterectomy, eats one meal and she's gone. It's been four months and no answers. You at least deserve money."
Was the meal fruit salad?
"I'm not suing anyone. I don't want money. I want to be poor. My boy doesn't want me spending money on his brain dead mother. Well, he can feed the money to his stinking dog."
Is it an Irish Setter? My hairless baby who wants me dead owns an Irish Setter?
The man with tassels on his loafers looks down, like he's a little boy being admonished by his Daddy. He opens his mouth to speak but stops because my husband holds up his hand and says he's had enough.
The man leaves. A nurse comes in, checks the machines again, then clips away, closing the door behind her.
My husband leans over me.
"Mertle, can you hear me?"
Yes!
"I'm sorry I was a bad husband. I loved you." He wipes his face with the palm of his hand. "I'm a fat jerk. I know. I never deserved you."
I love him. I love this fat man.
"Can you hear me, Mertle? Squeeze my hand if you can hear me."
I try but I don't feel a hand. I don't have a hand.
He sits down and puts his head on the dent in the lump that is my stomach.
"I wish," he says. "I wish you and me, Mertle, could do it one last time. Remember what we called it when we were teenagers? Making fruit salad. Us two fat people calling sex fruit salad. Go figure."
I want to touch him so badly I can feel his damp shirt on my nonexistent palm.
When the world finally goes dark, I can't hear or feel anything. There is no tunnel with a pin light, no angels, no flood of regret, no life flashing before my eyes.
There is only a sweet, tart taste on my tongue, and the sound of a fat lady finally singing.