A Short Burst of Love

Idol Contest: Write a short story about 'unconditional love'

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A Short Burst of Love

I loved in a short burst. You think that's wrong?

Haven’t you ever eaten a chocolate that was so rich in flavor that even though there was only that one single moment of delight, you savored it for always?

Betty was that piece of chocolate, that indescribably delicious moment. I met her on a cruise ship bound for . . . heavens, I can hardly remember that part. You see, the truth was the ship was sailing to some exotic island port, but me -- I was bound for nowhere.

I was alone. My wife, Gertha, of thirty-six years had passed on two years before, and my son and his wife had insisted I get away. “A cruise,” they’d said, “will make you feel better. It will make you appreciate being alive again.” I was pretty sure they just needed me out of the picture for a while. They were having marital problems. I prayed they'd mend their relationship. Love is never long enough.

Meanwhile, for me, the cruise was making me feel even more miserable. The first day aboard, I moped around, wishing I were back home. I probably looked like old Scrooge with his gold and his face all twisted from bitterness. I couldn’t help it; my heart was cold, just like his. I knew my son was wrong. No shipboard game or swimming pool could offer me what I needed to jump start life. I was finished with it and just waiting for the good Lord to take me. What I couldn’t understand is why He wouldn’t.

I’d just had my yearly doctor’s appointment and to my disappointment, the doc had told me the worst thing possible; he’d said my ticker was like a young man’s. I remember how I’d growled at him and told him to change it. You shouldn't lose a part of you, your love for thirty-six years, and hear that your heart is fine. That was the cruelest lick of fate.

On the second day on the cruise ship we ran into a storm. We weren’t supposed to. That wasn’t on the brochure, but the ship started tossing up and down and sideways until I couldn’t take it inside my cabin another moment. I had to get out. I needed air.

That’s what did it. God does know what He’s doing, because she was there, standing at the bow or the stern, whatever it was -- the front of the ship, anyway.

She was standing there weeping, her nose all red, her eyes streaming. I would have passed her by, but a woman crying is the sigh of the wind in a lonely canyon, and I knew all about that loneliness inside. I couldn’t stand to hear more, yet I froze, or I maybe, I unfroze. Either way, I noticed her, really took a look and SAW.

“Are you all right?” I asked.

She looked up at me, and it was as if something slammed into my chest. I thought at first I was having a heart attack. My hand flew to my rib cage like I could feel the pain through my hand. But there was nothing wrong with me. I knew it the instant I looked into her eyes.

She was a small, frail-looking lady, coming up no higher than my chest. Maybe it was something about her frailness, or in the way she looked at me with those eyes of hers -- they were so blue -- the ocean in comparison looked dull. Her lashes were long and dark, and they fluttered with embarrassment. The tears on them, hanging pearls of dewdrops, sparkled like jewels as they reflected the ship's tiny, white lights.

My heartbeat sped up from that first glance, but I was still too numb to realize it. I lent the woman my handkerchief. Then, I turned to walk away.

“The sea is demanding, isn’t she?” the woman said so softly I barely heard her above the raucous ocean waves.

It would have been rude not to exchange a pleasantry with her then. I paused and mumbled something. I can’t remember what it was, although I wish now with all my heart that I could . . .

The ship, tossing and turning with the raging carelessness of abandon, groaned slightly. I should have felt a nibble of fear, but instead, it was as if the violent winds were loosening something inside me. The wild freedom of it was relieving.

A gust of wind blew at the flap of my coat. I worked at buttoning my coat more securely, not an easy task for a man whose arthritic fingers refused to obey even in gentler times.

The woman suddenly cried out. The wind had ripped off her scarf. Of course, I reached out to grab it, but it was gone. We watched it flutter over the waves for a moment, dipping and rising, and then it plummeted and lay like an oil spill on the surface.

I turned to the woman to apologize for not having caught her scarf, but the words died in my mouth. Like an old, village shepherd seeing a big city for the first time, I stood there with my mouth agape, for the lady’s hair was crooked. I don’t mean that the wind had played havoc with it; I mean that it was so askew, it was obviously a wig.

I know I should have been more of a gentleman. I should have ignored the crookedness of the lady's wig and said nothing, but it looked so strange, like a flag at half-mast when you didn’t expect it to be. The decided tilt of the wig drew my eyes. In fact, I couldn’t keep from staring.

Seeing my look, the woman reached up and tugged, her hands jerking the wig roughly back into place. “Is that okay, now?” she asked, laughing.

What could I do but chuckle along with her? Oddly, that shared laughter stripped away the awkwardness of our being strangers. By the time the winds chilled our bones into stiffness and the rain started falling, Betty and I had shared pieces of ourselves -- life stories we’d never shared with anyone else. We cracked jokes and compared childhoods – that’s when we discovered that not only had Betty used the identical travel agent I had, but that we lived in the very same town. We had mutual acquaintances, liked similar restaurants, and often frequented the same shops. It was uncanny -- like fate had somehow meant it to be. In that hour of cold chatter, we tasted friendship.

Of course, we made arrangements to meet the next morning for breakfast, and that slid into lunch, and then there was dinner, and one night, we even went dancing together. We played cards, we went to a show, we laughed and talked, and we laughed some more. Time sped. In fact, it rushed by like a Texas tornado.

Then one night Betty told me. I figured she’d had Chemo; why else would she need a wig? But the threat of cancer is something we all live with nowadays. Only a few die with it anymore. I just assumed Betty was cured. But that night, over dessert, she told me about it. She wasn’t one of the lucky ones. She had terminal cancer, the kind resistant to all the drugs she’d tried. This cruise was her goodbye to a well-lived life.

Have you ever fallen so hard, the breath is knocked out of your lungs? Like a gasping fish, pulled up out of the water, my lips kept opening and closing. I couldn’t breathe. There was no air. The vacuum of death had collapsed me, or, at least, I believed that for a moment.

Betty lifted my hand, and she brought it to her lips. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t want to spoil this friendship of ours. I’ve loved every moment, but I was selfish. I’m so sorry. I’ll go now.”

At her movement to rise, the air re-entered my lungs. I gasped, breathing in more than I needed. I expelled it with a rush and a harsh cough. “No, don’t leave me,” I gasped. “Don’t ever leave me . . . not until you have no choice, please.”

Betty cried then. I pulled out another clean, white handkerchief, and as she wept, I patted her hand, thinking all the while of how much she’d come to mean to me. She continued weeping for a moment, and then she looked up at me, squeezed my hand, and said, “You don’t understand, sweet, dear, Charles. I can’t . . .”

Again she would have rushed off, but I clutched at her hand. I needed her. Couldn’t she see that? I begged her, “Stay, please. Stay, my darling Betty.”

This went on for perhaps ten, fifteen minutes. Self-recriminations, apologies, and more tears, followed by the dry, hard facts. Betty told me that she had cancer in her bones and spots of it in her organs. She had only months to live.

I was horrified by the things she said, sick inside, in fact. But like I said, Betty was my chocolate. She made me laugh. She made me want to kiss each one of her short, thin fingers. She gave me purpose.

So despite the many times she kept trying to pull away from me that night, I wouldn’t allow it. Nor in the days that followed. We spent the rest of that cruise together, and then on the last night, the captain married us.

Oh, I know what you’re thinking. My sons said the same thing. “Dad, of all the women you could have chosen, why did you have to pick a sick one?”

And the answer, my friend, is that God brought Betty to me. He knew I needed her to share those moments, those days, those months –- whatever we had together. It would be worth it, you see, for when you really love someone, time has no shape but the present.

So Betty and I journeyed together from shipboard onto land, and ignoring the arguments of my sons and of her brother, we began our new life. Betty’s home had two furry cats that lived there. I had no reason to return to my house; we co-mingled agreeably.

September came around. Betty’s doctor’s appointments were weekly. She had fevers often, some as high as 105 degrees. I worried, and I took care of her, sponging her off, bringing her dripping Popsicles, plying her with ice cubes. And in between the bad times, there was still her smile, her humor, and her wonderful laugh. God blessed me with that love.

On the first of October she started in on a last chance drug. Her hair, which had been growing back in a fine, blondish/gray peach fuzz, dropped off again. She lost more weight as the nausea fought against her tremendous courage, and still she declined steadily.

In November I laid her to rest next to Gertha. Now two loves I have given up to Heaven. I regret neither.

My son and his wife are parting amicably. They still smile at each other and laugh. My son says they have grown apart and wish to go separate ways. Next month their divorce will be final. I do not understand how such a thing happens. For me, love is always unconditional.

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