“No…please, god, GEORGE…NO!” Olivia cried as she watched her husband rip the little Jesus statue off the top of the headstone. She knew what he meant to do with it. George couldn’t hear her. How can I make you hear me? She wondered as George kneeled in grief over the grave, crying into the autumn wind. It was only seconds between this moment and the next, but to Olivia it felt like an eternity had passed before George got the courage to compose him self and finish his task.
George gripped the statue and lifted it to his head. This movement was incredibly quick but looked to Olivia as if it were in slow motion. She cried out to her husband again as he bashed the statue into his fragile, eighty-year-old skull over and over again, with every ounce of strength he could muster at his age.
Blood poured out of the wounds he made in his head, covering the ground around the headstone in thick, dark puddles. He continued assaulting himself, letting nothing avert him from his task. Even the sight and smell of his own blood couldn’t stop him now. Getting weaker and weaker, he sank to his knees by the grave, waiting for death to take him away.
It all started about a year ago when Olivia had gone in for a mammogram. “We found a lump, Olivia,” the doctor told her, “We’ll have to do a biopsy to see if it is cancerous.” She couldn’t believe it. After all these years of not being sick or breaking a single bone, she may have breast cancer. George was angry at first,
“That doctor is an idiot. Seriously, Ollie, he’s a real quack. Get a second opinion!” he grumped at Olivia when she explained to him what the doctor had said. She didn’t press him further on the issue. She figured she would wait until the biopsy results to bring up the issue again. After all, why have a fight over nothing? she thought. Less than a week later, she got her answer. The telephone rang,
“Hello?”
“Mrs. Maheu?” a woman’s thin voice echoed over the line.
“This is she, who is this?” Olivia replied, hoping to herself that she had remembered to pay all of the bills that month. Sometimes things would slip her mind in her old age, but she was pretty sure that she had paid all the bills.
“This is Dr. Sculco’s office calling, your test results are in,” the woman answered her, “It appears as though you have stage three breast cancer. Doctor estimates that you have about six months to live.” Her words died off and the silence felt extremely loud and uncomfortable. It was like the air had been sucked out of the room, so Olivia coughed and cleared her throat, attempting to thank the woman before she hung up the phone.
Six months to live, she had said. Olivia’s face paled and her head suddenly felt fuzzy. She sank into a chair by the phone and took a deep breath, clearing her throat again. Her dog, Bowser, trotted over to her and in a knowing way rested his head on her feet, making them warm. How will I tell my children? How will I explain this to George? She thought, crying silently to herself as Bowser looked on, helpless to do anything else.
It took Olivia a week before she could break the news to George. She had to figure out the exact right moment to explain to him that she was dying. He was, after all, her love and her, well, everything for the last fifty years. She knew he wouldn’t be able to bear the thought of losing her. She knew exactly how she would feel if he explained to her he was dying. She didn’t want him to go first; she actually preferred it this way. She just hoped he would understand.
They were sitting together in the morning, having the usual two to three cups of morning java, when Olivia finally plucked up the courage to tell him, “I’m dying, George.” The words felt thick and unusual coming out of her mouth and they seemed to hang in the air like smoke, curling around her head and making the air stale and stagnant.
“Wha?” George was reading the paper and hardly heard the words issued from her mouth. She cleared her throat.
“I’m dying, George. The lump they found in my breast, its stage three breast cancer. They don’t estimate me havin’ much time left,” she looked at George and watched his face as he absorbed the news. It darkened suddenly in anger as if a storm cloud were passing over the room. George got up from the breakfast table, bumping the table and spilling coffee all over the tabletop. He put on his coat, thrusting his arms through the sleeves in quick, agitated movements and grabbed his truck keys that were hanging by the door.
“I’m goin’ out,” George spat at her as he walked out the door, leaving Olivia sitting there contemplating her own fate. She died three months later. Apparently, the doctors were just a little off in their estimation of exactly how much time I had left, she thought as her spirit watched the funeral. It was a sunny May afternoon that they held her funeral, cloudless and just a little chilly. George wept silently by her grave, his weary aged body racking with sobs, but no sound emitting from his mouth.
Olivia wanted to go to him, to tell him she was going to be fine. She felt her spirit move toward him, reach out to him, and then pass through him. She saw his face as her arm went through him. He obviously had felt it on some unconscious level, because he shivered with goose bumps and rubbed his arms with his hands in an attempt to ward of the chill. This was no good. He couldn’t understand or even hear her now.
Six months had passed and George was still in deep mourning. Olivia had attempted contact with him to let him know that she was alright several times, but nothing ever worked except in makeing George think he was going crazy. She tried several tricks, opening cabinet doors and knocking, opening windows when he was sleeping to let in a breeze. Nothing worked. George would close the cabinets or window and go about his business. He was never a superstitious man; they were a Catholic family and believed that when one dies they go to either hell or heaven. Olivia wondered which of these George thought she was in. Either way, the days passed and she grew weary of trying to make her presence known. And something was happening.
George appeared to be deteriorating quickly. He was growing thinner and he forgot about shaving all together. Bowser was suffering too, as George couldn’t bear looking at him anymore. He had been Olivia’s favorite dog, a loyal companion and one of her best friends. It was killing her to see him wasting away like this. Memories of the family playing Frisbee together would come rushing back when George walked the dog; a daily reminder of his dead wife.
Every month, on the anniversary of Olivia’s death, George would visit her grave. On this particular November day, George prepared to make his usual visit. A short while after he left the house, Bowser began whimpering and whining. His whining soon turned into vomiting, which lead way to convulsions, and then suddenly he stopped moving. Olivia watched as the dog’s spirit rose out of the corpse and ascended…disappearing in a shimmer of light. My poor Bowser, she thought as she realized what must have happened. George had poisoned the dog. At least he isn’t in pain anymore, she thought as she scanned the room for any indication of what George used to kill the dog with. It was then she noticed the letter on the table. It was addressed to their children. She unfolded it and read the confused and sorrowful words of her husband as he explained to their children what it was he planned to do.
Olivia left the house at once, headed for her grave site. It was a crisp fall day and the leaves were falling from the trees in bouquets of color; covering the ground in layers of orange and yellow and brown. Springdale Cemetery
“George,” Olivia called to him as he stood there deep in thought. He wouldn’t turn to look at her. “George, if you do this you won’t be with me ever again. George, you’ll go to hell. Please don’t do this, George. Think of the children! And who is going to come along and find you this way?” she reached out to him, her hand going through his chest instead of making contact with him. He shuddered deeply but made no sign that he could see or hear her. He probably just thinks it’s chilly out here, she thought as she watched George to see what he would do next.
“No…please, god, GEORGE…NO!” Olivia cried as she watched her husband rip the little Jesus statue off the top of the headstone. She knew what he meant to do with it. How can I make you hear me? She wondered as George kneeled in grief over the grave, crying into the autumn wind. It was only seconds between this moment and the next, but to Olivia it felt like an eternity had passed before George got the courage to compose him self and finish his task.
George gripped the statue and lifted it to his head. This motion was incredibly quick but looked to her as if it were in slow motion. She cried out to her husband again as he bashed the statue into his fragile, eighty-year-old skull over and over again, with every ounce of strength he could muster at his age. Blood poured out of the wounds he made in his head, covering the ground around the headstone in thick, dark puddles. He continued assaulting himself, letting nothing avert him from his task. Even the sight and smell of his own blood couldn’t stop him now. Getting weaker and weaker, he sank to his knees by the grave, waiting for death to take him away.
That’s when the runner happened by. Olivia watched as the man jogged slowly up the old cemetery road, his breath steaming from his lungs creating a grey cloud around him as he ran. He was listening to headphones and running methodically, with an expression of focus on his face. When he came upon George, he turned as white as a sheet.
“Hello, Sir?” He said as he looked at George’s crumpled body. He slowed his pace and then came to a shuddering stop, reached clumsily into his pocket and dug out a cell phone. He was shaking so badly he dropped the phone to the ground with a thud. Bending and picking it up, he looked at George again and his mouth twisted in discontent. With shaking fingers he dialed 9-1-1. “Hello, emergency? Yes, there is an old man up here at Springdale Cemetery who’s losing a lot of blood….yes, that’s right….Springdale Cemetery, on Prospect Road…..ok, thank you,” he hung up and put the phone back into his pocket, turning his attention to George. There was blood everywhere and the man appeared to Olivia as if he were too nervous to actually find out if George was alive or dead.
She knew George was still alive because she hadn’t seen his spirit leave yet, so there was still time. This man could have possibly saved him by happening along when he did. The ambulance soon arrived with paramedics who strapped George into a stretcher and whisked him away to the nearest hospital. Olivia tagged along in the ambulance. Since she is dead, no one could see her so no one could tell her otherwise. She wished she could hold her husband’s hand because his face was a mask of pain. His breathing was shallow but the paramedics soon had it under control, just as they were pulling into the emergency area of the hospital.
After six hours of intense pain and suffering, George died. No one else was in the room with him when he passed. Olivia watched as his spirit rose from his body and, instead of ascending, appeared to descend and disappeared into the floor. She could hear his cries as death pulled him into hell, wretched and fearful. She watched in grief, crying because she knew her husband was lost to her now. Even if she could figure out some way to get into hell, there would be a slim chance of finding George there or even of being able to get back out. Olivia sighed heavily and prepared to ascend, walking toward the light. She could see Bowser and her Mom and Dad, among other ancestors and relatives who had long since been dead. She walked toward them and disappeared into the light with one final, vibrating twinkle.
***This story is a work of fiction and does not reflect the author's views of the afterlife or theology.
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