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razeI’ve never been to Washington so I can’t say for sure if it’s right - but the only shores I’ve seen in person have been California and Florida, and both states are full of more bad memories than I want to revisit. The geography of trauma is weird like that sometimes. All I know is, I spent a lot of time online looking at pictures of the Irish coast, and for all that it’s rocky and uninviting and harsh, Washington seems to fit the bill. Too many trees though, suppose I can’t do much about that. But, you know, it’s driving distance; as much as I wish I could hop a plane to Ireland for the occasion, there’s not enough money in any line of work with animals to pay for that, least of all on the grunt work end of it.
I still can’t decide what’s worse: a sudden loss, or the slow countdown to the inevitable. I guess I’ll find out when the day finally comes. Until then, I’m trying to enjoy the time we have left, pissed at myself about how much it’s colored by sadness anyway. Like, the sun’s getting low, and it’s bouncing orange off her hair, but her hair’s not glossy like it used to be, and I know when we get to the next hotel and I have her pulled up tight against me listening to her slow sleeping breaths - fuck knows I can never sleep - it’s going to be dry and brittle against my face. I remember that same hair soft on my cheek that first night, gentlest thing I’d felt in years. I hope it’s like that for her - dying, I mean. Gentle.
“I don’t know, I wouldn't trust a gas station fish sandwich.”
Morgan shrugs, and I’m glad she’s gotten comfortable enough that she’s not too polite to talk with her mouth full as she replies, “Nobody lives forever.”
And she means it to be funny, and if she can laugh about it I want to be able to, too, but instead I feel tears welling up in my eyes and I take a hard breath and look away so she won’t see it. Doesn’t matter, she’s on to me. She sets the sandwich down on her lap in its greasy wrapper and sighs.
“I’m sorry. I know this is difficult.”
My nose is running. I wipe it with the back of my fist, which is gross but - whatever, crying in general is embarrassing. “You shouldn’t be comforting me, shit. You’re the one who’s dying.”
She lays her hand over mine, and it’s cold, clammy, not the warmth I remember from the day we met - not long ago, damn, nowhere near long enough. “Outliving the people you care about is objectively harder.”
And hell, don’t I know it, but instead I say, “It’s not a contest. It sucks all around.” I’ve choked back enough of the sadness that my voice isn’t cracking at least, lucky for my dignity. I hazard a glance back in her direction; she hasn’t picked the sandwich back up. “What do you want to do about sleeping tonight? We’ve got a full tank so we can keep going for a while, but I don’t know if you’re getting tired.”
She smiles and her chapped lips look like they’ll crack from it. “If we stopped whenever I was tired, we would still be in Montana.” She presses the button to lower the window, sticks her arm out with her fingers pointed forward and palm flat, letting her hand dip and bob with the wind. The sun’s almost tucked behind the mountains now and it’s getting cold; she’s thinner now, gets chilled easier, and I worry but I don’t say anything. “Let’s drive a little longer.”
We ran out of small talk a good three hours ago, not that there’s anything wrong with quiet company. The music is turned down low enough that the breeze through the open window muddies the sound of it even with hearing like mine. Everything smells overwhelmingly of pine, a lot like home but just different enough to know it isn’t. Can’t smell the ocean yet, still too far off, and part of me is just so damn terrified that I’m going to wake up in some dive motel in fuck-nowhere Washington and she won’t, that she’ll go cold and still before she gets to the water. My foot leans a little heavier on the pedal.
“Lot of cool wildlife in the Puget Sound,” I finally say because my mind is wandering off places I don’t want it to. “Like whales and shit.” And seals. “Ireland got whales?”
She flexes her hand - fingers are probably getting stiff from the cold - and pulls her arm inside, but doesn’t put the window up just yet. “Quite a lot of them, actually,” she replies. “Europe’s first Whale and Dolphin Sanctuary was in Irish waters.”
“Huh. I don’t really think of whales when I think of Ireland.” Contemplative, I add, “Honestly I don’t know much about Ireland in general, which seems kindof shitty now that I’m thinking about it. But apparently it has good people. I mean two for two so far, at least.” I smile, then frown.
She cocks her head slightly. “You don’t speak about your wife often.”
“Yeah, well, not about to start, either. Talking about your dead wife with your dying girlfriend seems… I don’t know, tacky.” The lines on the highway are suddenly real interesting, because I don’t want whatever look she’s giving me.
“You know, a traditional Irish wake is a celebration. You reminisce and share stories about the dead, to honor their life. It’s a good thing, not burying your memories with the people you lost. Easier to process things that way.” She is trying to get me to look her way. I guess it’s getting dark enough that she won’t see it if the water works start up again, at least.
“There’s nothing easy about -” I start, but you know, she’s probably right. There’s so many things we just don’t talk about, me and the people in my life. We pretend the elephant in the room isn’t there even when it's sitting on our chests, crushing the breath out of us. I finally glance away from the road. “So what did you want to know about her?”
I still can’t decide what’s worse: a sudden loss, or the slow countdown to the inevitable. I guess I’ll find out when the day finally comes. Until then, I’m trying to enjoy the time we have left, pissed at myself about how much it’s colored by sadness anyway. Like, the sun’s getting low, and it’s bouncing orange off her hair, but her hair’s not glossy like it used to be, and I know when we get to the next hotel and I have her pulled up tight against me listening to her slow sleeping breaths - fuck knows I can never sleep - it’s going to be dry and brittle against my face. I remember that same hair soft on my cheek that first night, gentlest thing I’d felt in years. I hope it’s like that for her - dying, I mean. Gentle.
“I don’t know, I wouldn't trust a gas station fish sandwich.”
Morgan shrugs, and I’m glad she’s gotten comfortable enough that she’s not too polite to talk with her mouth full as she replies, “Nobody lives forever.”
And she means it to be funny, and if she can laugh about it I want to be able to, too, but instead I feel tears welling up in my eyes and I take a hard breath and look away so she won’t see it. Doesn’t matter, she’s on to me. She sets the sandwich down on her lap in its greasy wrapper and sighs.
“I’m sorry. I know this is difficult.”
My nose is running. I wipe it with the back of my fist, which is gross but - whatever, crying in general is embarrassing. “You shouldn’t be comforting me, shit. You’re the one who’s dying.”
She lays her hand over mine, and it’s cold, clammy, not the warmth I remember from the day we met - not long ago, damn, nowhere near long enough. “Outliving the people you care about is objectively harder.”
And hell, don’t I know it, but instead I say, “It’s not a contest. It sucks all around.” I’ve choked back enough of the sadness that my voice isn’t cracking at least, lucky for my dignity. I hazard a glance back in her direction; she hasn’t picked the sandwich back up. “What do you want to do about sleeping tonight? We’ve got a full tank so we can keep going for a while, but I don’t know if you’re getting tired.”
She smiles and her chapped lips look like they’ll crack from it. “If we stopped whenever I was tired, we would still be in Montana.” She presses the button to lower the window, sticks her arm out with her fingers pointed forward and palm flat, letting her hand dip and bob with the wind. The sun’s almost tucked behind the mountains now and it’s getting cold; she’s thinner now, gets chilled easier, and I worry but I don’t say anything. “Let’s drive a little longer.”
We ran out of small talk a good three hours ago, not that there’s anything wrong with quiet company. The music is turned down low enough that the breeze through the open window muddies the sound of it even with hearing like mine. Everything smells overwhelmingly of pine, a lot like home but just different enough to know it isn’t. Can’t smell the ocean yet, still too far off, and part of me is just so damn terrified that I’m going to wake up in some dive motel in fuck-nowhere Washington and she won’t, that she’ll go cold and still before she gets to the water. My foot leans a little heavier on the pedal.
“Lot of cool wildlife in the Puget Sound,” I finally say because my mind is wandering off places I don’t want it to. “Like whales and shit.” And seals. “Ireland got whales?”
She flexes her hand - fingers are probably getting stiff from the cold - and pulls her arm inside, but doesn’t put the window up just yet. “Quite a lot of them, actually,” she replies. “Europe’s first Whale and Dolphin Sanctuary was in Irish waters.”
“Huh. I don’t really think of whales when I think of Ireland.” Contemplative, I add, “Honestly I don’t know much about Ireland in general, which seems kindof shitty now that I’m thinking about it. But apparently it has good people. I mean two for two so far, at least.” I smile, then frown.
She cocks her head slightly. “You don’t speak about your wife often.”
“Yeah, well, not about to start, either. Talking about your dead wife with your dying girlfriend seems… I don’t know, tacky.” The lines on the highway are suddenly real interesting, because I don’t want whatever look she’s giving me.
“You know, a traditional Irish wake is a celebration. You reminisce and share stories about the dead, to honor their life. It’s a good thing, not burying your memories with the people you lost. Easier to process things that way.” She is trying to get me to look her way. I guess it’s getting dark enough that she won’t see it if the water works start up again, at least.
“There’s nothing easy about -” I start, but you know, she’s probably right. There’s so many things we just don’t talk about, me and the people in my life. We pretend the elephant in the room isn’t there even when it's sitting on our chests, crushing the breath out of us. I finally glance away from the road. “So what did you want to know about her?”
