KIP
Death circles his wife’s bed like a bird of prey. Her death rattle fills every inch of the room. Kip Homestead holds her hand as tight as she can stand it. Somewhat loose. As he clasps it, he hopes some part of her will not be released from the mere 80 pound-sack that was once her body.
He wipes away a stealthy tear that slid from his eye and ran down his cheek. Kip offered so many of them as silent but unanswered prayers. No miracle will sweep in from the wings.
When her eyes closed, his breath caught. Oh God. Leaning over her, Kip places a finger under her nose. Is she still breathing? Her eyes open, startling him to jerk back.
“Sorry.” Her voice is paper-dry and thin. And as if sorrow choreographed dancers, a tear drops.
“No. No.” He rushes, brushing a strand of hair away from her face. “I thought you….” The final, unspeakable word lodges in his throat like a fist.
Her now oversized head, too big for the birdlike form, gives a slight side-to-side pull. Words require an energy that Lara Homestead no longer possesses. Her bony hand tries to grip his tighter. “I love you, Kip.”
She is wheezing now, sucking and gulping for air that will not fill her lungs. The room becomes tomb silent. Days before, the medical team removed the monitoring equipment, the cannula, and every other measure to prolong her life.
Her life. Kip cringes at the irony of the word. Over the cancerous course of two years, pieces of his wife’s life had been surgically cut off. Though his heart is cleaved in two, he understands what she needs to hear. “It’s okay to let go, Lara. Fred and Crane are waiting at the rainbow bridge.” He smiles at the thought of their two adopted border collies. “I love you.”
The room’s temperature drops. The warmth of Lara’s energy and life force is gone. He folds her hands together as if in prayer and kisses her lips. In a day or two, they will give him her ashes to scatter into the wind. No gravesite, no service, and no announcements. Their burial plots, like everything else, were sold off. Nothing is left with bank accounts drained, and their home and cars repossessed. Caring for Lara’s illness was a luxury that sucked away any remaining financial, family, and employment resources. Well-intentioned people on the periphery of disaster cannot sustain sympathy for protracted periods. Even Kip’s job, though understanding for the first three months, filled his seat with another.
As he leaves the hospital, the wind whips paper and other debris around Kip. He glances across the parking lot and walks toward a dumpster where he hid the remnants of their lives in a shopping cart. Any observing stranger might think it’s filled with junk - papers, photos, and worn clothes. To Kip, these are his last treasures.
He zips his well-used coat and turns up the collar. Ominous clouds march across the sky, threatening to attack. As Kip pushes his cart forward, he wonders if the shelters will have beds tonight. When nasty weather arrives, they seldom do. Though he focuses straight ahead, passing pedestrians give him a wide berth with downcast eyes. Kip has become one of the countless, scorned, and shunned homeless, whose ‘invisible’ presence is vast.
Yeah, I know. He thinks, looking at the people. I thought it only happened to the other guy, too. But it’s only one catastrophe away.
The chilly wind stings his face and whips his stringy, oily hair. Once a clean-shaven face, Kip’s beard is now crusted with bits of ice and the residue of crackers from the hospital’s vending machine. God, am I a cliché? He struggles to place one tattered sneaker before the other. I can join Lara. At 40, Kip still cannot understand how their lives turned out.
As rain and ice pelt his eyes, he blinked, pushing the cart forward. Grateful for no kids. Though at one point, they weren’t thankful. Lara and Kip Homestead would have loved having children. I would’ve loved to have more time.
As he enters a park, a sharp pain radiates from his chest, down his arms, and squeezes like a vise around his back. Panting, his consciousness dims. He needs a place to land. His feet move as if attached to bricks. Huffing, he throws himself onto a metal bench covered in an icy sheen. His heart throbs as he places his hands on his thighs and dips his head.
The keening sound is supernatural; for a moment, Kip tries to identify its owner. His insides and soul are unmooring as if trying to escape the horror and the unimaginable grief. “Why?” His scream is so anguished that any remaining birds take flight. He screams again, “Why? What did Lara or I ever do to deserve this?” He bows his head as the sobbing continues to wrack his body. The snot from his nose freezes as he attempts to wipe it away. “If you’re there… listening… please.”
The bitter cold seeps into his bones. Freezing to death has appeal. It might be a blessing. A hand touches him with a pulsating warmth that flows through Kip’s body. Fingers cup around his shoulder, forcing an exhalation that empties his lungs, sweeping away the weight of grief and despair. The stabbing pain in his chest ceases.
As Kip twists toward this stranger, he raises his hand to block a light. When his eyes adjust, he studies the stranger’s face. His skin is a rich, olive complexion with a thick, dark, and full beard. Shoulder-length, wiry hair frames his face. Kip assesses the man’s clothing, rubs his eyes, and looks again.
The man is wearing nothing more than a burlap tunic with long sleeves. Cinched around his waist is a knotted cord. A purple sash drapes across his chest. Kip smiles, thinking it reminds him of his Boy Scout days without badges. He glances at the man’s feet and is stunned by nothing more than a pair of black shower slippers.
Using the heel of his hands, Kip blinks harder this time, trying to rub away the hallucination. But when he opens his eyes, the stranger is still present, resting his hand on Kip.
“Who are you?” Kip asks.
The man turns to face Kip. “I am - who you need me to be.”
“But I…. I might know you from somewhere,” Kip stammers. Inside the cobwebbed corners of his brain, he searches for the connection. I know him. He hears faint snippets of songs. His mother’s hand. His eyes widen as he sucks in a breath. “Are you…?”
Keeping his hand on Kip’s shoulder, the stranger leans in closer. “I am - who you need me to be.” He repeats.
Their eyes meet. Every cell within Kip awakens to love, compassion, and peace as if pulled into the ocean’s undertow. Whatever gift this man possesses, Kip does not want to return to life’s present shore.
The man closes his eyes, breaking the connection.
Kip’s hands are pink with warmth. Desolation and hopelessness fade. He continues to study his hands, hoping they will encourage and strengthen his next question. Looking up, he stares into the man’s face. “Why?”
The visitor cups his hand around Kip’s ear, leans in, and whispers.
