Good Things Come

Good things come to those who wait. She flicked the light on and trudged toward the tea kettle. The worn and scratched kettle echoed with the sounds of running water as she filled it from the tap, also worn and scratched. Time takes its toll on things as well as people. The room looked old. It looked sad in the dingy light from the center of the kitchen ceiling. The wallpaper, faded and slightly bubbled, had begun to peel around the edges.

She placed the full kettle on the stovetop and turned the burner on. The new stove looked out of place in the kitchen—shiny and scratch‑free. No dents that told stories, no paint scuffs filled with memories. Just gleaming black and shiny stainless steel. The surfaces spoke of newness and blank slates. It had been replaced only last year when the old oven finally quit. The technician who was called was young and new. His predecessor never offered advice—just assessed the issue, gave a quote on the price, and then fixed the problem. He would leave with a tip of his hat and a wipe of his hands on a red shop rag, his tools slung over his shoulder in a tool bag that was as old as his career.

The new guy was different. He took a short look at the oven and stated that it was too old to fix. No parts could be found. The oven would need to be replaced. He didn’t even bring his tools into the house, but she would bet they looked new and unused in a brand‑new tool bag. He charged her $30 for an assessment—to tell her that the thirty‑year‑old oven was old. Her reverie was interrupted by the sharp whistle of the kettle blaring into the quiet house. It was the only sound, save for the cracks and creaks of an old house settling in the night.

She skipped the cupboard altogether and reached for her favorite mug on the tea towel folded in thirds on the counter. Resting on the towel was one packet of tea, one spoon, and her favorite mug—the one George had bought for her on their last vacation together.

They had gone out to Seattle to see Molly and her family. She and George had taken the grandkids out whale watching. While they waited on the wharf for their departure time, they wandered the gift shops. After ushering Molly’s kids around the shop and helping each of them pick out a trinket, George had found her by the coffee mugs looking at a blue one with cartoon whales on it. He took the mug from her hands, kissed her cheek, and brought it to the counter with the kids’ items.

After the whale watching and dinner with Molly and Joe, after hugging the kids, putting them to bed, then crawling into bed themselves, she asked George if he had gotten a gift at the shop too. His reply was the same he always gave when she asked questions like that. “You are the only gift I need, sweetheart.” Then he gave her a sweet kiss on her forehead and went to sleep.

She placed the tea bag in the mug of steaming water and watched the liquid turn from clear to brown. She added a scoop of sugar to the cup and returned the scoop to the sugar jar. Taking the mug and spoon with her to the table, she sat and stirred the tea and watched the brew spin in a weak current around the mug. The tea swirled, slow and patient. Patience, she reminded herself. Good things come to those who wait.

As it circled the mug, the motion pulled at her like a memory—confined to the small round like an above‑ground pool in summertime after the kids spent three full minutes walking in continuous motion around the edge of the pool, marching intently, forcing the water to match their pace until they finally let go and the water pulled them swirling around the walls of the pool while they giggled and floated a lap or two before standing up again and starting anew.

She asked him once as they watched the grandkids play in the pool if he wanted to join in the chaos. His reply came as steady as ever. “You’re the only chaos I need, sweetheart.” It had been years since they had a pool in the backyard. She and George couldn’t keep it up anymore without help, and the kids didn’t come around enough to make it worth it. They had given it to the new neighbors down the street who had three kids.

She warmed her hands against the side of the mug. The heat soaked into her chilled fingers, taking away a little of the ache. The house was kept at a moderate temperature, but her hands seemed to stay cold these days. Nothing to be done for it. The doctor blamed bad circulation. She had a flash of the doctor’s office the last time she went with George. She had wanted to talk to him about George’s condition. She felt as if George had been exaggerating what the doctor had told him.

When she walked out of the office after that appointment, she barely made it to the car before the tears had started, and by the time George had pulled out of the clinic parking lot, she was bawling. George turned the radio on to the Christian music station and turned the volume low. By the time they had arrived home, her heart felt temporarily soothed by the croons coming from the radio. Singers lulled her into silence with whispers of Bible verses and God’s love. If nothing else, George didn’t need her crying. He needed her love and strength. She cried a little more that night after George had gone to bed. Tomorrow, she had told herself, she would be strong.

She took a sip of tea and let the almost‑too‑warm liquid soothe her nerves. Day by day, George’s health had declined. The doctor said there was no telling how long he would have. He could live normally another twenty years, or he could rapidly decline and pass on in the next six months. Regular visits would help them better understand what to expect. George seemed out of it some days, and others he seemed fine. It took two years for George to cross that line. The line of having more bad days than good. The line of not really knowing who his own wife was.

She heard a creak of the floorboards in the hallway. She turned to look as George rounded the corner into the kitchen and saw her sitting there at the table near the window. He paused, a look crossing his face. “I heard a scream just now. Was that you?”

“It was the whistle of the kettle. I made some tea. Would you like to join me? I can pour a cup for you?” She thumbed the rim of her cup, waiting for his reply, wondering which version of George she was getting right now.

“Yes, thank you.” He sat down across from her as she stood to pick out his mug. He liked the brown one that Molly had given him for Father’s Day a few years back. He may not remember why he liked it, but he still chose that one more often than not.

The Earl Grey was already in her hand, and she was crossing the kitchen to get the milk when he spoke again. “Earl Grey please with a splash of milk.”

“Of course.” She smiled at him, turning away as the corners of her eyes moistened. When they had first gotten married, she had teased him relentlessly for not adding any sugar to his tea. How could anyone possibly stomach drinking plain, unsweetened tea? she had questioned. Like a good newly wedded husband, his reply had come quickly. The only sweetness I need is you, sweetheart. He kissed her forehead and went off to work, an empty mug of sugarless tea left on the counter in front of her.

“No sugar?” she asked him for old time’s sake, glancing hopefully at him as she handed him the mug.

“No. Thank you.” He took a sip and glanced up at her again. “If you don’t mind me asking, who are you and why are you in my kitchen?” Fate is cruel. She remembered their whole life in everything she did each day, while he didn’t remember a thing.

“My name is Isabelle,” she said as she ducked her head, not willing to watch him struggle to remember, to process what she was saying. Good things come to those who wait, she reminded herself. She would wait for him to remember. She managed to lift her head far enough to see his hands fidgeting as he held his mug of tea, the only indication that he was not completely calm. She carried their whole history in her chest, holding on to the hope that one day he might find his way back to it. “I’m your wife.”