Over and Over
When Ray Wallinger's eyes fluttered opened, they were drawn to the glowing numerals of his digital alarm clock, which read 6:30 a.m. There was no sense of joy or anticipation in waking up. Unlike those starry-eyed optimists, he did not compare the start of a new day with the unwrapping of a precious gift. That was all bullshit! A day was something people had to get through; it was not a thing to be enjoyed.
At one time, he might have felt differently. Under different circumstances, he would have awakened and smiled when he saw the sun shining through his bedroom window, but not today, and not for some time now.
My wife is going to die today, he thought, feeling like the weight of the world was heaped on his shoulders. As he threw off the covers and rose to his feet, the proviso came to him: unless I can save her.
Ray did not look at the calendar when he entered the kitchen. He knew what day it was. Like a heart-rending mash-up of Love Story and Groundhog Day, he woke every morning to June 13, to the day his twenty-seven-year-old wife, Andrea, died. (Or, in this case, the correct verb tense would be dies since her death would not occur until 3:15 p.m.)
He lived this day over and over. Just as the date never changed and the time on the alarm clock when he opened his eyes was always the same, his inability to save his wife was another constant factor. Oddly enough, although the result never varied, the events leading up to Andrea's death and the cause of it were different each time. He had lived through this nightmare so often he could not recall the first time he lost her.
Was it a car accident then? he wondered. Or could it have been when she slipped in the shower and hit her head?
Over the long course of his never-ending torment, there had been several fatal car crashes and more than a few deadly tumbles down a flight of stairs. A pedestrian Andrea had been struck and killed by several vehicles. Sometimes she drowned: once in a swimming pool, another time in the ocean and most recently in a bathtub. Then there were the more bizarre causes of death: decapitation (that was a messy one!), electrocution, accidental poisoning, bee stings, wild animal attacks (they were never pleasant) and one time a tree was struck by lightning and fell on her.
Ray looked at the clock on the wall, the old-fashioned kind with an hour, minute and second hand. It was almost seven o'clock. Andrea would be coming home from her night shift in the emergency room (only to return there as a patient later in the afternoon, no doubt).
"Unless I can save her."
It was a hope he had expressed over and over but had yet to realize.
It's often been said that the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result. Insane though it might be, what else could he do? Stand by and let her die without attempting to save her? Never! He adored his wife. He would risk his own life to save hers as he had over and over. But it was never quite enough. No matter what he tried, he simply could not save her.
* * *
At 7:05, Ray heard the Subaru Legacy pull into the driveway. A few minutes later, the front door opened.
"Good morning, sweetheart!" Andrea called, instinctively knowing her husband was in the kitchen. "Can you pour me a cup of coffee?"
"Sure thing, honey."
The one bright spot in this repetitive horror was that, unlike her husband, Andrea had no memory of her previous deaths. She was blissfully unaware of being trapped in a continuous loop of life and death. When she drove into the driveway and entered the front door each morning on June 13, she believed she was doing so for the first time.
"What was your night like?" Ray asked as he placed a cup of hot coffee on the table.
"It was quiet."
This conversation, too, was always the same. He knew exactly how she would reply when he asked her that question.
"There were only two patients brought in the entire night. One was a man with a broken leg, and the other was a woman with a high fever."
He wondered if the other characters in their ongoing drama were real people. Did some poor man break his leg over and over? No, he decided. This was a private hell built for only two people. Everyone else, including the paramedics and emergency room staff that were often (but not always) called upon to tend to his wife in her final moments, were mere props in their story. They had no life of their own, no thoughts, no past, no future. They existed only to serve a temporary purpose in the nightmare.
"Shouldn't you be getting ready for work?" Andrea asked.
It was a question he had been asked over and over, and he always gave the same answer.
"I called in sick. I need a day off."
"Is it your back again? Maybe you ought to start seeing a chiropractor."
"No. It's what we used to laughingly refer to as a mental health day. I want to play hooky."
"I don't blame you," his wife laughed. "It's going to be a beautiful day out."
As it always is, Ray thought. Doesn't it ever rain anymore?
No. The temperature was always a pleasant seventy-two degrees. The sky was always blue with no sign of a cloud. The grass was always green. The flowers in his wife's garden were always in bloom.
Andrea finished her coffee and put the dirty cup in the sink.
"I'll wash that later," she said for the umpteenth time. "I'm beat. I'm going up to bed to get a few hours of sleep."
"I'll wash the dishes."
"You're a doll!"
The exhausted nurse kissed her husband on the top of his head and climbed the stairs toward their bedroom.
If she only knew what was in store for her today ....
But she didn't, and neither did he. That was the one blind spot. He knew when she would die but did not know how. If he did, he could stop it for once and for all!
As he sat alone at the kitchen table, he tried to formulate a plan. The majority of his wife's deaths occurred when she left the house, shortly after three o'clock, to go grocery shopping. One of his first attempts at saving her life was to purchase the groceries himself while she slept. Not to be denied its victory, Death took her just the same: rather than go shopping, she went out jogging and was run over by a delivery truck. He had once tried locking her in the bedroom, but that backfired, too. She attempted to get out the window and fell to her death. He had also faked a serious illness, knowing she would remain at his side to care for him. That only resulted in her being electrocuted when she plugged in the humidifier with the faulty wiring.
No matter what move he made in this dastardly chess game, Death was always the one to cry, "Checkmate."
What will it be today? Another auto accident? Another fall? Something more creative, maybe.
If he only knew how she was to die, he could do something about it!
Ray's eyes went to the calendar, hanging on the wall beside the refrigerator. Andrea had drawn a giant red heart around June 18. It was to have been their fifth wedding anniversary.
What is the traditional gift? he wondered. The first is paper; the second is cotton. The fifth is ... wood. That's it.
His wife would be expecting him to buy her something made of wood, perhaps that mahogany jewelry box she liked so much. It would also be nice to take her out to dinner and buy her a dozen red roses. But he would not be given the opportunity to do any of these things since Andrea would not be alive on June 18.
Unless ....
* * *
At 2:45—right on schedule—Andrea came down the stairs and into the living room where her husband was sitting on the sofa in front of the television, paying absolutely no attention to the game show that was being broadcast. She had showered and changed her clothes after her nap.
"You going somewhere?" Ray asked.
It was the same question over and over. It was as though he were an actor in a play, and he had no control over the dialogue. He knew what her answer would be; it never changed either.
"I need to pick up a few things at the grocery store. We're running low on milk, and I want to buy some pork chops for dinner tonight."
Now was the time for improvisation. It was at this same time each and every replay of June 13 that he was given the opportunity by some unknown power to try to save his wife's life. Acting according to the plan he had formulated during the course of the day, he stood up, turned off the TV and followed his wife to the front door.
"I'll go with you," he said.
This was how several of his previous plans had begun. Sometimes, they took her car; other times, his. Occasionally, he drove; most often, she was the one behind the wheel. During many of these attempts, she was killed on the way to the shopping center; other times, she suffered a fatal accident either in the parking lot or in the store. Each time he repeated his attempt to save her, he changed one of the details of his plan. Today, he would take a different route to the supermarket. In the past, they had always driven directly there.
"Where are you going?" Andrea asked, when her husband turned left at the corner of their street instead of right.
"I thought we'd take the scenic route."
"But the store is only two miles down the road."
"Can't a guy spend some time with his wife?" Ray laughed. "When you work the night shift, I don't get to see you as much as I'd like."
As he drove along the quiet country lane, he silently prayed for success. Since there were few houses on the road, there was little vehicular traffic. In fact, only one car passed by them.
"Where are you taking me for our anniversary?" Andrea asked.
"I haven't decided yet."
"Really? But it's only five days away."
"So? I won't forget."
"I'm surprised; that's all. You're the one who always plans everything out in advance. As long as I've known you, I don't think you've ever done a spontaneous thing."
As he listened to his wife's melodic laughter, he glanced at the clock on the dashboard. It was 3:02. The seconds passed like grains of sand falling down into the base of an hourglass.
It's GOT to work this time!
Up ahead was a county bridge that spanned the Northvale River. Built in 1944, the structure was part of America's crumbling infrastructure. Unfortunately, when he devised his plan to save Andrea's life, Ray had not considered the integrity of the bridge or the fact that the river was at a seasonal high point after the winter's thaw and spring rains. It was not until he was halfway across that he realized his error. By then, it was too late.
"Oh, my God! The bridge is collapsing!" Andrea screamed as the car plummeted into the swiftly moving river below.
"Quick!" her husband shouted. "Roll down your window before the engine cuts off."
With the windows down, the water rapidly flooded the car, and the vehicle was quickly submerged. Ray, who had not been wearing a seat belt, tried to free his wife from hers.
The damned thing won't budge! he thought, feeling his panic rise with each passing moment.
When Andrea was finally free, her husband pulled her to the surface and managed to get them both to the riverbank. She was not breathing, so he performed CPR in an attempt to revive her.
"One-Mississippi. Two-Mississippi," he said as he alternately breathed air into her mouth and pressed down on her chest.
In the distance, he could hear sirens approach. Someone—he did not know who—had called 911. When the two paramedics ran to the river's edge, there was nothing they could do. Andrea was beyond their help.
Ray did not look at his watch this time. He didn't need to; he knew what time it was. It was 3:15, and once again he had failed to save Andrea's life.
* * *
Ray's eyes opened. It was 6:30 a.m. Again. It was June 13. Again. He was lying alone in his bed. Again. Andrea was just ending her shift at the hospital. Her Subaru would pull into the driveway at 7:05. Again. At least he did not have to endure the aftermath of his wife's death. She always died at 3:15, and within moments of her passing, he would be fast asleep in his bed. Fighting the urge to scream, he threw off the covers and got up.
"When is this going to end?" he asked even though no one was there to answer.
He sat at the kitchen table, staring at the napkin holder in the center.
Why do I even bother getting out of bed in the morning? he wondered pessimistically. No matter what I do, I cannot change the outcome. I might as well just sit here and let this farce play out.
At 7:05, he heard the car in the driveway. His moment of self-pity ceased, and the jeremiad came to an end.
"Good morning, sweetheart!" Andrea called out as she walked through the front door. "Can you pour me a cup of coffee?"
"Sure thing, honey."
He filled her cup with coffee as though working on autopilot, like a bad actor performing in his thousandth performance of a terrible play.
"What was your night like?"
"It was quiet. There were only two patients brought in the entire night. One was a man with a broken leg, and the other was a woman with a high fever. Shouldn't you be getting ready for work?"
"I called in sick. I need a day off."
"Is it your back again? Maybe you ought to start seeing a chiropractor."
"No. It's what we used to laughingly refer to as a mental health day. I want to play hooky."
"I don't blame you," his wife laughed. "It's going to be a beautiful day out."
Andrea finished her coffee and put the dirty cup in the sink.
"I'll wash that later," she announced, unaware of the unceasing redundancy. "I'm beat. I'm going up to bed to get a few hours of sleep."
"I'll wash the dishes."
"You're a doll!"
She kissed him on the top of his head and headed for the staircase.
I can't do it anymore! he thought as he heard her footsteps on the stairs. Enough is enough! I've had it!
Ray took his wife's coffee cup out of the sink and tossed it in the trash. Then he took the calendar down from the wall and threw it and the napkin holder away as well.
"I quit! Do you hear me?" he shouted, raising his face to the ceiling as though he were in a direct conversation with God, one of his angels or whoever else might be listening. "I'm tired of playing this game. I'm going to take my ball and go home now."
For the first time since his wife died, he made no plans to save her. He would put up no resistance. He would no longer curse his fate or excoriate those supernatural beings who held him captive in his nightmare.
"Do what you will," he said as he opened the front door and stepped outside.
With no particular destination in mind, he walked. And walked. And walked some more. One foot in front of the other—over and over. There were no thoughts in his head as he walked, not of Andrea or of her impending death. Hour after hour, he circled the block.
It was nearly two o'clock when he returned to the house. His wife was still sleeping. It would be another forty-five minutes before she descended the staircase, dressed and ready to meet her doom. When she did, there was no game show playing on the television.
Then it would be time for his usual question: "You going somewhere?"
With great effort, he managed to remain silent, like an actor who forgot his lines. This did not stop Andrea from replying to a question he had not even asked.
"I need to pick up a few things at the grocery store. We're running low on milk, and I want to buy some pork chops for dinner tonight."
Ray did not say goodbye when she left. He did not watch her walk out the door. For the first time in—how long has it been?—he did not wonder how she would die.
The phone rang at 3:35, shattering the tomblike silence of the house. It was the hospital, the same one where Andrea worked.
"I'm sorry to have to tell you this ...."
He hung up the phone before the woman could finish her sentence. He closed his eyes and waited. It would soon be 6:30 and time for him to wake up.
* * *
No change.
How many times had she heard those two words? So many that she stopped asking the question. After leaving her husband's room, she passed a familiar face in the hall. She had seen him before but they never spoke.
"Visiting day," he said with a sad smile.
"Yes."
"I've seen you here before. I'm Corbin Fellowes, by the way."
"Andrea Wallinger."
"Would you like to have a cup of coffee with me? I could sure use some company. Seeing my mother like that ...."
His voice trailed off as he tried to fight back his tears.
"I'd love some."
As they sat across from each other on plastic chairs at a cheap, aluminum table in the long-term care facility's lunchroom, Corbin spoke of his mother's ongoing battle with Alzheimer's.
"She doesn't recognize me anymore," he said. "I look into her eyes, but there's nothing there. Honestly, I hate coming here, and I feel so guilty because of it."
"I know how you feel. It's the same way with my husband. When he was first admitted, I used to come every day. Then it was twice a week, then only once a week and then once a month. Now, I only visit on his birthday and on our wedding anniversary."
"Which is it today?"
"Our anniversary. We were married ten years ago today."
"What's wrong with him—if you don't mind my asking?"
"No one knows exactly. One day, he just snapped! None of his doctors can explain it. I'm a nurse, and I was working the night shift at the time. I came home just after seven o'clock and he was still in bed. I tried to talk to him, but I couldn't get through to him. He kept going on and on about preventing something from happening at 3:15."
"Stop what?"
"I don't know. In five years, his condition hasn't changed. He wakes up every morning at 6:30—you could set your watch by him. I used to think he could hear me when I spoke to him because he would mumble in response. But his answers never made any sense. Finally, I gave up trying to communicate with him. When I visit, I sit in the chair beside his bed and just listen to him ramble on. Finally, at 3:15 in the afternoon, he starts screaming and gets so overwrought that the nurses have to sedate him. Thankfully, the shots calm him down, and he sleeps until 6:30 the following morning. And it starts all over again."
"And he's been like that for five years now?"
"Yes. It's always the same, over and over."
Corbin reached out and took her hand, a gesture of sympathy that would, in the years ahead, lead to a much stronger bond between them.
"I often think of that old quote," she continued. "How does it go? Something about insanity being defined as doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result. Well, if that's true, then my poor husband is definitely insane because apparently he still thinks he can prevent whatever is going to happen."
As Andrea finished her coffee, she glanced at the clock on the lunchroom wall. It was 3:15. Upstairs, in his room, Ray Wallinger was coming to terms with his inability to prevent her death, just as he had hundreds of times before and would over and over and over again in the future.
The vet once saved Salem's life (one of them anyway). He gobbled down a six pack of Snickers bars and didn't realize he was alergic to peanuts.
