Chapter Three – It’s Coming!
The Misery of Mrs. Geesky. Serial Number 3, The Red Reticule.
BEFORE CHAPTER THREE
Make every effort to dissolve the ego-self that interferes with peace and liberation. When we know peace is present in every moment, we are not afraid.
Acceptance of everything that happens is a possibility. All the thoughts, memories, daydreams, even deep sleep is a covering of the Truth that sets us free. Drop the thoughts and all the waves in the mind. The Truth is never apart from you right where you are.
Our biggest problem is not death. Our biggest problem is identifying with all the things of existence that change. Everything changes.
Chapter Three - Mrs. Geesky Returns
“There is no more pretending.” Mrs. Geesky muttered a confirmation to herself.
With relief she looks at the lattice along the wooden porch as she returns to the house for the last time. The bedroom light splices across the porch railing dividing up into shadows and light. She stops at the bottom of the worn wood stairs and lowers her head as she watches each footstep upward towards the closed door. No one greets her.
“The old woman is bedridden,” she reminds herself.
Few know Mrs. Geesky sits minute after minute with her fingers folded in her lap, alongside the dying, whomever the dying is. Only a handful of co-workers and her boss know she returns to sit with Mrs. Walshe. There’s no certainty Mrs. Walshe is dying tonight.
None of the messiness, and there is plenty of it, of the giving out of the body, troubles Mrs. Geesky. Not once has she ever called for assistance. As a rule, she maintains the image of a serene statue, a constancy of silence as she waits for the Great Matter.
When Mrs. Geesky gets to the front door she sees the relatives, a grandchild, named Julia and an old cousin, a nameless intruder. They have come to wait and to witness the death of Mrs. Walshe. Neither offer Mrs. Geesky anything when she comes in. The grandchild and the old cousin stand in some luckless trance next to one another at the end of the hallway. The house is darkened. The light from the bedroom where Mrs. Walshe lies in an unconscious silence is overcast across their anxious faces.
“I know what to do!” Mrs. Geesky praises herself in a loud approbation.
Her words are doctrinaire and are the words Mrs. Geesky says as she sticks out her jacket for one of them to hang up. As soon as the old cousin catches the jacket from her outstretched hand Mrs. Geesky turns her back and strides into the front bedroom.
The room is smelly. A musty, dead odor. Mrs. Geesky sniffs the air and then notices there is a thick stack of moth balled blankets piled over Mrs. Walshe’s thin, motionless body.
“They will be no match for the cold that is coming to her tonight.” She mumbles to herself as she pats the blankets with disgust. The granddaughter, Julia, followed close behind and heard the slurred message.
“She feels very cold. Feel her toes.” The granddaughter chides Mrs. Geesky to see for herself.
“It won’t do any good. Limbs and organs go dead. The cold is one of the first signs.”
In an unusual gesture of what looks like kindness, Mrs. Geesky slides her hand underneath the pile and feels the cold toes then grasps the top of the unresponsive foot. With a great sigh, she shakes her head as she drops the cold foot and moves towards the head of the bed.
Closer to the old face she places the back of her hand against the sunken, cool cheek. With her other hand she drags a cushioned chair away from the wall scuffing the wide planked floor. The floor squeaks when she lets both hands fall into her lap as sits down. One last time by the side of Mrs. Walshe’s she sits and waits.
“She doesn’t open her eyes.” The granddaughter whispers from the bottom of the bed where she rearranges the bedclothes across her grandmother’s chilly feet and unmoving body.
“Yes. That’s true. She can’t swallow either. She’s doing most things right.” Mrs. Geesky reveals as she scoots the parlor chair closer stopping when her knees touch the mattress. ‘This is the great matter.’ Mrs. Geesky affirms to herself. ‘It is the reason I am here. I make a difference. I make it better. I know what to expect.’ Mrs. Geesky knows firsthand the happy relief when the end finally comes when anyone dies.
The granddaughter stands at the foot of the bed, looks towards Mrs. Geesky then at her grandmother’s cheerless face. She pinches the top of two small, buried lumps masquerading as her grandmother’s feet.
“What do you mean she can’t swallow?” The granddaughter insists on an explanation.
With her head tilted back Mrs. Geesky sniffs the air before she speaks. “Mostly. I mean mostly. She can’t do most things. That’s what I mean.”
The old woman’s privacy, torn down by old age and sickness, split open a spot for Mrs. Geesky to drift over, to tramp through, and march in. Mrs. Geesky pats Mrs. Walshe’s covered up mired life of a body to reassure herself with her own thought. ‘I am ready.’
Mrs. Geesky is ready. She clears her throat. The granddaughter does not notice. There is something hidden, unspoken. There is something of the kind as dark and green and alive as virulent ivy creeping on, crawling up the brick face of an old building. It is unstoppable. And it is climbing inside this old woman.
Mrs. Geesky begins to count in silence. ‘One…two…one…’ She watches with the intent and skill of a midwife the misfiring breaths and the disarming yawns. ‘She’s not coming back.’ Mrs. Geesky knows the signs, knows there will be no last-minute reprieve.
“I must uncover her leg.” Toward the granddaughter Mrs. Geesky sticks her hand underneath the piled blankets in search of Mrs. Walshe’s leg. The skin looks bruised and mottled.
“She is bird like and turning. Her legs are spotty and marbled.” Mrs. Geesky holds the frail leg and bounces it in her open palm to check the weight. “It’s not long now.” Strict and precise as a clerk weighing meat behind a glass counter, she divulges what she knows.
The arrival every time is cheerless and sad, but it is a prelude to the reprieve that always follows. Dying opens things up; time and space break apart and all is well with the world. It all makes sense, inexpressible sense. It made them happier…. makes everyone happier.
Mrs. Geesky watches Mrs. Walshe dying. She knows she belongs here, right by this recurring bedside cryptic enigma.
“I’m right here. I’m not afraid. Don’t be afraid.”
“What did you say?” the granddaughter is not sure of what Mrs. Geesky announced.
“I’m not afraid. It helps her. But don’t ask questions. Just be quiet.”
“You just said something.” The granddaughter with an accusatory firmness.
“Be quiet!” Mrs. Geesky snaps back as she presses her index finger against her closed lips.
Mrs. Geesky never asks for help. She believes in her ability to do this work. Each time in the presence of death she is irascible and stubborn. She wants to go it alone.
In the faint blush of light from an old lamp, under the stack of blankets, this old woman, coughs. Interrupts the present. Mrs. Geesky reads it as a sign.
“She is ready. The parade of exasperating long breaths is about to begin.”
The granddaughter does not remain quiet. “What kind of chaplain are you?”
“Interfaith.”
The line between them hardens. Mrs. Geesky does not want to talk. She does not follow any faith rituals even though she is certified in several religions.
“The main task here is to be quiet and wait.” She snaps.
There were only a few times during her career when she felt obliged to speak. If someone asked her to do something that required words, she did oblige but it usually meant that she was never asked again. When she spoke, she was gruff and corrosive. She took pride in not what she said but that she showed up, willing to stay no matter how long it took.
Mrs. Geesky squints at the granddaughter ready to stop her.
“It’s best not to say anything.” She repeats her pronouncement.
The granddaughter blinks. She grasps the bottom bed frame. She takes a hard swallow, blinks again and moves to the other side of the bed across from Mrs. Geesky. She runs her fingers in a feathery caress along her grandmother’s hairline.
“It’s best not to do anything.” Mrs. Geesky warns her off. “It’s best not to touch her.”
The granddaughter pulls her fingers away and covers them with her other hand. She scans the thin, washed-out face of her grandmother and makes a slight gesture to bend down towards her head on the pillow.
“Don’t kiss her.”
At this decree, the granddaughter, who is not a stupid woman, takes a step back from the bed. She looks directly at the face of this stranger who tells her not to kiss her dying grandmother.
“Who are you to tell me what to do with my grandmother? She is my grandmother.”
“I know who you are.” Mrs. Geesky berates. “I’m in charge.”
The granddaughter feels banned; a sense of being exiled. She feels disqualified, barred from being present. Before Julia can respond Mrs. Geesky gives her a final blow.
“I’ve been here hour after hour, night after night, week after week. Don’t think your holier-than-thou-showing-up gives you any rights. And anyway, you’re just a substitution.”
The granddaughter staggers backwards another step or two against the wall. Youth betrays her. She stands with her arms hanging and frozen by her sides.
“How do you know?” she pauses, glances at her grandmother, and adds, “She’d never tell you that!”
“Tell me otherwise. No one can be with her like I can be with her. The Great Matter is coming. I can tell. You’ve never seen it, have you?”
The young woman is silent.
“Have you? I know you are inexperienced. You could upset her. It’s best to leave her with me.”
Blanched to a pale white the granddaughter glares. Lines of fatigue crease her young face.
Mrs. Geesky takes her final blow.
“Get out!”
Suddenly red-faced, teary, hurt, the granddaughter rushes out into the hallway.
Once the granddaughter is out of sight, Mrs. Geesky gets up and peers into the face of Mrs. Walshe and whispers,
“Its coming. Get ready. Get ready. It’s coming.”
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