CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The Release

Mrs Morel was getting worse. They now had to carry her around the house. She spent all day sitting in her chair looking hopeless. Paul and she were afraid of each other. He knew, and she knew, that she was dying. But they kept up the act of being happy. Every morning when he woke up, he went into her room to see if she was well.

"Has it been bad?" he asked.

"Fine," she said.

He knew that she was not telling him the truth. Even to the end, she would do all she could to protect her children. Then he would go to get her breakfast. All day, he thought only of her.

After he got home from work he went straight up to her room.

"Did you have a good day?" he asked her.

"A little tired," she answered.

He sat on her bed and tried not to look unhappy. At night he would paint in her room, so they could talk. They talked like they did years ago. They were the best of friends again. When their eyes met, she smiled. Paul was filled by sadness. He could not even think about what life would be like without her.

He felt as if his life was being destroyed piece by piece. Often tears came to his eyes. At work he could not concentrate on what he was doing. He would sit and think about his mother.

Mrs Morel tried not to think about death. She thought of the pain she was feeling, the next day, her husband, or her children, but never about death. That would come soon enough.

Sometimes when they sat together at night, they could think of nothing to say. But they were together, that was enough. At last he would stand up to go to bed. He leaned against the door, not able to go any further. The thought of her leaving was too much.

He did not see Clara very often. When he did, he would knock on her door, and when she opened it he simply said: lake me.

She did, but she was afraid. He had her body, but she never had his mind. It was as if he were using her to forget. He wanted her, he had her, and it made her feel as if death itself was coming inside her. There was no man loving her. She almost hated him.

The days and weeks went by. He went from person to person for help, but no one had any to offer. No one could take away the pain. Miriam had written to him and he went to see her.

"How is she?" she asked.

"The same, but the doctor says the time is coming," he answered.

Paul knew that Miriam could not help him now. He had to face the fact that there was no escape from the pain. Life was kicking him far harder than Baxter Dawes had. This is what it was to be truly alive. Suffering was life.

Paul stayed at home all the time now. They did not have enough money to pay a nurse, but that did not matter, he would have stayed at home even if they had. He was going to be there when she needed him, like she had always been there for him.

Mrs Morel kept holding on to life. Sometimes she and Paul could laugh together like there was nothing to worry about, but the knowledge that death was near would return quickly.

One day they called for the nurse.

"She can go on for days, can't she?" Paul asked her.

"No, Mr Morel, she can't," the nurse said.

There was silence.

"You should go downstairs now, I'll call you if anything happens," said the nurse.

He went and sat with his brother and sister. He could not stand being still, so he walked out into the garden. He felt something inside him break. Annie came running out of the house. He knew already what she would say.

"Paul! She's gone!" she screamed.

He ran back into the house and upstairs. She lay on her bed, not looking any different. He sat on the bed and held her hand.

"My love, my love, my love," he cried over and over again.

Walter Morel came home from work at four o'clock. He walked silently into the house and sat down. Tired, he closed his eyes and sat without moving. Paul wondered if he knew. It was some time and no one had spoken. At last the son said, "She's gone."

"What time?" was all he asked.

After he had finished eating his dinner, he went out. Annie and Arthur were shocked by the fact that he did not seem to care, but Paul guessed differently. When a man has been married to a woman for over thirty years, she is no longer a woman or a wife. She is half of her husband's soul. It was not that Morel did not care, it was the fact that half of him had just died, and he knew that the other half would soon follow. In life he was hers and in death he would be hers as well. Theirs was a bond that death could not break. Later that night when the children had gone to bed, he went into her room. He did not kiss her, for fear that she would be cold and different from the woman he had loved. He saw her as the girl he had first fallen in love with.

"My dear, my dear," he whispered, and left.

Paul kept busy doing all that had to be done. On the day of the funeral, it rained heavily. Afterwards, with all the family and friends in the house, Paul walked into the garden to be alone. She was gone and life would never be the same. He cried bitter tears.

In the weeks that followed, he saw Clara often. But it was different between them now. He saw things more clearly. She knew that he had changed and that she had lost him. As soon as she thought that, without wanting to, she thought again of her husband.

(end of section)