I got the news from Miss Comportment, as did most of Middle Valley. It was about Bernie and it was not good.
It was indeed a shock to hear about his stroke. No one knew he had health issues – in fact, I’m not even sure he did. He hadn’t mentioned anything to me.
I’ve never lost anyone in my life. Hell, I still have all four grandparents, though Papa Henry told Mom last week that he was getting the next train out of the nursing home. There may be a little cognitive decline going on there.
The idea of someone simply disappearing from my life is, I suppose mercifully, still foreign.
I consider Bernie still young and vital. I mean, he just returned from a cross-country drive, all in service to this book about Carson and Gordon and Mick, the book that I’m helping him write.
Wasn’t it just yesterday that he asked me to join him?
No, it wasn’t. Now I seem like I’m in cognitive decline.
Being employed to assist him in writing a book is the ultimate compliment. I’ve always been his understudy in a sense. And it’s not as if he owed me anything – I wasn’t exactly an angel when I worked for him. I fell asleep in the office, got tired of him hammering me on everything, and quit without any notice.
No, I won’t be winning any maturity awards.
And he has a family, though I don’t know them well. My understanding is that he was married to Elyse for a very long time, I think it was 30 years or so, and they had two girls. I remember being at the Riverside after he left one night and Cassie suggesting the marriage had grown stale, then ended about three years ago.
He had promised her a lot, that their empty-nest life would be free and interesting, maybe even a bit exciting. Maybe a move to New York City, but Elyse had grown tired of waiting.
I know they’ve socialized in recent months. He mentioned something about dinner at the Golden Pillar a few weeks back.
I am ashamed to admit that I’m wondering what all of this means for me, or for the Atlantic, for that matter. The magazine took a real chance, bringing him on, and an even bigger one hiring me.
I feel I should try to convince the Atlantic that I am able to continue his work on the book and to bring it to completion on my own, hopefully with his help and guidance. But before that, I decide I should talk to him in person, which is why I’m now standing outside his hospital room.
My hands are shaking from my nerves as I reach for the door.
I walk in to find him in bed, feet up, staring blankly at the TV.
“Hey, remember me?” I ask.
I can see a flash of recognition in his eyes. I nod.
“I’m so … sorry about all of this.”
He blinks, looking directly at me. I can tell he wants to say something.
“What are you thinking?” I ask. I am unsure of what to say.
A noise bubbles from his throat. I can’t understand anything.
“That’s alright … that’s alright. Do you need anything? Do you want me to call a nurse?”
Again, a grunt, which I assume means “no.”
I take his hand. “Can you squeeze my hand?”
Nothing. It appears he’s unable to move his right arm.
A nurse comes in at that moment.
“Hi, I’m John, a colleague of Mr. Rossie’s,” I tell her. “How is he?”
“Well,” she says, straightening his sheets. “It’s going to be a long road, but he’s here, so that’s the good news.”
I nod and look at Bernie, clearly struggling to comment or get a word out.
“We’re working on a book together,” I tell the nurse. Bernie’s eyes widen as I speak. He is engaged.
“Well, I’m not sure how much work he’ll be doing right now,” she says. “But he seems to be interested in hearing about it.”
As she leaves the room, I turn back to Bernie, still unsure what to say.
“You can hear me and understand me, right?”
He grunts again and I nod.
“Good, I’m taking that as a ‘yes’,” I tell him. “Look, I hope you will be able to resume work on the book, for sure, but I’m going to keep it going while you get better. I’ll call the editors and talk to them today. I’m hoping that we can do it together and that you will soon be able to resume working full time or nearly so.”
I could see his body immiediately relax. I thought I saw him nod, but I could have just been kidding myself.
“Take care of yourself. I’ll be back tomorrow or the next day to report in,” I tell him. “Do what they tell you and, hopefully we can have a full conversation next time I see you. Keep the faith, we’ll make it happen together.”
I turn and stroll out the door and head for the nurses’ station.
“How is he?” I ask.
The nurse that had been in the room looked from her laptop toward me.
“Like I said, it’s going to be a long road, but at least he’s here,” she says. “Keep him in your prayers.”
I can’t help but sigh, it’s so depressing. “I’ll do my best,” I tell her.
Jenny Page