Free A Widow's Story by Joyce Carol Oates

had plummeted , his heartbeat had accelerated— it was a secondary infection and not the original E. coli infection that had driven up his fever—within just the past few hours—his left lung was invaded, his bloodstream was invaded—though they tried very hard there was nothing more to be done.
    I am too stunned to reply. I am too confused to know whether I am meant to reply. It is very difficult to hear the woman’s voice through this roaring in my ears. I think that I must look distraught, crazed—the blood has drained from my face, my eyes are leaking tears—but I am not crying, not in any normal way am I crying—with what frayed remnant remains of my sense of social decorum I am trying to determine what is the proper response in this situation, what it is that I must say, or do; what is expected of me ? It won’t be until later—days later—that I realize that Ray died among strangers—all of these medical workers gathered in the corridor outside his room, strangers—Dr. I _ is not here, Dr. B _ is not here, Dr. S _ —Ray’s cardiologist for several years—is not here; none of the other ID specialists who’d dropped by to examine Ray and to speak with me is here; smiling Nurse Shannon of whom Ray was so fond is not here, nor even chattery Jasmine.
    It is 1:08 A.M. Late Sunday night. None of the senior medical staff is on duty at such an hour. No one of these medical workers including the young woman doctor is more than thirty years old.
    I will not hear from any of the staff who’d become acquainted with Ray this past week in Telemetry. Not even Dr. B _ who was the admitting physician and whose signature I will discover on the death certificate noting that Raymond J. Smith died of cardiopulmonary arrest , complications following pneumonia. 12 : 50 A.M. February 18 , 2008.
    It is the most horrific thought—my husband died among strangers. I was not with him, to comfort him, to touch him or hold him—I was asleep, miles away. Asleep! The enormity of this fact is too much to comprehend, I feel that I will spend the remainder of my life trying to grasp it.
    “Mrs. Smith?”—the young woman doctor touches my arm. She is telling me that if I want to stay longer with my husband, she will leave me.
    In the corridor, the others have dispersed. I am staring at Ray who has not moved, not even his eyelids have fluttered since I’ve entered the room. The young woman doctor repeats what she has said to me and from a long distance I manage to hear her, and to reply.
    “Thank you. I will. Thank you so much.”

Chapter 15
“The Golden Vanity”
    Please gather and take away your husband’s belongings before you leave.
    It is my task—my first task as a widow —to clear the hospital room of my husband’s things.
    Only just today—that is, yesterday morning—which was Sunday morning—I had brought the enormous New York Times , mail, page proofs for the magazine, and several other items my husband had requested from his office. Now, I will dispose of the Times and I will bring the other things back home with me.
    Not yet have I realized—this will take time—that as a widow I will be reduced to a world of things. And these things retain but the faintest glimmer of their original identity and meaning as in a dead and desiccated husk of something once organic there might be discerned a glimmer of its original identity and meaning.
    The wristwatch on the table beside my husband’s hospital bed—where my husband is lying, very still, as in a mimicry of the most deep and peaceful sleep—this item, an Acqua Quartz watch of no special distinction which very likely Ray bought in our Pennington drugstore, with a dark brown leather band, a digital clock-face pronouncing the time 1:21 A.M. —which, even as I stare at it, turns to 1:22 A.M. —has no identity and no meaning except It is Ray’s wristwatch and except Because it is his , I will take it with me. That is my responsibility.
    In this very early stage of