Rachel Hoermann
Ashes to Ashes
Scientist Dr. Gerald Murray was not a decisive man. Fortunately, Gerald’s wife, as well as fellow molecular biologist Dr. Marge Murray, excelled at making decisions for both of them. Unfortunately for Gerald, Marge was now dead. So dead in fact that her recently returned ashes rested in his two age-spotted hands.
After fifty years of not having to consider what to do or when to do it, Gerald now faced the daunting task of making a multitude of decisions, not only for himself, but also for Marge. According to Marge’s will, she did not want her ashes to reside in their senior-living bungalow and had insisted they be placed in the “wild” so her remnants could mix into the life cycle of nature. But where should Gerald place them? Filled with a flurry of indecisive angst, Gerald sat in his living room’s recliner, rocking, while an open window let the fall day’s cool morning breeze slide across his face.
It was while in his recliner that Gerald heard the lone song of a robin perched on the large oak tree opposite the two screened-in patio doors from where he sat. The bird’s melody reminded him of a summer day, not too long ago, when he had found Marge sitting alone on a bench under the same oak tree. The sun had splayed across her weathered face as she shared that she could spend an eternity there.
As the memory flooded Gerald’s mind, it suddenly occurred to him that Marge had indeed told him where she wanted her final resting place to be. Convinced, Gerald stood, grabbed his trusty silver walker, tucked Marge’s remains under his arm, and made his way out of the sliding patio doors.
The senior center’s shared courtyard stood in front of him as Gerald slid the door shut and thoughtfully made his way across the lawn towards the oak tree. The short walk took care due to the oak’s damp leaves stuck to the walker’s cushioned support and Gerald’s slippers, yet the effort was worth it; he would be doing one last task for his precious Marge.
Finally, under the tree’s scant brown and orange leaf canopy, Gerald kissed the top of the clutched box and gently opened its lid. The exposed dust slightly swirled in the fall breeze, as Gerald gingerly bent and shook the contents at the base of the tree’s trunk, scattering Marge amongst the potpourri of autumnal debris that littered the once green lawn.
“Rest, my darling,” Gerald whispered, turning slowly and returning to his home.
Gerald began to regret his decision within less than an hour. A steady hum filtered in through the open living room, intensifying to a roar, causing Gerald to turn his attention from the empty box, still clutched in his hands, to the open window. It was a mix of shock and horror that Gerald discovered that the noise was none other than the senior-living complex’s landscaping crew, who were methodically using leaf blowers to tidy up the fallen leaves in the courtyard beyond. As if his decision for Marge was a mathematical calculation, Gerald computed that scattering Marge amongst the oak’s leaves was not as permanent a location as he had initially equated it to be. Helpless, Gerald watched from his recliner as the landscapers cleared the leaves and dust from around the base of the oak tree. In their wake, a large dust cloud rose, one that the fall’s intensifying wind carried away into the rapidly darkening, stormy sky above them.
“Marge!” Gerald cried as he tried in vain to quickly rise from his chair and make his way to the courtyard beyond. It was of no use, though, between the walker, the remaining slick leaves at the base of the sliding doors' frame, and the cacophony of noise; the landscapers moved on, unaware of the elderly man who stood frozen amongst the mayhem. As a spiky tongue of lightning flashed across the mid-morning sky, Gerald sat down in his recliner once more, too shell-shocked to close the patio door against the oncoming storm.
To Gerald, it felt as if lifetimes had passed. Yet only a few minutes had gone by when the fall storm’s winds howled, and thunder rattled his and the late Marge’s retirement home. A gale-force wind entered through the open patio door so forcefully that it shook Gerald to attention, prompting him to rise and slowly close the glass door against the storm's harshness. Suddenly, a new noise filled the living room, not one that belonged to the thrashing storm, but one familiar and comforting. The sound, this beautiful sound, was his wife's voice, calling his first name in the same loving manner she always had.
"Gerald. Gerald— For Christ's sake, Gerald, do you not have your hearing aids in?"
Gerald, of course, was rattled by the voice, yet he was suddenly relieved that his decisive wife had somehow found a way to return to him. In the scientific parts of his mind, Gerald wondered if he was falling victim to brain degradation or if his mind was slipping due to the catastrophic leaf blower incident. He even found himself considering whether he had somehow inhaled a rogue mushroom particle while attempting to intervene with the landscapers earlier. Although rooted in rational hypotheses, Gerald quickly dismissed his scientific thoughts. Instead, he focused on the reassuring tone of Marge’s phantom voice that continued to call to him with increased force.
"Gerald Windscott Murray, for the love of God, it's me. Marge. Are you telling me that after fifty years of marriage, you cannot discern the voice of your wife?"
Smiling, Gerald answered, "I hear you, Marge. Are you talking to me from beyond? Have you come back to me?"
Marge, unlike Gerald, was focused and not partial to fantastic beliefs or unexplained phenomena, leading to an initial response of one lone snort. (Which, considering the lack of corporeal form, is quite a feat, only made possible by pure scientific indignation.)
"Dear God, man, has my death stripped you of all logical thought? Of course, I am not talking to you from beyond, but rather from the living room, where my atoms and DNA were carried in from outside and electrified by the charged air from the storm, resulting in partial reanimation."
Gerald nodded absent-mindedly as he wondered how long he should wait before asking his recently returned wife what he should have for lunch.
"Yes, I see." He replied, although in truth he did not see or understand how a simple air current and charged air could animate anything, let alone his recently departed wife, and honestly, he didn’t care. As long as Marge was back, he had help to decide between liverwurst or turkey for his mid-day sandwich.
"I think we should write a paper on how human life, perhaps all life, could be reanimated by simple electrical currents and proper ventilation," Marge suggested.
Gerald consciously turned his attention from the contents of his refrigerator, even though his stomach objected with rumbles of lunchtime hunger. He considered how Marge’s theory had already been explored in gothic fiction and how science had abandoned it decades ago. After sharing his thoughts aloud with Marge, she tutted and shook her non-existent head in frustration.
"Yes, but Gerald, they did not have leaf blowers a millennium ago; perhaps that is the key. What if all humanity needed to unlock immortality were leaf blowers?"
Gerald’s stomach let out a long, loud rumble, and, unable to ignore it a moment more, he turned in the direction of Marge’s voice and asked, “Marge, dear, that sounds nice, but could you help me decide on what I should have for lunch?”
Marge, suddenly reminded of what an endless eternity of living in the bungalow with Gerald would be like, turned her non-physical sight towards the large oak tree outside the patio. She was reminded of how earlier that year she had sat underneath it, and while the sun warmed her face, she considered the freedom of a life outside of her shared home, a freedom that only a life away from Gerald would give her. Smiling to herself, Marge once again turned her attention to Gerald, and with the sweetest, most compliant voice she could muster, answered, “Perhaps, turkey and Gouda, my darling, but before you head towards the kitchen, would you mind opening the patio door for me? I feel like I left a bit of myself outside.”
Nodding, Gerald shuffled towards the patio door, opened it up quickly, and let Marge slip into the great wild beyond. “Come back soon, my darling. I need help figuring out what I should order for dinner.”
Marge invisibly slipped through the patio door, her energy dancing unabashedly in the fall breeze, while she replied, “Figure it out yourself, Gerald.” Never to be heard from again.
Rachel Hoermann is a fourth-year student at The University of Cincinnati, Arts and Sciences, majoring in English, with dual concentrations in Creative Writing and Literary and Cultural Studies. Rachel enjoys crafting stories that showcase her authorial voice, exploration of WGSS subjects, and dark humor.