Short Story: His Lost Love

Sandra Fino. I haven’t heard her name since she broke my heart after our high school graduation. She always said she was meant for big things. “Tinker Air Force base will not be my future,” she’d repeat—every chance she’d get.

Her hair had been the most radiant shade of strawberry blonde and her eyes shimmered like fresh canned olives. Sandra always smelled of sweet vanilla. We graduated from South East High’s class of 1966, as two typical Air Force brats. After high school, Sandra forgot about me … as if I had been any one of her childhood toys.

When we met, Sandra and I were two ten-year-olds from broken homes. In the fifties, such homes were frown upon. Consequently, Sandra emotionally clung to me and I to her. At least, until we were high-school freshmen and she became crazy about The Beatles. It was as if she had transformed overnight.

Our mothers worked at Tinker Air Force base, as civilians. And to Sandra that was humble work that she had been determined to avoid. As we aged, I became Sandra’s outgrown play object. But she kept me near because she knew I truly loved her. I never blamed her for the way she treated me. She was ambitious, and that was never her fault. We made a plan to become Sooners, but weeks before graduation she decided that a handsome Air Force captain would give her a better future.

From the looks of her Facebook account, General Heinz gave Sandra a good-looking life. She has one folder after another, filled with loads of photos of her children and grandchildren—countless life memories that she shared with her husband.

Even at sixty-years-old, Sandra is as lovely as she was when I confessed my love for her when we were thirteen. Her once strawberry blonde hair is now more blonde than red. And her figure and skin have not aged a day over forty.

She definitely aged better than my wife … Ah, Poor Greta.

Greta just loved to eat too much, and I could never deny her what she loved. I took care of myself with a vegetable, fruit, and lean protein diet combined with daily golf; and continued that lifestyle after I retired from my civil engineer position at Tinker Air Force Base. But Greta, she never emotionally recovered from being told that she was sterile. Fried cheese and meat were the death of her.

***

Facebook seems simple, just like using any Internet website. After an hour, and more than fifteen photo folders, I’ve caught up on the last forty-three years that I’ve been separated from Sandra’s life.

I’m happy that she achieved the happy life she always wanted: health, love, wealth, and what appears as a life of adventure. I exit her Facebook photos and scroll towards her post updates and I’m stunned by a message post to her page.

An Elsa Frost commented: I’m so sorry, mom. I will be there soon.

Then several other messages follow. One, “Rest in peace, Stephen Heinz,” after another. I’ve become an Internet stalker as I watch and wait for Sandra to respond. Retirement enables my late-night cyber stalking. At midnight, I note that Sandra’s mourning has kept her from responding to the loving community that has flocked to her Facebook page.

For hours, I toss-and-turn, on the queen-sized bed that I shared with Greta, until 4AM when my mind finally shuts off. Shortly after, light peeps through my room darkening curtains. I’m a crackling box of pop rocks as I lift from my bed. My position as a civil engineer was never physically strenuous, but age creeps up on everyone’s bones.

I fire up my aged Toshiba laptop and wait for my DSL to load my Facebook. Several nuisance ads pop up before my laptop freezes. Goodness—hurry up! I tap and swirl on my laptop’s mouse pad until finally Sandra’s Facebook page loads.

Three post down and I notice her comment, from 8AM. She thanked everyone for their kind words, and also extended the invitation for anyone to attend and to pay respects at Stephen’s wake. They retired in Corpus Christi, TX. I immediately scroll to open a new tab and Google map a car trip from my home in Oklahoma City to Corpus Christi. Almost nine hours, but with my bones and bladder it’ll probably be longer.

On Saturdays, I don’t play golf. But I usually tend to my home chores, like cutting the grass and such. From my window, I can see that it’s a delightful day. There’s gleeful kids running up-and-down the street as the Autumn leave fall to the dried grass.

I tap my flip phone’s power button and note that it’s 11AM. For a second, I’m lured to drive tonight and make it to Stephen’s wake by tomorrow afternoon.

“And just like that—you forget about me … huh, Vince?” Greta’s comment shocks me.

“Go live your afterlife woman.” I brush her away before I press forward with my plans to see Sandra again.

“Do you truly perceive that you will just live a happily-ever-after with—her?”

While I ignore Greta, I pack a weeks’ worth of clothing and make sure to include my AARP card. My hand shakes while I insert my laptop and charger into its case.

Sandra. Sandra Fino. My Sandra Fino.

“Heinz. Sandra Heinz is her name—Vince.” Greta is a stone wall of hate perched on my bed. Rollers protrude from her head while compression socks roll at her knees. And even after death, her spider veins are as blue as my Chevy Silverado.

She adjusts her house dress as she struggles to stand. I never found Greta attractive. She was just sweet, and I was thirty and lonely. Everyone in my sector had been married and having children. Eventually, my wait for Sandra dulled as the thought of continuing alone made my days dull.

During one of my lunch breaks, while out on a walk, Greta crashed into me because she was too focused on her ice cream waffle cone. Her giggle sparked a glimpse of hope that maybe I wouldn’t continue alone. After that meeting, we became inseparable. Her adoration grew stronger, but over time … she recognized my loving indifference as a consequence of our age gap. The years I spent with Greta were kind. We never fought. We were two people that kept each other emotionally safe by physically being there for each other.

After our wedding, Greta quit her job as a gas-station clerk. She kept our home clean, the fridge packed, and I always had clean clothes. She was a good wife, but that fiery lust that Sandra awakened during my teenaged years … I never felt that with Greta. Yet, out of respect, I never spoke of Sandra to Greta. Yet, Sandra was always there. She became a reminder of what Greta would never be. For almost thirty years, I tried and tried to be the best husband I could be—but my lost love kept my heart and my lust. No matter my efforts, I was deeply enamored by Sandra. Poor Greta, she suffered through my indifference without ever knowing that she was in my lost love’s shadow.

There was a time when I wanted my marriage to work. But by my thirty-fifth birthday, Greta mourned that she would never make me a father. Subsequently, my cute curvy wife expanded into a mega-sized globe of sadness. Her need for my emotional support burdened me. It was as if in one swoop I acquired an over-emotional child-wife. She needed more of me than I was willing to give. Greta died at age fifty, but she out-lived most of her overweight family who all passed away at age forty-five.

***

In my Chevy, I glance through the rear-view mirror at my one-bedroom townhouse. Along for my road trip is my dead and nagging wife. On I35, a cluster of cars surround me while my car idles in traffic. Greta nags and whines for the first two hours of our trip, and I feel like I’m in hell.

“Why didn’t you ever take me anywhere?” Her arms can barely cross over her broad chest, and my Silverado’s passenger seatbelt has been consumed her fat rolls.

“Remember: your diabetes would have made this entire trip twice the length. We could barely run errands without making hourly bathroom breaks.” I clutch the wheel and focus on the cars around us.

She’s silent as we cross the Texas boarder at 3:15 PM. I stop to use the latrine, wash my paws, and then return to my truck. Greta’s prematurely wrinkled face stares back at me from the passenger’s seat.

“There’s still six hours left in this trip, do you plan to drive straight through?” Defeat saddens her stare.

“Stop that—don’t make me feel guilty, Greta. I deserve to be happy.” My statement is an excuse that I don’t even believe. Did she expect me to live the rest of my life alone? My wife and I never did much during our years together. Our only shared interest had been books and movies. After the first ten years, sex became more of a chore and weekly option.

Greta scratches at her more-salt-than-pepper braided hair, which causes her wrinkles to tighten at her cheeks. “Did you ever feel any love for me?” A ghostly tear streams down her face.

We continue parked at a rest stop on the boarder of Texas and Oklahoma. No other cars surround my truck while I explain to my dead wife: “It was never about you. It was never that I didn’t love you—because I did. At one time, I loved our friendship and your companionship. But it was never like what I felt for Sandra. And now, I finally have a chance to pursue the love and passion I’ve always wanted.”

“Screw Sandra.” Greta spews anger-filled spit in my direction. She doesn’t apologize when I have to use my shirt to wipe my face. We never were a couple that fought, and I didn’t plan to start bickering with her now.

I remain silent as I start my Silverado and follow a beat-up Honda as we return to I35. She’s quiet until from a distance we see Dallas’s skyline.

“I’ve always wanted to see Dallas,” Greta whispers in awe while she stares out the window. With that statement, I’m reminded that I lived almost thirty years with the ghost next to me. And yet, I barely knew her. We spent years speaking of fictional characters from books and movies. But besides our lack of parenthood, we rarely spoke of much else. We were two lost souls that were playing husband and wife. Somedays it felt like we had been stuck in the grey: just a joyless, everyday routine of work followed by retirement. And now, I want to end the mundane. I want a spark of thrill of something more than the grey.

Greta’s death stirred sadness, but nothing reflecting the sorrow from the loss of Sandra. Instead, I felt the loneliness one feels following the death of a mildly beloved pet. I missed Greta’s companionship, but I never ached for her love like a husband of almost thirty years should. We’re in awe as the Autumn sky’s brightness begins to transition from shy, cloud-hidden sunlight to a dim Texas sunset. Odd shades of rose and cornflower blue darken into an endless navy sky.

Following several bathroom breaks and meal stops, at midnight we arrive at my Corpus Christi hotel room. I don’t bother to change. With my overnight and laptop bags in each hand, I flop, face first, onto the hotel bed. Greta complains about bed bugs while I drift to sleep as she tugs at the blanket before she pushes until she’s next to me.

***

Bright beams of sunlight penetrate through the window. Crap. I forgot to pull the hotel room’s curtains. I attempt to lift myself, but I’m immediately reminded of why I should never sleep in my day clothing or with my hands gripping bags. I’m as stiff as my dead wife should be. My back and knees crunch and grind as I amble toward the curtains. Greta stirs, but stays asleep.

After a hot shower, I dress in my funeral slacks, shirt, and coat and then exit my room toward my awaiting continental breakfast. We’re the first and only people inside the small hotel breakfast area. Greta makes herself a ginormous first helping while I nibble on a bowl of biscuits and gravy.

Thoughts of what I could or should say to Sandra preoccupy my attention. Forty-years is a long time without speaking to someone. Memories of our graduation day stir nostalgia as anger builds when I remember Stephen pulling Sandra away from me.

Greta focuses on her fourth serving while I take my final bite. When we return to our room, I collect my possessions and then take one last look at my reflection. My salt and pepper hair is combed back and wrinkles hood my brown eyes. I feel much older today than yesterday, and I question if I’ll be acceptable for Sandra. She has aged so gracefully and, as always, I feel inferior to her.

“Let’s just get this over with,” Greta brutes from behind me. My shoulders deflate and slump as I exhale a sigh of frustration. Our first floor room quickens our trip to my Silverado. Distorted memories of Sandra and our relationship plague my mind.

“We always remember the best of our past, but avoid the truth,” Greta taunts before she returns her attention to the traffic outside the windshield.

***

I’m a silent intruder throughout the hour of General Stephen Heinz’s wake. Sweat causes my clothing to stick to me, and my heart is a constant drum beat that urges me to leave. Hours pass before the crowd of nearly one-hundred people are informed to follow the funeral caravan towards Stephen’s grave site.

“She’s with her family, Vince. Let’s go. Don’t make a scene or fool of yourself.” Greta tugs at my arm.

Respect and fear cause me to linger by tree that’s far away from the crowd of Sandra and Stephen’s family and friends. I lurk and wait for the right moment to speak to Sandra while Greta pesters me with nonsense: “She’s morning her loving husband. Watch, she won’t even remember you.” My mind starts to accelerate with worry. Maybe this isn’t the best idea …

The crowd of mourners finally begin to dwindle away. It’s silent while Sandra steps forward to rest her hand on Stephen’s casket. We’re at a standstill as her shoulders shake with every sob that trembles from her chest. Numerous people dressed in black step forward to give Sandra their condolences. I’m less than a yard from her and she’s as stunning as she was when I confessed my adoration for her. She notices me lurking and detaches from her loved ones.

“Vince? Vince Truman?” Her skin barely wrinkles as her eyes squint at me. I’m lost in her olive-green stare. Sandra’s voice is like a flower and I’m her bee. I need to be near her. I’m chipper as I step forward and try to greet her. But then, a younger replica of Sandra takes her mother’s hand and questions who I am. Then clear as the afternoon sky, Sandra announces: “Vince was my childhood neighbor and friend.” Sandra’s words strike at my face as if an angered hand would have slapped me.

In a whirlwind of devastation, I’m reminded of my obsession’s confabulation of Sandra’s love toward me. I always believed that if I loved her enough … that she’d one day return my affection. For years, my mind created our perfect place—where she worshipped me as much as I adored her. Out of sight, I held on to a love that had never been returned. I became a social outcast while Sandra flourished with popularity. She met Stephen in ninth grade, then quickly forgot about our friendship. I became invisible to all while I drifted through a purgatory high school experience. Everyone else thrived and succeeded with cheerful adolescent years while I lurked and brooded.

Without a word and the grief that I never felt for Greta, Sandra gives me a widow’s thank-you hug. She’s polite, but I know she doesn’t want me here. I’m just another person from her past, a time that she’d rather forget. And just like that, she slips away from me … forever. My hopes deflate like a punctured balloon. Greta rubs at my shoulder while I watch with a stunned expression as Sandra’s family protects and guides her toward their cars.

Greta’s grip is tender against my rejected form. She whispers, “I’ve always wanted to visit the ocean, could you take me?” I sulk in defeat, and one step after another my heart crumples as I walk hand-in-hand with Greta toward my truck.

***

I’m an inert mute as seagulls flock at a family that feeds them slices of bread. Greta holds my hand tighter, and I know it’s because she regrets that we never had children. We don’t speak, once again we cling to each other while we stride toward the shore. A chill urges me away from the water, but I continue toward the glacial death that I seek. Greta tells me how beautiful the scenery is while I ignore the crisp waves that splash with resistance against my torso. Eventually, the bitter gulf lingers yards above me while my wife squeezes my hand. My guilt fades as I accept my ending. Sandra never recognized or loved me as Greta always has. And now, I’ll have an eternity to make it up to my wife.