Out of Pocket Cost

Have you ever felt that sensation when you are about to wake up? The one you sense when you’re slowly drifting away from the dream world and return to your usual hustle and bustle. After his usual eight hours of sleep, his eyes fluttered open. The internal clock already telling Michael it was time to get up.

He had beaten once again the alarm clock that rested on the old, rickety, wooden nightstand by a few minutes. It had become second nature to him, being an early riser. And it was all thanks to his dear, sweet Annabelle, who trained him to become a morning person; not that he had any say in the matter. In the first few years of their marriage, she had to deal with his grumpiness when she would wake up at the wee hours of the morning, but it didn’t last long. The ogre was no more. Now, when he arose it was like clockwork, always up at seven forty-five on the dot.

Michael got up slightly, hearing his old bones crackle as he arched his body to sit up. He let out a grunt as he finally got to an upright position and narrowly stretched his arms before carefully swinging his legs. Michael’s feet nestled into the worn-out slippers.

His eyes looked up to the window blinds, the summer sun’s rays peeked through the blinds. A smile crept onto the old man’s lips; he liked to think it was his Annabelle greeting him in the morning. He could still hear her chipper voice in his head, telling me to get up and not waste the day.

He stood and walked towards the window unhurriedly to open up the blinds and let in the warm summer sun. Micheal turned around and headed to the dresser. A picture of Annabelle rested on top, below a folded piece of paper. It was a faded pink, creased, and with a list in her handwriting. Annabelle, being the free spirit that she is, she created a list of all the memories she wanted to create. Over the years, they kept adding to it, adding more adventures to go on. When she passed away, Michael vowed to finish the journey for both of them. He opened the paper reading it for what seemed the thousandth time. The experiences they accomplished were crossed out all, even the ones he did on his own.

After following the rest of his routine, Michael now stood in front of the oval-shaped mirror that hung in the hallway. With a small smile, he adjusted the pastel custard yellow silk tie that hung around his neck. It complemented his attire well, even more, being as it was Annabelle’s favorite outfit. She had bought her husband the tie on his seventy-fifth birthday, and the matte black suit was used on the last Valentine’s Day they had spent together.

Michael had prepared a candlelight dinner. Although it was meant to be romantic, Annabelle couldn’t help but snort when she saw Michael’s attempt at a meatloaf, trying to replicate his wife’s recipe. He couldn’t help but laugh at the memory. The rest of the night was spent with microwaved chicken pot pies, and their wedding song “At Last” by Etta James played in the background. Their bodies swayed slowly to the song and Annabelle san in a low whisper in her husband’s ear. His eyes closed as he held the love of his life in his arms.

The phone rang, bringing the old man back to the present. His feet moved carefully toward the landline all while using the mahogany-colored cane to keep him balanced. Michael turned his body to sit on the stool next to the phone, resting the head of the cane against the faded wallpaper-covered wall.

“Hello?” his deep raspy voice spoke into the phone.

Micheal’s eyes twinkled, and a small pool of tears threaten to fall from the corners of his hooded eyes. “Poppa! How are you?” It was his daughter, Rose.

“My sweet Rose! It’s so good to hear your voice.”

Her delicate laughter resonated. She was the spitting image of Annabelle when she was her age. The same emerald eyes, golden locks, and ivory skin dusted with a few freckles above her cheeks and nose.

“We talked yesterday, poppa. And you didn’t answer my question. How are you?”

Her father chuckled, “Your poppa can’t get enough of you, Rosie; you know that. I am fine. Just waiting for the insurance agent I told you about.”

Michael could hear his grandkids giggling faintly in the background. Their mother scolded the kids as they ran around in the kitchen, making it hard for Rose to hear her father on the phone.

“Yeah, about that, poppa. Why do you need an insurance agent to come to the house? Robert could have easily helped you with anything. He is the best in his company.”

“I know, dear. I’m not underestimating your husband, but Ms. Morte has been my agent for years now; no complaints here.” Rose scolded the children again, and Michael couldn’t help but laugh at his grandchildren’s antics. “Oh Rosie, leave the munchkins be. If I remember correctly, you were more of a troublemaker than they are.”

Michael’s daughter huffed in disagreement. Turning the conversation to the past once more. Michael started to recall the times Rose would cause mischief. Whether alone or with an accomplice, who would usually be him.

Michael could never get his daughter to be still for more than a few minutes. Annabelle gave up after a couple of years, blaming her husband for encouraging her "wild behavior."

“Remember when momma almost killed us for getting my new dress dirty when we played baseball with the kids in the neighborhood?” Rose's laughter filled Micheal’s ears once more. He joined her on her walk through those memorable moments.

“Oh! I remember very well, missy. Your momma made me sleep on the couch for that. Had a sore back and not even some loving from her.”

Rose screeched like when she was young. Michael couldn’t help but shake his head. Rose quickly responded that she did not need to hear the “loving” her parents would or would not give to each other. Several minutes passed, and the conversation was soon coming to an end.

Rose lets out a hiss as she glanced at her wristwatch. “Poppa, I have to head out. The kids are going to be late for soccer practice… Kids, say goodbye to your grandpa!” She was yelling at the end, trying to get her children’s attention. Michael smiled as he heard his grandkids yell goodbye.

“Ok, I have to go before these two get back on that on that darn video game console…”

“Rosie?”

“Yes, poppa?”

Michael held back the urge to cry, clutching the fabric above his right knee. He always thanked God every day for the blessing of his little Rosie and her family. She was the last thing Michael had of Annabelle. She was the only person who kept him going, but now, everything was going to turn out for the better.

“I just wanted to say that you made this old man proud. You gave me the strength to keep going and live my life even though I lost my other half. You gave me three new blessings, the kids and Robert…”

Michael’s daughter couldn’t understand her father’s sudden outburst. Her heart swelled at the mention of her mother. She missed her profoundly and often wished she lived long enough to see her grandkids grow up. They were only toddlers when she passed. All they had left were pictures and old memories. She often worried about her father. Annabelle's passing was felt strongly by Michael. Rose wondered what would be of him if she and her family weren't in his life. But every time the voice of her mother would creep into her head, as to remind her that her poppa was strong. Michael could endure and would persist through the loss.

“Rosie, my sweet little Rosie. Your momma would be so proud of you. A wonderful mother and wife, a great teacher, and a loving daughter. I love you so much, Rose.”

Rose’s eyes welled up, and a few tears strayed down her smooth cheek. She wiped them away and responded to her beloved father, “I love you more, Papa. Forever and always.”

“Forever and always, Rosie.”

They both said goodbye. Michael and Rose both stood in place, letting a few more tears flow down. Michael felt at ease. He couldn’t have had a more perfect conversation with his daughter, especially today. Rose couldn’t help but wonder at the sudden emotional words of her father. She debated whether or not to head over to check up on him, but her children yelled at her to hurry, her mind then shifted back to the young boys and her surroundings.

Michael let out a sigh of content, taking the cane back into his hand. He rose from the stool cautiously, feeling his muscles stretch again. The insurance agent, Ms. Morte, was to arrive at one o’clock, giving Michael two hours to wait. He looked around pointedly, figuring out what to do to pass the time. It wasn’t until he saw the silver picture frame from across the room that made him realize what to do.

He gathered up his wallet and house keys before heading out the door. The sun immediately felt warm on his skin, but not too much to bother him in his suit. Michael looked around and listened to the symphony that is on the streets of Colma, California. Bustling sounds of cars, the voices of the locals harmonizing with the buzz of the town. He nodded towards the doorman, Paul, who immediately called a cab for him.

“Thank you, son.” Michael offered him a kind smile.

Paul stepped livelier, opening the door for Michael. He tipped his hat in his direction, “My pleasure, Mr. Johnson. Have a spectacular day!”

And what a spectacular day it will be!

Michael instructed the cab driver to head downtown to Lulu’s Flower & Coffee Shop. After the hummed response, Michael rested his back against the old hot leather and took in the scenery as if it were to disappear.

The streets were busy with the usual flow of people. Being the lunch hour, traffic was at its highest. The cab driver muttered curses under his breath as he took in the congested road. Michael paid no mind to it. There was no rush. Ms. Morte would wait for him; he had undoubtedly expected for her for quite some time.

Moments later, the cab pulled in front of the shop. He paid the driver before heading in.

“Is that Mr. Johnson strolling up in here?” a southern voice echoed as soon as the door chimed at Lulu’s Flower & Coffee Shop.

Michael closed his eyes and inhaled the sweet smell of flowers and strong coffee. It was a quaint little shop, run by Lucinda, but everybody called her Lulu, she would insist. It was Annabelle’s favorite spot. If it wasn't to go get freshly cut flowers every week, Annabelle would be gossiping with Lulu while Michael nestled himself in a corner with a cup full of dark roast coffee.

“The very one, my dear, the very one.” He chuckled as he made his way toward the counter.

Lulu beamed as she took in Mr. Johnson’s appearance. It had been a while since she last saw him in her shop. She would fuss over him after her dear friend, Annabelle’s passing. It wasn’t till Michael begged her to stop treating him like a frail, helpless old man. Even so, she liked to keep tabs on him through his daughter.

Lulu walked around the counter while she dried off her hands with an old blue rag before giving Michael a friendly side-hug. “How are you, honey?”

“Good as can be, Lulu. How about yourself?”

Her left hand rested on his shoulder as she responded with a broad smile, “Been busier than a moth in a mitten, sugar.”

Michael couldn’t contain his burst of laughter. He enjoyed Lulu’s quirky Southern sayings, it seemed like she had a new each time he visited her. "No fun in it if it’s easy, Lulu.”

Lulu rolled her eyes playfully at the old man. “What do you need from me today?”

“Well, Lulu, you know my dear wife loved tulips. I was wondering if you had any today, preferably red. Those were her absolute favorite.”

“I will be faster than a hot knife through butter. Would like some coffee too? I just put on a fresh pot.”

Michael declined politely, leaving the owner of the shop to head to the back. Within minutes, Lulu came back out with a breathtaking bouquet of red tulips. They were vibrant, even from a few steps away, the aroma hit his nose. It was like each petal was lightly covered in sweet maple syrup. The smell transported him back when Annabelle and Rose would get up early on Sundays. They would prepare delicious warm and fluffy waffles for all of them, the times when his girls would wear the batter on their heads and then greet him with hugs as soon as he caught their eyes. Michael’s heart fluttered at the thought.

He smiled once more at Lulu and thanked her for the flowers. Michael paid and then went off to his next stop. It was only a short walk towards his next destination, and Michael enjoyed taking this trip for the last time. Watching the people walk by, hearing the sounds of downtown, and imagining Annabelle's arm linked with his.

Michael was rounding down the corner, a few more steps and he would arrive at the cemetery. Annabelle’s grave wasn’t too far from the entrance, benefiting Michael’s tired knees. Annabelle was under a large tree, providing an ideal width of shade, but somehow some rays escape through the thick branches and shun down on Annabelle.

The old man dusted the stone with his wife’s name. He took a step back and read the engraving.

ANNABELLE MARIE JOHNSON

AN ANGEL ON EARTH AND AN ANGEL IN HEAVEN

1942 – 2014

Michael slides against the trunk, seating himself down next to his late wife. “Hello, darling. I brought you some tulips, your favorite. I know you would go crazy if you saw how vivacious these are. Lulu outdid herself.”

A sigh escaped his lips, his eyes traveling as others came to visit their deceased loved ones. “I talked with Rose earlier. You would be so proud of her, Annabelle. We did well with her. The little munchkins are wonderfully troublesome too. Reminds me of her when she was young.” He laughed at the comment. Michael could picture his wife joining in. Her eyes crinkled, her laughter building up to a snort; the same one he became infatuated with.

“She misses you terribly, just like me. But all that is going to change soon... I think Rose is ready. We did our jobs as parents, and I am ready to punch out. This old man isn’t a spring chicken anymore.”

Michael replaced the old dried-up bouquet in the vase left next to the tombstone, adding the tulips. It was a pop of color that Annabelle would have appreciated. He stood and faced her memorial, placing his wrinkled hand over the cold, rough stone.

“I will see you soon, my darling. I love you, forever and always.” And with that, he made his way back to the entrance and hailed a cab. It was near time for Ms. Morte to come.

The ride back was quiet, quick, and smooth. The traffic had died down and Micheal was already back at home preparing his favorite Earl Grey tea. Paul, the doorman, had notified of Ms. Morte’s arrival before buzzing her up to his apartment. He placed two vintage-looking teacups on the coffee table, along with two silver spoons, a matching vintage sugar bowl, and cream. A slight knock echoed in the hallway.

“Coming!” Michael voiced as he made his way to open the door.

The old man slightly stood on the tip of his toe, to reach and look through the peephole. It was the insurance agent, Ms. Morte.

He opened the door and invited her in. Her raven black hair cascaded over her shoulders, and her full pink lips turned up into a smile in Michael’s direction.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Johnson.” her voice was pleasant and friendly. As her smile was also reassuring. All while still holding a tone of professionalism.

“Please, call me Michael. I believe formalities are not needed for this, don’t you agree?”

Ms. Morte’s piercing blue eyes look directly into his. She showed no specific emotion, and Michael was more at peace with her presence. “As you wish, Micheal.”

“I took the liberty of brewing up some tea for us. Would you care for a cup?”

“I would love some.” She responded politely.

Michael stretched out his hand, gesturing towards the coffee table. “Right this way.”

They made their way and sat down on the white wooden chairs. Michael poured the tea into Ms. Morte’s cup first before offering her cream and sugar. Silently, they added to their teas. Taking a long sip of the aromatic blend, Ms. Morte, mirrored a statue, standing straight and barely moving except when taking a sip from her cup. Not a hair was out of place. She was beautiful and had a graceful appearance, almost as if she were a fantasy.

“So, Michael, how would you say your life was?” she asked, maintaining her piercing gaze.

Michael placed his cup back down on the saucer and leaned back against the chair. His hand reached up to scratch his chin.

“Wendy Whelan once said, I look back, and I have no regrets, truly. Everything led me to the place where I am now. I believe that sums up how I see my existence.”

“And what place do you say you are?” Ms. Morte questioned eagerly, with a slight smile.

He looked around his home, letting the memories flow in his mind. It was almost like faded figures danced around the rooms. He could see his wife and his daughter chatting on the couch, Annabelle fixing up dinner, Rose parading around with him as they sang along to old Sinatra songs, and many more fond memories. Michael had lived a full life. Full of love, compassion, and happiness. And like anyone, he had experienced his obstacles and hardships as well, but everything led up to a beautiful and blessed life. Everything led up to this moment.

“I am at the end of my story, Ms. Morte. That is where I am.” He smiled at her, tears falling down his cheeks due to the memorable experiences he relived in his mind. Michael was feeling many emotions. The feeling of gratefulness, happiness, the immense love he felt through his life, and the realization of what is to come.

Ms. Morte took one last sip before standing. Michael mimicked the action. They both made their way to the door in comfortable silence. She turned the knob and pulled the door towards them before facing Michael once again.

“Your story has been one of my favorites, Micheal.” She placed a small kiss on his forehead and then disappeared.

Michael was alone now, and he whispered, “Thank you.”

The old man closed the door and made his way to the armchair. He rested the cane on the side and leaned against the cushioned seat, letting his eyes fall.

Finally, Michael breathed out his last words, “I’m on my way, Annabelle.”