This morning, I drove Martine to the Greyhound Bus Station downtown for her fourth escape from me and Los Angeles. She has continued to be depressed and to spend the better part of the day in bed. Sometimes she would watch television (usually old classics from the 1950s and 1960s), and sometimes she would re-read the Book of Psalms from my old Good News Bible. There has never been an angry word between us, though at times she has picked on me for complaints of the “Who moved my cheese?” variety.
Some of my friends think I am well rid of her. I do not feel that way because I worry about her. She has a pattern of making bad decisions, such as the one that made her ineligible for Medicare. She doesn’t have much money left, and she has no one to go to. Her only family is a sick half-brother in New York and a sick half-sister in France. I’m pretty much all there is of her family, though we are not married. I would gladly have married her, but she decided she wanted to make all her own decisions.
I hope Martine comes back. The last time she escaped, she came back sick. I hope she comes back because she remembers that, yes, I love her, and that without me life is too lonely and too miserable. All my friends think she will return. I am not quite so sure.