"THE SAUSALITO WOMEN'S CLUB" by Trevor J. Houser

Before you stopped talking, you told me you were nervous about what might happen to you in the days or hours leading up to the end. It was the only time the two of us talked about your impending death without dancing around the pale, cold particulars of it. 

“I want you to promise to remember me this way,” you told me, sitting up in bed. “Not in my pajamas obviously, but I want you to remember me how I am right now and not what I might be like in a few weeks or whenever this supposedly all goes downhill, ok?”

You carefully smoothed the blanket across your lap, the once red polish on your fingernails faded to pink.

“Ok,” I said, trying to understand the cruelty of life that it makes people have to warn loved ones that they might become unrecognizable to them.

“Maybe we can have a code or something?” you asked. Your voice was still light then, almost playful.

“What do you mean a code?”

“A way for you to know if I’ve still got a light on upstairs.”

“Very funny. Ok, what’s the code?”

You thought for a moment, tilting your head slightly to the left the way you always did when you were searching for the right word. The light from the window catching the icy gray of your chin-length bob.  

“I’ve got it,” you said. “Nevertheless, she persisted.”

“Where’s that from?” I asked.

“It’s the motto for the Sausalito Women’s Club.”

“Of course, it is.”

“The minute I forget the code you can start remembering the way I was up until that very moment. Deal?”

“Deal.”

This was our little inside joke over the next few weeks. Every once in a while, I would catch you in the middle of breakfast or watching the nightly news and say “Nevertheless?” and you would smile and answer back, “She persisted.”

It seemed impossible back then. That someone like you could one day no longer exist on this planet. You were a mythical creature that could not die. Tuesdays. Major League baseball. The southern migration of sandhill cranes. How could they go on as if nothing had happened? 

But then the smiles became few and far between. The news was rarely on. You were in bed one morning when the hospice nurse told me to get you up for an early lunch. I went to your room where I found you lying on your side, the covers tucked around you like armor. I touched your shoulder. The fabric of your nightgown was soft and worn thin.

“Nevertheless,” I said. But instead of answering, you let out a low moan, your eyes shut tight to some private agony. I said it again in case you hadn’t heard, but you just lay there in silence. 

That was the moment I stopped remembering you. 

Trevor J. Houser works in advertising and lives with his family in Seattle. He published his first two novels, PACIFIC (2021) and THE PRUMONT METHOD (2023) with Unsolicited Press. His third novel comes out in 2026. He has been nominated multiple times for the Pushcart Prize and has had stories published in dozens of literary journals, including Zyzzyva, StoryQuarterly and CutBank.