Fiction: Cross My Heart
Prompt: In the objective point of view, a
short story about an old man administering palliative care to an old dying woman.
A balding man in
a tattered gray sweater and faded blue jeans sits by the bedside of a shriveled
woman, her frail body trembling beneath a white blanket. She is hooked up to an
IV, its beads dripping through the tube. In the background, a heart monitor
beeps as green lines create a ragged rhythm.
“Hurt,” she whispers, breath raspy and gurgly.
“I know,” he says. He rises…
With wizened claw, she grabs his arm. “Don’t leave.”
Patting her hand, he bends over and kisses her forehead. “Never.”
“Promise?”
“Cross my heart,” he says, making the X sign across his chest. He adjusts
a button on the IV line. “You should feel better now.”
“Ahhh…”
“That’s my girl.” He feels her forehead; it is waxy and yellow.
“Ice,” she says.
He picks up a cup, spoons out a few ice chips, and gently tips the spoon
to her mouth.
Like a newborn, she slurps at the ice and wets her lips. “Nice.”
He withdraws the empty spoon. “More?”
“No. Cold...”
He adjusts her blanket, checking around her stockinged feet and tucking
the blanket around them. “There, There.”
“Cold.”
The man rises again and walks over to the sink. The woman’s eyes follow the
man as he fills a pan with water. He dips his elbow into the water. “Perfect.” He
brings the pan and a washcloth to the woman’s bedside, placing them on the hospital
tray. He picks up the cloth, wets it, and wrings it out. He folds the cloth into
thirds and places it on the woman’s forehead.
“Owww. Heavy.”
The man removes the cloth and drops it next to the pan.
“Cold.”
The man looks around the room and sees a blanket tucked in a closet,
where the woman’s street clothes hang. He pulls it out –
“NO!”
“What is it, sweetheart?”
She taps on the bed. “With me.”
The man nods and sits at the edge. He unties and removes his shoes and,
over the covers, lies next to her.
“NO! Against me.”
“Ah, yes.” The man strips down to his underwear and slips under the covers.
He snuggles with the woman.
She nods and sighs deeply. “Want you – ”
“I know.” The man kisses the woman’s cheek. “And I want to be here.”
“Tell me.”
The man holds her close and speaks softly, telling stories of their time
together and of the life they have lived, remembering their children and
grandchildren. A new life on the horizon, the great-grandchild yet to be born.
He recounts the joys and sorrows they experienced – their wedding day and the
child who died at birth – and of the love they have shared with each other and everyone
around them: friends, family, acquaintances, even strangers, although, as the
man notes, the woman has never met a stranger, just someone she does not yet
know.
A small smile curls her lip.
“Story of an ordinary life,” he says. “I’d have it no other way.”
A tear drops from her eye.
He tells her he will always see the girl with the long red curls and
green eyes, the same saucy girl who beeped the car horn at the moon when they
were still courting, just to let it know, “Us!”
As the man continues telling stories and cradling the woman, the monitor buzzes,
the green line going flat.
A nurse rushes into the room.
The man shakes his head. “It’s okay.”
The nurse nods, unplugs the monitor, and leaves.
The man remains under the covers with the woman for the next hour or so
and then rises.
He carefully removes her IV. “Rest, now,” he whispers into her ear.
He refills the pan with warm water and soap and pulls away her blanket.
Her body, thin, wrinkled, and bony, is yellowing. Waxy.
Still.
“No more pain,” he says as he gently washes, from head to toe, her slight
body. He combs her hair, gray and scraggly, placing an emerald hair clip in it.
He weeps as he crawls back into bed with her.
“You are the most beautiful woman I have ever known.”
_____________________________
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