This short story was for a contest in 2020. it was my first attempt at the romance genre. While not traditional, I think it is deeply romantic in the big scheme of things. Let me know what you think. Obviously it’s dedicated to my wife Kate.
———————————————————
Katie opened the door, and the sweet smell of buttery biscuits permeated the room. This was her scent now, the smell of Sunday mornings, cozy holiday breakfasts, and familiar times. It was the only smell that stood a chance of penetrating the sharp antiseptic notes that lingered in the air these days.
“Shhh! Let’s not wake him up if we don-” Katie’s words gave way as she stood in the doorway and noticed that I was already awake and alert.
Her neck-length bob of gray hair pulled up in a banana clip still took my breath away, the same way her dark locks did when we first met the Winter we both turned nineteen. As sunlight strewed in from some unseen window in the other room, it back-lit her, surrounding her in a warm glow as she gave me a familiar smile. As a young man, I loved to watch her move, and now seeing her familiar form in the doorway, it all came flooding back. Katie entered with the same intoxicating presence she had when she first ambled into my life. It’s been an emotional roller-coaster ever since.
None of us ever expected to make it out unscathed, but most of us assumed we’d make it out of the slums of Philadelphia and into a slightly more palatable life as a grown-up. I never imagined adult life quite like this. To be blessed with a wife who shares her love so openly, to have a genuine family, and the ability to define love on my own terms, reversing the cycle of hate and abuse from my childhood. It was a gift I’m not sure I earned, but one I took great pride in.
We’re well aware of how this ends. It boils down to two things, time and money. I wasn’t willing to sacrifice one for the other. Painfully repetitive days turned into long sleepless nights. The crushing weight of responsibility and commitment was like walking a tight-rope of fear, self-doubt, and shame. Lack of proper medical coverage, or any significant personal savings, and a laissez-faire attitude toward spending sealed my fate months ago.
Yet, somehow through it all, she finds the strength to give so much to my continued convalescence, and all with a genuine smile. For three decades, Katie’s familiar smile provided a reason to wake up and face the day. It wasn’t even a discussion in my mind. A few more miserable fleeting months, years, if I’m lucky, aren’t worth the lifetime of medical bills and debt that would follow my inevitable demise.
My beautiful burdened bride strides over to the medication table, checking to see if the overnight aide administered the proper dosages.
“Hey,” she smiled, making eye contact while brushing away the sleep from the corners of my eyes. “I didn’t know you were awake. Good morning.” Katie whispers. Her delicate voice both calms and reassures me.
Despite losing the ability to support my weight weeks ago, I wanted so badly, with these dry cracked lips, to sit forward and kiss her. One thing I realize laying in this bed is how often people take physical contact for granted. Aside from the odd needle in the stomach or blood pressure cuff change, there’s a limited amount of touching when you’re actively dying. Mentally, I screamed. I yearned for the days when I would sweep her up in my arms and bury my face in her perfumed tresses. That was a long time ago, and those memories are now too often tormented by thoughts of all the times I could have reached out and didn’t. Wasted chances haunting me like specters of regret.
Katie understood me in some unspoken way and darted over to what used to be our nightstand, but which we have now commandeered for medical equipment overflow, and grabbed a fresh washcloth. As Katie returned to my side, she folded the little cotton square in half and dunked it in a pitcher of water that was put by my side every night, now more out of habit than actual use.
Confused by her actions at first, I didn’t get what was going on until she pressed the cold wet cloth against my lips and let them wick away the moisture in the fabric. After another dab or two, I could feel the crisp sweet trickle of water in my mouth as my lips pinked up from the gifted wetness.
“There you go. I bet that feels better.” Katie cooed. Her gentleness with me was one thing that made me fall in love with her. I could have classified her ability to comfort a brute like me as a superpower.
Miraculously, she ran her fingers through the white tendrils of my beard before pausing and planting a kiss right on my lips. At our lips’ touch, I could feel the warmth of her skin, the quickening beat of her heart, and mine now beating in sensual synchronicity as our lips pressed together. Then, as a soft sound of passion involuntarily escaped my lips, she released her heavenly hold. and stumbled back.
She stood in alarm, misinterpreting the sound as distress. She checked the digital displays on the various second-hand medical equipment in front of her before letting out an audible sigh of relief. However, the damage was done. The quick departure of her lips, combined with the sigh of relief when she realized she wasn’t responsible for inflicting any pain, was too much for my foolish pride to bear.
I jerked my head away as she attempted once more to embrace me with her loving caress, and while I couldn’t even muster a complete word, the “Nnnnnnnnuh” that hissed from my gaping maw was more than enough to signal my displeasure.
Pushing back tears, I gulp and feel instant regret at the harshness of my actions. I have always had trouble with emotional regulation. I didn’t mean it. I want with all my might to call out to her. To let Katie know I would never intentionally aim my anger at her. The emotional whirlwind of impending death wreaks havoc with my thoughts. I’m not angry at you, my love. How could I be? I’m just furious at the way death both taunts and mocks me. A taunting darkness waiting just on the periphery. Our love is the only thing keeping the darkness that’s eating away at my body from consuming my mind.
Of course, I would use what little strength I have left to spit anger instead of confessing my fears, or at the very least declaring my love one last time. Damn my own venomous tongue!
Time hung in the air until I could muster the strength to return my tearful gaze to her. She rushed off and locked herself in the bathroom. The thought of which admittedly amused me. As if I had the energy to walk the length of the room, let alone pull open the door.
Eleven, that’s how many black-and-white checkered tiles separate us. Yet, even if I muster all my strength, I could never bridge that gap on my own. So, I do the only thing I can. I stew in my selfish, stubborn stupidity.
I only have to wait a couple of minutes before she composes herself, unlocks the door, and once again comes to sit at my bedside. The look on her face instantly assures me she knows I didn’t mean it. The damage was done, though. Another wasted opportunity to share our love. There’s not much sand left in my hourglass and here I am letting frustration get the better of me, again.
I would like to believe that she knows me more than anyone else, or at least a version of me. Though, even from the harsh reality of my deathbed, I wonder how that’s even possible given that I still don’t know myself all that well. She’s seen me at my lowest and still willingly shared her life with me. Long ago now we disclosed the significant parts of our past. She’s well aware of my childhood abuse, addictions, and the mental anguish perpetrated on me for so long by my hateful mother. That cruel and tempestuous upbringing caused so many roadblocks for us along the way, but she always made it work.
She’s made countless sacrifices along the way, for the sake of my anxiety, depression, and mental well-being. In fact, it’s those sacrifices that brought us to the decision to “die with dignity”, as if that were even possible, rather than amass a tremendous debt to fight an unbeatable foe. We had to be practical. We cannot beat the disease. Nor can we afford a selfish and expensive battle. Not at the cost of the financial future of her and our girls.
Katie returned once again to my side. She speaks purposefully, measuring every word. “I realize we are both pretending now. Just pretend with me a little while longer?” Katie begged. Her eyes welling up with the stark realization of impending loss.
I took a deep breath and forced a dry whisper, unsure if she could even hear me over the hiss of free-flowing oxygen escaping my dislodged nasal cannula. “Afraid.”
Her fingers wrapped around my own, she squeezed hard enough to let me know she was still there and not going anywhere. The exact squeeze she gave me the snowy winter afternoon we wed, just like now, reassuring me as my silent panic grew.
“Oh, my love.” Katie weeps, holding on to my hand. “It’ll all be OK. There’s nothing to be afraid of anymore.” As she kisses our clasped hands, I feel the splash of teardrops as they hit my arm. I can see the guilt in her eyes when she looks at me. She blames herself for the hand that life has dealt us. So urgent and instantaneous her eyes were darting back and forth as if the moment they stopped moving they would betray the sadness that hid beneath the surface.
I had long since shed any shyness about crying in front of my wife. Tears rolled down my hollow cheeks as my eyes glanced over at the window. The blinds have been drawn for some time now to protect my privacy. Oh, how I’d like to look out at the mountains, as I would when we first settled here in our own little slice of heaven in the mountains. My wife and girls would always have this land, a place to call home, to retreat and regroup before taking on the world again. That was the payoff for not succumbing to mountainous piles of medical bills. Those facts, that security, that peace of mind, I could live with that. Well…
Once again, as if granting my last silent wish, Katie walked over to the window and pulled opened the blinds. After that, she cracked the window, letting a cold gush of mountain air fill the room with hauntingly familiar sounds. In that moment, I could hear my old farm dog Charlie barking away at javelina during the Winter nights. I could hear the crackle of the fires that blazed as we roasted marshmallows during cool Spring months spent with friends, and I could hear generations of children as they played in our yard to their heart’s content.
As the last tear fell, I could hear my legacy come to life one last time. Then, when the frigid mountain air was done swirling up all the glorious remembrances of the past, I heard one last achingly beautiful thing...
“It’s OK. I’m right here. We will be fine.” Katie sobbed. “Goodbye, my love.”