The towel sealed
in the scent of lavender from my shampoo while blocking all vision except the dark
blue of terrycloth. Reaching on instinct to the back of the chair my fingers
closed on empty air. I whipped the towel away to search for my favorite pants.
After years of
use the slacks were slick enough to have a habit of sliding down to the floor.
No luck. A small motion drew my eyes to the window. She was standing on my
lawn, wearing my uniform pants.
At forty the
widow Henderson was far too young to be a widow. Once she had lived across the
street. She still lived on the block but now literally. None of the neighbors
had the heart to run her out, especially me. When the bank foreclosed on her
home, however, she was so far gone nobody was willing to risk taking her in.
Her cold eyes,
empty of everything but a touch of insanity met mine through the glass and I
knew two things for certain. One, we never think of how our promises affect
those in the circle of trust but beyond the words. Two, she was right. I should
be ashamed of me. I started to weep and remember.
One year ago…
The whooshing of
the mechanical lung deafened me. I had been in David’s room for half an hour. I
was holding his hand with my left, the right contained the syringe. Tears
overfilled my eyes. His were empty of everything but pain and desperate, pleading
hope.
He lost the
power of speech the week before. Knowing what I had to do did not make it
easier. In the end I kept my promise. Inserting the needle in the feeder tube
of my friend’s IV I depressed the plunger. My tears fell on his face as I
kissed his forehead and whispered goodbye for the last time. I exited the room.
Dying is a thing we do alone and I would not watch my friend go through it.
He had been
right.
Eighteen months ago…
David had
returned home to spend his final days in the comforting embrace of family and
friends. Treatment had failed. All that was left was the long hard road to
dying. I was one of the first to come see him, at his request. The reason shocked
and terrified me.
“When the time
comes I don’t want to hang on in pain.”
“Why are you
telling me?”
“I need you to
do it. You’re the only one I trust who will follow through. You will put your
promise above your own feelings of loss.”
“I wouldn’t even
know how.”
“I have a dose
of morphine to do the trick. It took some doing but I have a sympathetic
doctor.”
“But David, after…
and your wife?”
“Cecily is
strong, she’ll be fine. Nobody is going to suspect a cop helped me die. You’ll
be fine too.”
In the end I had
promised. He had been right about me but wrong about Cecily. Though sometimes I
wonder how fine I am.
Two years ago…
I was standing
in the spotless Henderson kitchen. David was at another of his unending
appointments. He did not want to put Cecily through it anymore. It was just a
follow up she had been convinced to stay home. I was offering what comfort I
could.
“I don’t know.”
She sniffled, wiping snot with the back of her hand and fighting the good fight
against tears. I let her babble, it’s what friends do. “You’re right. He’s a
fighter but what if the cancer wins? We are one of those couples; you know the
ones that follow each other? Except I’m too young, so my body won’t die after
he does. Inside though, I’ll be gone. There won’t be anything left for me in
this world. I can’t tell him this, not with the pain he’s in. You have to promise
me. Promise me you’ll do everything you can to help him. We can get through
this together.”
So I promised,
which led to another promise.
Funny the things
you remember when confronted with the truth.
#shortstory #writer #writing
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