“Promise,” she said.

Usually her eyes reminded him of icicles. Gray-blue and bright in the light, but today they glared. Vince strummed his thumb across the top of Ava’s hand. The tendons were raised like guitar strings.

“Promise,” she repeated. “Just us.”

Vince’s mind was clouded with static and he struggled to organize his thoughts.

Her eyes remained fierce and defiant, not at all the gentle smile he knew, and they sent a clear message: there’d be no negotiating.

She wanted privacy and he could understand that. So, he agreed, “Yes. Of course.”

Her eyes gave a slight look of suspicion. “Then, it’s a deal?”

He nodded slightly, “Yes. Absolutely.”

Ava extended her right hand, straight and firm, for a shake. Instead, he took her soft hand and kissed it.

 

***

            Outside, maple trees fluttered the fresh greens of April. Morning sun lay on Ava’s face, cozy as a quilt. She sat calmly in the recliner. Vince struggled to read, words jangled off the page. He wasn’t able to ignore the thin tubing connecting the pump to a PICC line in Ava’s arm. He felt ashamed to feel gratitude for the poison pushing into her vein.

The intoxicating rhythm of the infusion pump lulled him: clackity-spin, clackity-spin, clackity-spin. It sounded exactly like the old slide projector Mrs. Ross had back at Cooper Elementary. Sometimes, on rainy days, Mrs. Ross would set up the slide carousel, dim the lights, and angle the projector toward a screen balanced on a tippy tripod. Vince especially enjoyed the transcontinental railroad slides. The dynamite and the impossible piles of gray rock. Thin men, thick mustaches, all weary worn, looking at the camera vacantly.

Vince shook his head, memory is madness. It had been at least sixty years since he’d sat in the gloom of that brown, plaster classroom. How had he remembered Mrs. Ross’ name today when yesterday he couldn’t recall the oncologist’s?

Vince put down his book and scanned the room. Puppy-brown reclining chairs placed in exacting rows. Observation-styled windows ran the length of the east and west walls. Sunshine, all day, he concluded. A glossy credenza held a carafe of cucumber-water, a pedestaled bowl filled with fresh apples and oranges, and three insulated coffee pumps: French Roast, Columbian, and a Costa Rican blend. Woven baskets offered Nature Valley Granola bars, Saltine crackers, and Nilla Wafers.

The hospital staff wore identical green scrubs. Ava’s complimentary lap blanket was green. The waiting room chairs, the fern-print wallpaper, the free, plastic-wrapped slippers, and the hand-sanitizer pumps were all shades of green.

The vomit bags were white. I guess those don’t come in green.

That morning, as they stood at the new patient check-in counter, Ava commented that the room was lovely. She said it but didn’t mean it, like saying the weather’s nice while walking to a funeral.

But the intake nurse perked up, “We don’t call it a room, we call it a suite.”

“Oh,” Ava smiled, as if she cared.

Suddenly Vince understood. All the green, the cucumber water, the slippers. It was all a manipulation. The hospital was masking the infusion room as a day-spa. He scoffed at the absurdity.

A pump beeped. Vince slid his eyes toward the sound. Sitting in another recliner was a little man wearing new blue sweatpants. A nurse was disconnecting the tubing from the man’s right arm while a young man, the son maybe, flirted with her loudly, bombarding her with his wonderfulness. His T-shirt revealed a tattooed wolf on his bicep.

Vince was annoyed. For God’s sake! Can’t you see your father needs help getting out of the chair?

Ava sat up and checked the screen of her pump. “I hoped that beeping was my machine.” She placed her left arm behind her head, “Who knew thirty minutes could last so long.”

Vince immediately forgot about the flirting son and pounced into action, “What can I get you, my dear? A hot cup of something?”

Ava pointed her chin toward the ceiling and shook her head, no. She exhaled, “Distract me.”

Vince needed to close his eyes to quiet his mind, otherwise he’d never be able to shut out the clackity-spin and the shuffling feet. After a moment he leaned close. “Do you remember when the waiter brought us that broth?”

She closed her eyes, “Remind me.”

“Siena. Remember how the afternoon sun shaded the clocktower gold? The old Italian men with their easels, painting in the square.”

“And the broth?”

“Amazing. Beyond words.”

Vince leaned across Ava’s hips and pressed the recliner button. The motor hummed. Ava’s legs lifted and her head pressed back.

“Luxury,” she whispered.

He studied his wife. Her skin looked soft and smelled of lavender lotion. She wore a pink blouse. She always looked great in pink. He studied her shape. She carried extra weight in her arms. Her belly was rounder than she liked. “Best diet I’ll ever go on,” she joked during the drive in. Vince forced himself to laugh. He patted his small belly, “Maybe I’ll join you.”

Vince rubbed his hands over his face until his skin warmed. “There weren’t any menus at the restaurant. The owner greeted us, brought us to a table facing the square and asked, ‘Shall I feed you?’ We were charmed. The owner pointed to the kitchen and said, ‘My daughter. Best chef in Italy.’ We smiled and chuckled at his boast. A father’s love. But then we considered the possibility. Maybe this meal would stagger the mind and palate. We became a little giddy.

“Soon the owner returned, delivering two bowls of hot broth. Then, he stepped back, crossed his arms and watched us. We swirled spoons through the broth hoping there was more. Maybe something was hidden at the bottom of the bowl.

“The owner stepped toward our table. ‘Is something wrong?’

“We were a chorus of, ‘No, no, no! Of course not, no!’ Because, really, what can you say?

“In your best Italian you asked, ‘Un po ‘di pane, per favore?’

“His lips sagged, creating that Italian look of disgust. ‘Bread? No! No pane.’ He stomped away, huffing, his right hand making wild gestures in the air. We had insulted him. We felt horrible. To make amends we lifted our spoons, then ate.”

Ava’s smile was soft. “Then?”

“Life changing, my dear. Intoxicating. Such complex flavors. So multi-layered. We were transported to long forgotten memories. It made you laugh. It made me cry. You called out an apology. ‘Signore! Signore! Mi dispiace.’ We begged for more. We fell over ourselves congratulating the owner on his daughter’s talent. We thanked them, ‘grazie mille!’ He kissed your hand. I kissed his ring.”

There was dazzle in her eyes. “Then?”

“At the doorway we hugged and kissed cheeks. Then he presented you with a small, gold box, wrapped with a crisp, blue ribbon. ‘Ricciarelli,’ he said. Almond cookies. The chewy ones.

“We scurried back to our hotel room, slipped under the puffy-thick duvet and ate every crumb.”

Ava shifted her body and exhaled. “Luxury.”

“Indeed,” he said, then placed the thin, green blanket over Ava’s chest.

 

***

            They napped a lot now. After a month into treatment Vince required as much sleep as Ava, although for different reasons. Disease and treatment devoured Ava’s energy. Vince was drained by long jags of worry and helplessness.

The first time he heard Ava’s feet thunder across the bedroom floor, Vince bolted and found himself outside the bathroom door. Inside, she was retching. He felt jittery. Should I go in? Knock?  His voice was timid, “Can I help?”

She cleared her throat, “Clean pajamas, please.”

Vince returned with a blue set from the dresser. He was afraid to knock on the door. “May I come in?”

Ava was crumpled against the wall. The toilet seat and her white pajamas were splattered with yellowy vomit. He knelt on the floor and began to slide her upright.

“Be careful of your back,” she said, reaching for the pajamas. “Please leave,” she whispered.

Vince backed out of the bathroom, then sat on their bed and waited. He heard the shower turn on. Is she steady enough to shower?

When Ava reappeared she was dressed in the blue pajamas. Her wet hair was combed straight and she had transformed a large bath towel into a sack. Inside were her soiled pajamas and the rags she used to clean the toilet. Vince followed Ava down the hall to the washer. He placed a hand on her back while she poured detergent into the drum.

“You alright?”

She nodded then looked at Vince’s pants. “Give me those.” Vomit was smeared across the knees.

After placing his pants in the washer he asked, “Can I help you back to bed?”

She nodded, then he walked her to the bedroom.

They’d celebrated forty-four anniversaries. Over the years, life’s responsibilities sifted into His and Hers. Ava managed the laundry but never took the Camry for an oil change. Vince clipped coupons but had no idea where they kept the checkbook. When she said, “the thing’s beeping,” he installed new batteries in the smoke detector. When Vince asked Ava to “manage this madness,” she grabbed her sewing scissors to trim his hair.

As for the obligations that fell under no heading, their system was imperfect; those chores floated across their life like bubbles. And Vince and Ava reached and dove to pop them, one by one, before any, or most, hit the ground.

Vince returned to the washer. It hummed and churned. A box of OxiClean jiggled on the shelf. Having never used the machine before, he inspected the control dial. It could be turned left to a setting called Normal or turned right to a setting called Regular. Ava had chosen Regular. What’s the difference? He searched the shelving until he found the manual.

 

***

            Her oncologist always instructed, “Keep her hydrated. Small meals are best.”

There were many cans of Swanson’s low-sodium chicken broth in the pantry. Vince poured the broth into a pot, then, checking his watch, decided not to turn on the heat. He no longer heated food before Ava was awake.

Vince pulled the orange bottle of anti-nausea medication from Ava’s coat pocket and placed it on the table. He scanned the kitchen. Her knit hat was squashed under a stack of unopened mail, days of dirty dishes teetered in the sink and a Hefty bag was tied and waited by the back door.

Vince sorted the mail. Most was junk but two bills were past due. Damn it.

He prioritized. Call VISA then Electric North, explain, then find the checkbook.

There was an oversized envelope from Commonwealth Health.

Teaching public school – Vince, seventh grade English; Ava, eighth grade Biology – was no get-rich-quick plan but their retirement packages included premium health and dental insurance. Right now those plastic insurance cards were pure gold.

Inside the Commonwealth Health envelope was a Dear Subscriber letter and an Explanation of Benefits chart. Several pages line-listed hospital invoices. Vince studied the charges then saw, You Owe. My God, can that number be right?

He’d call Commonwealth Health after Electric North.

Vince reached for the phone. The voicemail light was blinking. Three messages.

First new message:

Hi there. I don’t mean to bother you but I just thought I’d check to see how Ava’s doing. And, you too, Vince. Let me know if you need anything, okay? You always liked my lasagna. I’d love to bring you two: one for now, one for later. Just give me the word, okay? Talk soon—oh, sorry—this is Frannie. Sorry. Bye.

Second new message:

It’s Ron here. Vince, listen, the son-in-law made sausages again and brought me a double pack last Tuesday. They’re spicier than before but pretty good. If you want, I could bring some around. Let me know. Terrible what you two are going through. Terrible. So. Let me know about the sausages.

Third new message:

Hi, Ava. Hi, Vince. It’s John and Nancy calling. Vince, you call us no matter what. We can do whatever you need. Happy to do laundry or run errands. With these boys of mine I’m driving to the supermarket seven days a week. Thank God for double coupons, right? Happy to grab what you need. Just let us know.

There was genuine concern in their voices but he also detected tones of obligation—and relief when the machine picked up. It had been weeks since anyone stopped by. Vince understood: no one wanted to intrude or be the knock that woke Ava, but he also knew they were afraid. It takes great courage to face another person’s despair.

Still, Vince wished someone would knock. He would have welcomed a friend at the door and the sight of a full, healthy face. He craved the benign, stand-in-the-street news. Proof that beyond the hospital and beyond their home, life was being lived. How the fish were biting. Town meeting scuttlebutt. Flooded basements and sump pumps. He wanted to hear all of it. Any of it. And when nothing was left to say he’d accept Frannie’s lasagnas with heartfelt gratitude. All he needed to do was dial the phone.

But he had promised.

Ava said, “I’ll go through treatment, get it done, then we’ll move on. Like it never happened.”

Vince agreed. “Yes, whatever you want.”

“Just us.”

He nodded.

“Promise?”

“Of course.”

“Then it’s a deal?”

“Yes. Absolutely.”

He promised. He meant it. So, Vince deleted the messages.

 

***

            Ava’s hair fell out. They knew it would. But no one warned that so much could fall out at once.

Vince stood at the edge of the bed. Ava brushed listless brown hair from her pillow then said, “Looks like a toddler had a tantrum and took it out on my hair.”

“Not so bad,” Vince said, reminding himself to breathe.

Her remaining hair looked mangy. Normally, Ava wasn’t fussy about her appearance but she always looked dignified.

They walked to the bathroom. She took a bath towel and swung it around her shoulders then sat on the toilet lid. She handed Vince her sewing scissors then bowed her head. A submission Vince found disturbing.

His voice shook, “I can’t do this to you.”

“You’re not doing it to me. You’re doing it for me.”

Vince took inventory of her accumulated side effects: numb fingertips, nausea, diarrhea, and now this. He checked his shirt pocket. “I need my readers.”

Ava reached her hand to his hip and gave him a pat.

Vince let out a long breath then pinched a thin section of Ava’s hair between his fingertips. He squeezed the sharp blades and felt the slice. He held Ava’s severed hair in his hand, then, as if hot, dropped it.

“This is so disrespectful.”

“Distract me.”

It was hot in the bathroom and his shirt was damp under the arms and at the waist, where it tucked into his khakis. He wiped his face against his sleeve then closed his eyes to control his breathing.

“Vince?”

Her voice brought him back. “Sorry. Lost in thought.”

He resumed cutting and dropping then began, “Do you remember when we followed a scary German man into the Black Forest?”

Ava’s voice was muffled by the towel at her chest. “Scary?”

“My dear, he had a shotgun!”

Her laugher sounded different now. Less robust.

“The man had a shotgun and we followed him into the woods because he claimed to know where to find chanterelles. Sure, he wore lederhosen, which was adorable, but who brings a gun to pick mushrooms? Gosh, what was his name? Hanz? Fritz?”

“Hanz.”

“Yes, Hanz. So we hiked and walked until Hanz stopped abruptly and pointed. Chanterelles. Dewy in the early morning light. Their orangey ruffles happily decorating the forest floor.

“Greed got the better of us. We bent and picked until his woven basket was stuffed. At which point, Hanz slipped his arms through the leather straps, adjusted the basket on his back then said, ‘Now we eat.’ Which was sobering. We? We planned to pick a few mushrooms, keep a few, then say our goodbyes.”

“But—”

“We left our car just off the road then got into Hanz’s—a complete stranger who, let’s remember, had a gun. Plus, where were we going? He drove East. Two hours. More maybe. I wanted to appear calm, so I casually asked, ‘You live far, huh?’ But he gave me nothing. No information. He just nodded and said, ‘Umm.’”

“Then?”

“Well, being Sunday, a family day, his yard was crowded with running grandchildren and a large group of adults, everyone dressed in gorgeous Bavarian clothing: edelweiss decoratively stitched on leather pants for the men and the ladies in their long dresses with puffy sleeves and lace collars.

“A long wooden table was nestled into a patio of traprock. The rocks kicked under foot as crates of lager and wheat beer were hauled outside. Then came platter after platter of food delivered to the table: roast duck, white sausages, stewed red cabbage, knödel. Where it all came from, I couldn’t say. It was magical. Then. Mushrooms. Hanz gave our chanterelles a quick wash then fried them in an enormous glop of butter, minced garlic, a splash of white wine—”

“I’m salivating.”

“He fried them crisp. Potato chip crisp. Earthy and rich and coated in a sinful amount of dripping butter. I had the strangest urge to drink them.”

“Heaven.”

“Quite possibly.”

Vince stopped cutting to look at Ava’s scalp. The remaining hair was patchy and her cream-colored skin showed through in places.

She looks sick.

Using a hand towel he gently dusted hair clippings from her head and shoulders. Suddenly, tears began to drip from his eyes. His lungs felt tightly compressed. He lifted his chin to the ceiling demanding to stop the tears.

To mask his emotions, he changed the pitch of his voice and chipped, “Now that I think about it, maybe those mushrooms weren’t really chanterelles.”

Ava removed the bath towel from her shoulders. “What?”

“Honestly, who knows what we ate. Maybe you’ve been misdiagnosed. Maybe you don’t have cancer—”

Her eyes shot Vince a warning, “Don’t—”

“Maybe you have a simple case of mushroom poisoning.”

“You agreed,” she said sharply, then left the bathroom.

It was true. Vince had agreed. No cancer jokes. He swept her hair into a pile with the tip of his shoe.

 

***

            Just before Vince retired they’d painted the kitchen walls Island Blue. After forty years of rushed mornings, heading to the car with toast clenched between teeth and travel mugs splashing hot coffee onto their wrists, they’d envisioned retirement consisting of fantastically drawn-out, island-style mornings—nowhere to go, nowhere to be. Just endless time to relax and sip coffee. He’d even splurged and bought a French coffee press.

Time was, indeed, drawn-out now but there was nothing fantastic about it. He waited for the kettle to boil alone and ate toast over the sink. The French press was still in the box.

He set Ava’s hot mug of ginger tea onto a small table next to the couch. Ava was laying on the couch wearing brown pajamas with tiny pink birds scattered on them. She was snuggled beneath a blue and white blanket she’d crocheted last fall. He remembered how deftly her hands moved the crochet hook, how swiftly the stitches linked, building something complicated and solid. He imagined her cancer cells multiplying into a complicated pattern. Something warm to wrap around her lung.

He knelt at the couch. “Can I tempt you with some broth?”

She smiled but it was forced.

“Or whatever you like.”

She patted his hand. “Tea’s enough, thank you. Now, please don’t kneel. You’ll never get up.”

He placed pillows behind Ava’s back for support. “Are you nauseous? Because, if you aren’t, you should eat. We need to get your weight up a little.”

“Is the heat on?”

He handed Ava the tea and she wrapped her hands around the hot mug. Vince tucked the blanket under her legs, then under her heels. Even with socks, her feet were always cold now.

“I’ll turn the heat up.”

She reached for a red boutique bag sitting on the floor next to the couch. “First, I want to show you something.”

Inside the bag was a thin gift box. She shook the lid until the bottom fell free. Inside, red tissue paper was neatly folded and sealed with an embossed silver sticker. Ava tore the paper and revealed a green and gold headscarf.  “The sales lady said green and gold were ‘colors of strength.’”

Vince felt dizzy. “When did you buy this?”

They’d never discussed it.

            Ava draped the soft silk over her head. He watched as her fingers slowly twisted and rolled the fabric. “After the diagnosis.”

That was so long ago.

“Can I help?” he asked.

She tucked fabric into place. “I want to see if my fingers can still do it.”

Still do it? When did she wear it? At the store?

“It’ll keep my head warm and conceal my hair. A little, anyway.”

In contrast to the scarf’s rich colors, Ava’s skin was sallow. Her eyebrows had thinned. Her eyelashes were gone. With great care, Vince adjusted the fabric around Ava’s ears.

“You look glamorous. Exotic. Like a gypsy.”

 

***

            Ava and Vince stepped off the hospital elevator then turned toward the chemotherapy suite (which they now called “that place”). An experienced nurse suggested Vince fill a backpack with items they might need: pen and paper for questions or notes for the doctors. An extra sweater, tissues, baby wipes, an extra pair of Ava’s underwear (diarrhea was unpredictable). Lifesavers or gum (for when she vomited). The backpack was bulky and slightly uncomfortable, but Vince felt competent and, secretly, he hoped someone would ask for a pen. He’d packed three.

It was the first day Ava wore the headscarf. Even though it was baby-soft and the color of gems, he hated it. It was a seething, retched kind of hate. And once treatment ended, he never wanted to see it again. Never. He planned to throw it out—or better, burn it.

He resented the hospital too, which he realized was illogical, but the hallways were crowded and smelled of sweat and bleach, staff was infuriatingly cheery (they smiled a lot), the artwork was insipid, antibacterial gel dried his skin raw and the coffee tasted like a Ho-Jo’s breakfast-buffet gone completely awry.

Ava patted his arm, “Get yourself a coffee while I check-in.”

His mind re-centered, “Coffee, yes. Can I get you something sweet? Fruit?”

“Water’s fine.”

The receptionist swooned, “Oh, Ava, what a beautiful headscarf!”

Vince gave the receptionist more of a sneer than a smile before walking toward the gleaming credenza. He overheard the receptionist say, “You two are the sweetest. Look how he cares for you. That Vince. He’s a keeper.”

Vince pressed his fingertips against the credenza to steady himself. He hated all of this and struggled not to run—to grab Ava and run through the park, past the newspaper kiosk, down toward the pond, then behind a massive, ancient oak to catch their breath. They’d laugh and shake, thrilled by their escape.

But then what? He sighed. You’re no good to her like this.

            He returned to find Ava reclined and waiting for the nurse. He handed her the water bottle but her fingers struggled to twist open the cap. She passed it back to Vince. With ease, he cranked it open.

“My hero,” she smiled, placing the bottle on a side table.

While the nurse attached the IV needle to Ava’s PICC line, Vince stood and looked out the east windows. He never watched this part. If it upset Ava, she never mentioned it. When he heard the pump begin its clackity-spin, clackity-spin he rested his forehead against the window. The glass was cool and refreshing against his warm skin. Morning sun blinked through the maple leaves. If he could reach through the glass the leaves would feel fleshy. In November they’d be yellowy-brown and brittle.

He sat next to Ava’s recliner then tore open a granola bar. He held out the bar as an offer. She shook her head, no.

Ava inhaled deeply then sighed, long and hard.

“What can I do?”

She slumped a bit. “Distract me.”

Vince patted down his hair. It felt thinner. Recently he noticed it had receded even further from his forehead. He’d always had a thick mop of hair and his buddies used to tease him. His friends were bald and blamed it on parenting – raising children caused hair to fall out. Because Vince didn’t have a teenager, he still had the hair of a teenager. Of course, his friends didn’t appreciate the stress of being childless, how difficult it is to celebrate someone else’s children being born then witness every step of their lives, how difficult it is to remain relevant to friends when you don’t share the common connector of parenthood. Not to mention, the crush of Mother and Father’s Day. Vince glimpsed at Ava’s headscarf.

He closed his eyes and focused on clearing his mind. After a few minutes he looked up and asked, “Remember Quebec? Our concierge with the pencil mustache?”

There was a slight smile on Ava’s face when she closed her eyes.

“Remember how he insisted, ‘You must try La Rêverie. It’s impossible to get a reservation but let me try.’ And voilà, a table for two.

“We were dressed to the nines. Your high-heels had those sparkly things on them—what are they called?”

“Sequins.”

“Right. Sequins. You wore a green dress with a low back. Tasteful but distracting. I wore a double-breasted dinner jacket. Gold buttons. And dress pants with razor sharp creases.

“The taxi ride was brief but when our cabbie pulled to the curb to let us off, we were confused. Maybe we had the wrong address? ‘C’est Rêverie’ he said, pointing to the sign.  ‘Le restaurant. C’est correct.’ So, okay, this was the right address, but the doorstep was dark. Dark-dark. No light above the door, no light shining from the windows. Were they closed? Did we have the wrong night?

“Our cabbie pointed to the faire and repeated, ‘Le restaurant. C’est correct.’ So, Merci beaucoup, monsieur, we paid him and stepped toward an enormous wooden door. Like a giant’s door. And I knocked.

“After an uncomfortable amount of time a teeny-tiny woman tugged open the hefty door. I tried to explain, I’m so sorry, we likely have the wrong night. But she stepped back, opened the door widely and invited us inside. Honestly, it felt creepy, like a horror movie—”

“You’ve always been a sucker for horror films.”

Vince laughed, “That’s true!”

“But inside?”

“Absolute elegance. Gray walls, black carpet. Thick and weighty curtains pooled at the floor like the Palace of Versailles. There were mirrors, with ornate filigree. Expansive chandeliers, with thin, white braids of color twisted within the glass—”

“Venetian?”

“Certainly. The room was small, only a dozen or so tables, but there wasn’t a single other seating—not one.”

“Strange—”

“When the tiny woman returned, she said, in her delightful accent, ‘Tonight is a seven-course menu.’ We looked at each other. Our eyes screamed, SEVEN? Then she added, ‘With wine pairings.’ So out came seven miniature plates with miniature servings. Canapés, beef carpaccio, trout almandine, dragon fruit sorbet, lamb lollypops, a local cheese tray with fresh figs, and, as a finalé, a hot peach tart with frangipane.”

“Bliss.”

“Beyond bliss, if there is such a thing. Then, our eighth course arrived. What’s that? How can there be an eighth course to a seven-course meal? Good question, my dear. We begged the tiny woman, ‘Please, no more food.’ We did not know of the miniature bite of dessert that sometimes follows dessert. Yes, true. Double-dessert. But the tiny woman insisted, ‘Compliments of the chef.’

“She placed a purple plate before you and a purple plate before me. On it was one stark, white cookie. No larger than an acorn.”

Ava turned to face Vince and smiled, “And?”

“We placed it on our tongues and it dissolved instantly. Then an explosion! Like a knock-out punch. Our taste buds could barely manage all the flavors. Lemon. Lavender. Hazelnut. Vanilla. Such a small cookie, how was it possible?”

“Perfection.”

“Extraordinary. Magical.”

 

***

            The toilet was too far and running was too exhausting. Now when Ava vomited, she used a bucket. It was placed on an old beach towel on her side of the bed. When she needed it, she rolled to the edge of the mattress. Afterwards, Vince helped roll her back, away from the edge.

Before emptying the contents of the bucket into the toilet, Vince closed the bathroom door. The smell was wretched. He gagged into the sink. His back heaved, saliva dripped from his mouth. Resting his face against the cold wall he muttered, “Okay. Okay.”

Vince washed and wiped the bucket with a rag, then returned it to her side of the bed.

“So sorry,” she moaned.

“Nothing to it,” he said.

He tossed the wet rag into the washer. The bedsheets needed a wash too. If he could get her to eat in the living room, he’d change the sheets and run a load after supper.

He called and put the newspaper subscription on hold. He only hauled them to the recycling, unread. Once a week he called the insurance company. It was a game and, by now, he’d learned the rules. Call and question every charge. Startling how many were removed.

He wrote checks in the company of the ticking kitchen clock. No TV, no radio because he needed to hear in case Ava called out. At first, the quiet made him lonely but, after a while, it became normal.

Later, Vince returned to the bedroom to bring Ava hot ginger tea. She was asleep. He placed the mug on her bedside table then peeked into the bucket. She had used it. He wondered if he could change the bed sheets without disturbing her. How do hospitals manage it?

In the bathroom, it was the same routine: empty the bucket, wash it, gag a little into the sink. He flushed then swirled the toilet brush around the bowl. To Vince, every time he dunked the toilet brush into the water and scrubbed away vomit or diarrhea, he absolved Ava of the indignities.

Her voice was muted, “Vince?”

He opened the bathroom door.

“I’m sorry, would you help me to the bathroom, please?”

He rushed to her. “Of course.”

Sliding her legs to the bedside she said, “I’m a little dizzy and I can’t seem to wake up.”

He wrapped one arm around her waist and held her elbow with the other. Her body was bony and her pajamas sagged. The doctor had recommended a safety rail for the toilet and Vince was grateful.

“Hold the rails before you turn around.”

He held her hips as she turned.

She said, “I’m not sure it’s worth it. Even if I get better.”

“Nonsense,” he said, while slipping his hands under her armpits to steady her body as she sat.

She continued, “This is just so—much. It would be easier for you if I just died.”

Her words stung. Vince backed away. “Easy! How would that be easy? Don’t ever say that.”

 

***

            Once Ava was settled back in bed, Vince poured himself a bowl of Cheerios. The milk had soured so he ate them dry.

After months of managing their grocery shopping, Vince still bought too many vegetables and poured sour milk down the drain. This time, he decided, everything had to go.

He snapped open a Hefty bag, then pitched decaying bell peppers and moldy onions into the trash bag. His thumb sunk right through a slimy cucumber. Leftovers were so revolting he tossed them, container and all. The deli roast beef he bought for sandwiches but never ate, the eggs, the escarole. Out. Then he wiped down the refrigerator and returned the butter, pickles, ketchup, and mayonnaise.

One by one, Vince hauled trash bags to the garage, filling one barrel to the top. The other barrel needed pressing to close the lid.

Did I miss garbage day? Garbage pick up was on Wednesdays. What’s today? Is it Wednesday? It was Thursday.

Garbage could wait until next week, but they were out of food and he needed to get to the market. But Ava was weak and couldn’t walk the aisles or risk exposure to germs. He couldn’t ask her to sit alone in the car; she might need the bathroom. And he couldn’t leave her home for the same reason.

He walked back to the house. Maybe someone could stay while she slept. Just for an hour. Maybe Frannie? Ava might agree to that. Maybe Frannie would bring lasagna. One for tonight, one for tomorrow.

When he entered the house he was lost in thoughts of lasagna. When he heard her, his body turned to stone, his stomach cinched.

Her voice was small.  “Vince?”

He sprinted without questioning if he could. Ava was in the bathroom. The doorknob gouged his hip when he pushed through the door. She was on the floor, curled like a comma, with her cheek pressed against the tile. There was vomit next to her face.

He didn’t mean to yell, “Don’t move! Don’t move!” Then he immediately negotiated her to a sitting position.

A wet gash above her ear bled into her pajama collar. Vince grabbed a sock from the laundry basket and pressed it against the wound. Ava winced.

Frantically, Vince searched her body. “Anything broken?”

“I got light-headed.”

“Did you black out?”

“I don’t know—”

“How hard did you hit your head?”

She didn’t answer.

Vince scanned his memory for where he’d left the phone. “You need an ambulance—”

“I just need to sit.”

He stood to find the phone. “We need an ambulance.”

She pled like a child, “Please, don’t.”

“Your head is bleeding. You could have a concussion. Or broken something—”

“I just want to sit a while.”

The carotid arteries in his neck were throbbing. His thoughts were jumpy. No ambulance. I’ll drive. I can get her to the car.

Slowly, he lifted the sock from her wound. Blood rose to the surface and slipped down her neck. He caught the stream, smeared it with the sock, and returned it to the wound. She moaned. He pressed more gently. “That needs a stitch. Maybe two.”

“I don’t want this anymore,” she said, taking over the sock and pressing it to the wound. “Let’s go to Siena for broth or to Quebec. I want to drink chanterelles.”

Vince’s legs and hands were shaking. “We will. As soon as you’re well.”

She leaned and kissed his cheek. “I’m vanishing. Right before your eyes.”

“No, you’re getting well!”

“I want to stop treatment.”

His mouth opened and his eyes grew to the size of lemons.

Before he could manage a word she said, “I miss living.”

 

***

            Vince turned off all the phones. After placing the kettle on the heat he helped Ava to the chair on the sunny side of the kitchen table. Her head was still wrapped with thick bandages. On the table were two coffee mugs, a pitcher of warm milk, and a small plate of Fig Newtons. Ava reached for a cookie, then took a nibble. Vince scooped coffee into the French press then sat next to Ava. They waited for the kettle’s whistle to blow. There was nothing but time.