Copyright 2014 by robindavisfiction. This story may not be republished or reposted on other websites without written permission.
*****
He warmed the lotion in his hands before spreading it gently on her swollen feet and rubbing each cold toe carefully between his fingers until the chill was gone. Gently, but firmly, he massaged each foot before working slowly up her calves and shins, steadily increasing the pressure with each upward stroke. He lightly caressed her cool, smooth skin with each downward stroke.
"That feels so good," she whispered.
Despite her pain, she smiled with genuine pleasure as he rubbed warm lotion behind her knees and stroked the sensitive skin the way she had always enjoyed. "Is it time for morphine yet?"
"Only twenty more minutes. Do you want to increase the dose a little this time?"
"No. It makes me sleepy. I'd rather talk with you."
"I'll always be here when you wake up."
She closed her eyes.
"Is the angle of the chair comfortable?" he asked.
She had already drifted back to sleep. He carefully raised the foot rest and covered her legs with the light quilt her mother had given her when she left home for college in the big city. When he spent the night in her dorm room for the first time, he kidded her about the design. She spiritedly defended the smiling cartoon characters sown into a field of blood-red roses, and later he impressed her by carefully folding it up and setting it on her desk before they made love on her narrow single bed.
He checked the oxygen level in the tank behind her chair, and as she slept, he updated the notebook containing her medication schedule along with questions for the home hospice nurse who stopped by each afternoon. The notebook seemed to reduce her anxiety, and he relied on it more and more as his fatigue increased with the passage of each day, and the boundaries between yesterday, today, and tomorrow became less and less distinct. He dreaded a lapse in memory, or a missed dose, that might cause her pain or anxiety.
When it was time for her morphine, he gently caressed her cheek and called her name softly to awaken her gradually. She smiled weakly and murmured, "My hero," and the hint of happiness in her sparkling blue eyes transported him back to his first sight of the slender girl playing a guitar under the biggest pecan tree in the small grove near the math building. The wind blew through her long chestnut hair, and she tossed her head to keep it out of her eyes. He stood in the shadows, captivated. Her voice blended with the wind as she sang the long-sung songs of sailors lost at sea, soldiers gone to war, and maidens left to weep. She sealed his fate with a smile, and he barely breathed as he waited for the last chord and the chance that she would talk with him.
He earned the title "my hero" two days later. Near the end of a lecture on differential equations, he glanced out the window and saw her opening her guitar case under the pecan tree. As much as he liked this particular class, his professor's next comments were lost to more urgent thoughts about what he should say to her once the remaining minutes of class dragged by. When he next looked, his dream girl was engaged in an animated dispute which quickly became physical. Her assailant grabbed her hair and her face contorted in pain.
Later, he couldn't recall the details of bolting from his seat, sprinting past his astonished professor, and arriving just in time. But, he would never forget slamming the edge of his calculus book against her ex-boyfriend's head to prevent her throat from being seriously bruised. He still smiled whenever he recalled his adversary falling to the ground with a curse, then scrambling to his feet, fists clenched, ready to fight, only to confront a large, angry campus cop who didn't like men who beat up women. After making sure she was uninjured and recording phone numbers and addresses, the cop shook hands with the young folk singer's new hero and left them to get to know each other a bit better.
"This stuff works pretty fast. Maybe we can try a walk in a few minutes."
Her whisper brought him back to the present. He took her hand in his and knelt next to her chair. "I'd like that, if you feel strong enough."
He transferred her oxygen tube to a small portable tank he could carry on his back as they walked. They made their way slowly out of the bedroom, through the small living room, past the ratty old book-strewn sofa they had purchased at a moving sale, and across the expensive Persian rug they had purchased from a dealer who offered them a special price because most of his customers didn't like the unconventional colors woven amidst traditional patterns. They had planned to save their money to buy a new sofa to match the rug, but after she got sick, their savings were needed for other things.
"Are your legs okay?" he asked as they reached the front door.
"I think a little walking might help," she said.
He could tell she knew that he knew she had not answered his question. They paused at the porch railing, and she leaned against it, taking shallow, rapid breaths.
"Rain is coming. The sky is so beautiful," she said and rested her head against his shoulder. "I'm worse, aren't I?"
He had promised to always answer her questions honestly, but he paused briefly and gazed at the sky as though it might hold some wisdom he had previously failed to perceive.
"The nurse thinks your liver is getting weaker," he said. He put his arm around her waist and his chin on the bright blue scarf covering her head. "I love you."
She squeezed his hand without speaking. They stood like that, like lovers with all the time in the world, simply feeling the closeness of each other and taking comfort in shared silence. Her shallow breathing told him he needed to increase the oxygen flow rate slightly.
"I love rainy days," she said. "Will you remember me when it rains?"
His eyes glistened as he nodded and kissed her cheek gently.
"I'm sorry," she whispered.
"Shhh. . . "
"Let's go back inside," she said. "Maybe I'll try to eat some soup."
She shuffled slowly, and he helped her sit at the kitchen counter. He placed a bowl of warm chicken soup in front of her and began making himself a peanut butter sandwich.
"More treatment won't help, will it?" she asked.
He walked around the counter and rested one hand lightly on her shoulder. "No, it probably won't."
She didn't speak. Her face was calm. Her spoon was motionless just above the bowl. He finished spreading peanut butter on his bread, and but wrapped the sandwich in a paper towel without tasting it. They shared the silence.
"You aren't eating well," she said, finally. "You have to take care of yourself."
