The sterile white walls of the hospital room are painted in shades of green and blue. A faint orangeish glow from the lamplight sitting on a nightstand tucked between a slowly beeping EKG and a bed taken by a dozing woman. She sleeps with the blanket pulled up to her chest with her arms crossed over them, a golden medical bracelet dangling from her thin wrist, and a silver wedding band glimmering on her finger. When the nurses come to wake her for breakfast, she waves them away with a grumble and pinched lips. Downing the pills they give her without water and grimacing as she settles back into place and dozes off once again.
No one asks her what her dreams are of and no one dares to wake her again. The hospital is full with people, some hoping and others dreaming, most fighting to survive and others told they get to live another day or to cherish the one they have. Among them, an elderly man appears and shuffles through the hospital's lobby with a large binder tucked beneath an arm and a bouquet of orchids, zinnia, and sunflowers. He makes his way to the front desk where a receptionist greets him with a soft smile as he sets down the binder.
"How is she today, Julie?" He asks, taking off his hat and setting it on top of the binder, running his fingers through his hair.
Julie sighs and taps her fingers together at the tips. Her smile is worn but bears the same sweetness as it does every other day, a fondness and long-suffering that makes him laugh.
"She took her medicine today if you can believe it."
"You don't say?"
Reaching into the bouquet, he pulled a sunflower free and held it out to her with a smile.
"For taking care of her."
Julie held it by the stem and a soft thanks, breathing in its scent then smiling pleasantly at the petals. She sets it in a vase with several other flowers and rounds the desk to embrace him. Her head resting on his shoulder as he pats her lower back, giving her a quick squeeze then pulling away.
"You don't have to thank me every time you come, Monty," she reminds and he scoffs.
"My wife is a spitfire, I think thanks from me is all you're gonna get."
Julie chokes back laughter just as the phone rings and she excuses herself to answer it. Monty picking up his hat and setting it upon his head then scooping up the binder, excusing himself with a curt nod, and heading to the elevator. The orderlies and some of the doctors who pass him by greet him but they don't keep him long. Within a few seconds, Monty is shuffling his way towards the elevator and once he's inside, his smile falls and he looks from the bouquet neatly wrapped up in paper adorned with green and blue butterflies to the album. He runs his fingers over the lace trimming and looks up as the numbers climb. His eyes slip shut and he presses his lips to the top of the album then hugs it close.
The elevator dings and he steps out, narrowly avoiding a few children racing past in wheelchairs, one glancing over their shoulder and calling out an apology. He quirks a smile and waves it off then heads down the hall with a faint smile. Sunlight pours through the large glass windows and warms the hallways, making the pristine white walls of the hospital seem inviting rather than cold and stifling. His heels click as he walks and counts the room numbers before finding the one. The door is painted differently from the others, while most doors in the hospital were a light shade of grey. This one was grey adorned with green and blue butterfly stickers.
Of course, it is, he thinks. She would like nothing more than to be comfortable and he felt she deserved no less. Opening up the door, he peeked inside then pushed it open and stepped inside, letting it click shut behind him. Beneath a cream-colored blanket and a colorful quilt adorned with blue and green patches, is a woman with snow-white hair peppered with strands of silver that seem to shine in the dim lighting. Her dark brown skin, peppered with freckles and discolored skin around her eyes, her arms and her wrist, looks paler than he last remembered. His gaze lingers on the EKG and once he hears the beeping, he dares to breathe.
He sets his hat on the hook by the bathroom door and eyes the painted walls with interest. The last time they were in this room together, the walls were an eggshell white. He grins madly and walks to her side as quietly as possible. From up close, he can see the length of her eyelashes and the curve of her lips, the ring on her finger that shines even in the dark and he falls in love.
"The nurse said that you took your medicine properly," he says, easing down to a knee and resting his head by her hand.
There's no response but he smiles all the same.
"I think you were faking."
She comes to life all at once. Opening one eye, the corner of her lips curving up into a smile as she rasps, "What gave me away?"
"Not once in all of the days you've been here have you ever made anything that easy, dear."
Her laugh is heavy with sleep and his heart flutters as she grins, a glimmer in her eyes.
"What is it that you called me, my love?" She asked, tapping her finger lightly on one of the quilt's square. "A spitfire?"
"And how did you find out about that, Miss Nose?"
She winks, "Children, my dear. They hear everything. I'm appalled that you think I am a troublemaker."
Without missing a beat, he sighs and pushes to his feet with a grunt. "I've been married to you for over four decades, Addy, you are an absolute terror."
She eyes him with the scrutiny of a general inspecting their men but hikes her shoulders in a half-hearted shrug, pinching her lips together, "You aren't wrong," and a wink. "But I'm your terror."
He rolls his eyes and bites his lower lip to keep from smiling.
"Aren't you tired of that old joke?" He asks, offering the flowers to her.
She takes them with both hands and cradles them close to her chest. Her eyes half-lidded and fingers carefully brushing over the petals and the stems. The yellow of the sunflowers clashes against the green and the blue quilt just as the zinnia and orchids do. His heart sinks, cursing himself for not trying to find flowers that would match, but she looks at him and his thoughts quiet. There's quiet mercy in her eyes as she holds the bouquet in the crook of her right arm and extends the left to him. He fiddles with the photo album and moves to hand it to her but she pulls her hand away, holding it out again once he pulls the album back.
He smooths his fingers over her palm and turns them at an angle so their fingertips meet. Sitting at her bedside, he laces their fingers together and runs his thumb over her knuckles.
"Never," she says and squeezes his hand.
Her grip is weak but he holds on just as tight. The two sit in relative silence and let the quiet wash over them with only the gentle beeping of the EKG to punctuate it. However, he finds reassurance in the beeping and what it means. Quietly he begs for the machine to make another sound and then another as he dreads what the silence may mean. He squeezes her fingers then lifts them to his mouth, pressing his lips against her knuckles and shutting his eyes tight.
"I can practically hear you thinking," she mutters and shifts beneath her blankets, breathing slow and uneven, but he is grateful for every breath she draws. "Your thoughts are noisy, Monty."
Pressure builds at the back of his eyes and he can feel the prickling but forces it back. Grateful for the dim lighting as he ducks his head and presses his forefinger and thumb to the bridge of his nose, squeezing it with a ragged sigh.
"And they seem heavy."
He scoffs and shakes his head, looking at her from the corner of his eye with a rueful smile. A beat of silence passes and her face is impassive but the tell-tale sign of a cheshire grin forms just as she says, "I thought we agreed to leave the heavy lifting to me."
"Marriage is a partnership."
"And a good way to gain tax benefits."
He gasped, pressing a hand to his chest. "Is that why you married me?"
"You know, I don't really remember," she says with a wistful sigh, inclining her head towards the album. "You'll just have to remind me."
His smile falls as he looks at the album's cover. The lace on the cover, words written in cursive script embossed with gold that'd long since faded, worn binding and frayed at the edges but precious. Oh so precious. He hears the crinkling of paper and turns just as she reaches over for the album. Barely able to stop her, she yanks it away from him and onto her lap, running her fingers over the lace then flipping open the cover. Immediately, he feels his heart seize as the first picture is exposed to the open air.
He averts his gaze and is content to look at the walls around them or the drawn curtains keeping out most of the sunlight, even the EKG or the humming lamplight casting a faint orange glow that nearly blinds him as his vision blurs. She squeezes his hand and slips her fingers out of his grasp, running them up from his cufflinks to the curve of his elbow, holding tight.
"Don't let our best memories bring your sorrow," she says, easing her hold and lifting her hand to his cheek, guiding his head toward her.
He follows with little resistance and lets his gaze drop to the photos. She flips through the pages with deft fingers and points out pictures that he knows well and others that he'd almost forgotten. Moments captured in photographs, outlining a life that makes him smile and ache. Every picture, she talks of and recounts a story of when and how it was taken or a story that relates to it. He laughs, he shakes his head, he sighs and rolls his eyes but he listens.
His gaze wanders as she rambles on about their children and eyes the flowers, the notecards and things that adorn the walls and the tables. A photograph of their family, framed and beautiful, sitting on her bedside table beneath the lampshade. Their four children smiling widely at the camera while she held them with her arms wrapped around them, trying to corral them as best as she could into a group hug.
"They've been coming by almost every day," she sighs.
He sighs and picks up the picture frame, running his thumbs over the glass and lightly pushing against it as if it was the only barrier keeping him from happier times.
"Nolan told me that Darius is going to be starting T in the next two weeks," he says, setting the photograph down. "It's almost surreal."
"Reminds you of when you started?" She asks, flipping through the pages.
He smiles faintly and runs his fingers through his hair. "You were there for every minute."
"Drove you to every appointment," she interjects.
His head bobs in agreement, "Yes, you did."
"Here it is."
Glancing over, his heart skips a beat at the sight of a young man grinning nervously at the camera. Awkwardly scratching the back of his head with a hand resting on his hip. His curly black hair cut above the ears and the pants of his military fatigues barely visible over the counter. The binder that he loved, black with white trim, matching the bra of his girlfriend who stood by his side, holding up a peace sign to the camera. Despite her interest in the camera, his eyes were on her, a soft brown shade and half-lidded. In the upper right corner, the words 'just started T' are written in cursive script and punctuated with a heart.
"You know you didn't have to take off your shirt to pose with me."
She scoffs, lightly knocking her fist against his shoulder.
"I am nothing if not supportive of my husband," she huffs.
He rubbed his shoulder despite there being little pain, his heart sinking as he watches her hand lower with a slight tremble. "We weren't married, Addy," he said, swallowing thickly.
"Same difference, you had a toothbrush at my house."
He muttered under his breath of how impossible she was and shifted on the bed, bracing his hand on his knee. "Well, I couldn't go home," he muttered.
His only response is the gentle flipping of pages and he glances over, heart seizing at the sight of a woman with dark hair and a warm olive brown skin tone. Her hair is done up in a tight bun, eyes weary and focused on the face of the face of the young man held tightly in her arms.
He squeezes his eyes shut and turns his head to one side, breathing in deep through his nose and exhaling through clenched teeth.
"I miss her," he whispered.
Addy squeezed his hand, running her thumb across his knuckles. "She would be proud to see the man you are."
"I used to wonder," Monty mumbled, blinking away tears, looking at her as he intones mournfully. "You taught me how to love myself when no one did."
"I loved you," Addy stresses, squeezing his hand as tight as she can. "I love you. I always will."
He sniffs and closes his eyes tight. He hates himself for crying like this but before he can curl in on himself, he feels warmth against his knuckles and turns to see her kiss his hand.
"And so did she."
Monty nods slowly, inching over. "I'm just glad I got to talk to her before..."
His voice trails off. The weight of what was left unsaid resting between them and as their hands lower to the bedspread.
"So am I," Addy mutters, flipping through pages as he presses idle kisses to the back of her hand and her wrist, resting her knuckles against his forehead and muttering a prayer.
"And who is this handsome man?"
His eyes crack open and he takes one glance at the picture then groans.
"Addy."
She snickers and turns the album with one hand, pointing towards the aforementioned photo, "No really, it's slipping my mind. He looks so familiar."
Monty glances at the photo. Takes in the happy couple kissing beneath an arch of roses, cake smeared in the hair of the groom and on the dress of the bride. A picture beneath it of the two of them laughing, wrapping up in each other's arms and smiling.
"Addy, your memory isn't slipping."
"Yes it is, Monty."
He sniffs, and wipes his hand across his eyes, looking at her with a watery smile. "You haven't forgotten me."
Addy says nothing. She stares at him in silence but the noise is deafening and says it all. Words that they cannot speak, ones that they cannot put into words, and ones that they struggle to acknowledge. She searches his face for something and if she finds it, he doesn't know, but she holds his hand tighter and says, "I never will."
They sit in silence, reading and exchanging stories, holding hands and laughing quietly until the sun disappears from behind the heavy curtains. A quiet knock at the door signaling the end and Monty rises from the bed with a groan.
"I have to go," he says, taking his hat from the hook and tucking the album beneath his arm, looking back. "I'll be back tomorrow."
His Addy had a personality larger than life. She could take up a room and seem as if she was the only one in it. Yet now, she seemed so small. Tucked beneath the blankets and the quilt, weary with a soft smile that bespoke things that he couldn't put into words. And yet again, the silence spoke it all but she was the one to break it.
"I'll be waiting," she says.
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