I haven’t left him before.
And it’s harder, now.
“He calls for me,” I mumble, rubbing my eyes. “When he can’t see me.”
Nicole pats my shoulder. “Totally normal, I promise you. I’ll keep him calm – and I can call you if anything happens. Okay?”
My nod is slow. Getting to my feet, I slide the paper into my pocket and run it down my jeans before double-checking the time on my phone. “Actually… I do have a few things I need to do. If you’re sure—,”
“Go,” Nicole says firmly. And she sounds a little relieved. “He’s in good hands.”
I know. But it still feels wrong to step out onto the street without him. I glance up at the balcony. The doors are open, Ben’s bed angled to face the view he chose, although I can’t see him from here.
Just get it done.
The bookstore. The travel agency. The market, although I keep my head down as I pass the flower stall, my arms full.
If you were a bouquet, you’d only be the good ones.
Not today.
Today, I would be… orange lilies, to reflect the hatred burning my throat. Black dahlias, for betrayal. Begonias, maybe, for caution.
As I walk, the paper burns a hole in my pocket. I try to pretend it’s not there as I stop to buy a bottle of water from a stand, trying to dampen the anger in my chest so I can make the call to give Ben the only thing he’s asked for.
How could you leave him?
When I finally stumble back to the apartment, the sky is nudging toward sunset, and exhaustion drags at my heels. Nicole fusses, showing me a sleeping Ben, fresh from his wash with damp curls that cling to his forehead before we head into the kitchenette.
“He had some of your soup,” she says with a smile. “Not too much, but some.”
Probably because I can't actually cook. But I'm trying.
“That’s good.” I set my items down on the small, two-person table we bought the day we furnished his apartment.
An apartment he never intended me to be part of. An apartment he never intended to be a part of, with the exception of his final days.
I don’t know when I began to measure the passing of time by Ben’s movements. Sitting up unaided. Going to the bathroom.
Drinking a small bowl of soup.
Every moment is an indication of how much time we have left.
Nicole gives me a hug before she leaves. “I’ll be back on Thursday.”
I blink. “But… it’s Tuesday.”
She studies me. “We were going to move to every other day…,”
Her voice is gentle. “Did you want to change it?”
Another marker of time. Hospice visits.
Once a week. Twice a week. Every other day.
Silently, I shake my head. “Thursday is fine. Thanks, Nicole.”
After she’s gone, I pull the paper from my pocket and sit silently at the table, turning it over between my fingers.
