“I’ll be waiting.”
His hand patted the mattress, searching for mine. Our fingers linked, and together, hand in hand, we moved into a new world.
But I didn't get to stay there.
The urge to pee woke me from my sleep, and I had to break apart our still-joined hands as I rushed to the bathroom. I detoured on the way to collect Woodrow's phone. I wanted to delete yesterday's note before he had a chance to read it. I did that quickly and placed the phone on his bedside table.
I rushed off to the bathroom, wiggling, as I feared I wouldn’t make it in time. I sat on the chilly seat, trying blissfully, like a parent in need of a break, to ignore the calls of my furry toddler, as he screamed for me from the bed.
Gently placing the seat down, I pushed the flush button. It made no sense that I worried about the noise of the toilet seat closing, when the flush sounded through the entire house.
I washed my hands, staring at my drained appearance in the mirrored cabinet. I looked gaunt, more so than ever.Small red spots were pushing through my dull-looking skin and causing discomfort. I washed my face with a scrub I knew to be in the high cabinet, still ignoring the cat call.
“Two minutes, Bush’. I'll get your breakfast.”
As I scrubbed at my eyes, like I could magically wash away the tiredness, tiny nails scraped my leg.
I jumped, my finger jabbing into my eye, the scrub causing them to burn. I gasped, quick to wash it out with cold water.
The scratches came again, and the desire to kick this cat—who was now hanging around my feet—into next week, was harder to fight.
“What?” I impatiently questioned, my burning eyes lowering to the fuzzball.
He rushed from me, and a graceful jump had him on the bed. He sat on Woodrow's chest, pawing at his face.
“Hey, get off him!” I whisper-shouted, storming from the cold bathroom tiles to the cushion-soft carpet.
My legs slowed with each step. My eyes refused to believe what they saw. Bushy was on Woodrow's chest—Woodrow's unmoving chest.
“Woodrow?” I called out. “Woodrow, answer me!”
His eyes were on me, slightly open, like his mouth, frozen as he’d taken his last breath.
His skinny frame, now smaller than mine, was eaten up by the size of the bed and the heavy blankets pushed down around his waist. His Adam's apple and the swelling behind it stood high, like it held some pride to have caused his death. I took a single step closer, and my legs gave way.
I looked up at his face. His cheeks still red from the flushes he’d suffered these last few weeks—that I’d stupidly mistaken for sunburn. He was missing his ethereal glow, his color completely gone. His life was gone. He was fucking gone, and I couldn’t fucking take it.
My pain flooded from my eyes. Tears dropped to the carpet, white like his skin.
A scream tore from inside me, rattling the new and strong foundations of this house. It should have wokenthe dead. . . but it didn't.
It fucking didn’t.
I crawled to him, my husband, my life, my everything, and the carpet didn't feel so soft beneath my knees.
I took his hand, his skin getting colder with each second. I kneeled higher, brushing the longer strands of his fringe away from his face. Tiny pink scratches covered his face, where Bushy had tried to wake him, too.
“Woodrow, wake up. Please, wake up.” I choked on my own words. “I'm begging you, please. Wake. Up. I forgave you for everything. But not this. I won't forgive you for this. You can’t leave me.” I squeezed around his knuckles, his big hand feeling smaller than usual. “Please, wake up. I’m begging you, please wake up.”
I placed a dozen kisses on his cheeks and lips. My mouth trembled through it all. I climbed to my feet, sliding onto the edge of the bed. I kissed him again, blowing air into his ruined lungs. Nothing happened.
Bushy jumped away, the hope that I could save his master plastered on his face as he watched me start chest compressions.
I breathed into Woodrow's mouth again, but I knew it was useless. I kept trying. My hands pumped away at his chest until the energy slipped from me, until the arrows on his watch moved from the twelve back to the twelve again, marking a new hour on the worst day of my life.
“I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.” I collapsed against his chest, his bones embracing me. “Wait for me. I won’t be long, I promise.” I kissed over his silent heart and then his lips once more, and the scent of death kissed me back.
He wasn't my Woodrow anymore. He wasn’t my Hell or Woody.
