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The wedding in room 407
The machines near Ben’s hospital bed were purring slowly and regularly, as if nothing had happened.
As if my whole life was on the edge of a precipice.
I stood at the foot of his bed, a cheap plastic veil in my trembling hands. A nurse had bought it in a shop of pranks and catches during his lunch break, and the elastic slightly scratched my hair. I should have worn the white dress hanging, intact, in my closet. I should have gone up a flowery driveway, heard music, seen our families smile through their tears.
Instead, I was in room 407, preparing to marry the boy I had loved since I was eight.
Ben was looking at me from his hospital bed, his face pale, his body thinned under the blanket. But somehow, he was still smiling like that little boy who was riding my bike race on Maple Street.
“You are beautiful,” he said.
I looked down at myself and laughed faintly. “Well, I’m wearing jeans. »
His smile has expanded. “Always the most beautiful bride in the hospital. »
I laughed because if I didn’t, I was afraid to collapse right away.
Ben and I had grown up together. We had shared the same skinned knees, school balls, our first jobs and all the embarrassing stages of life. As a teenager, our respective families were already joking about the fact that we would end up getting married one day.
And they were right.
At twenty-eight, we finally sent the invitations. We booked a ballroom, chose the flowers, tasted cakes and debated music kindly. I thought our future was finally beginning.
Then, two months before the wedding, Ben collapsed at work.
A simple visit to the hospital turned into examinations. Exams in low-voice conversations in front of the examination rooms. And then a doctor sat in front of us and spoke the words that wiped out all our projects.
“It’s aggressive cancer,” he told us softly. “At an advanced stage. I’m really sorry. At this point, we are talking about months, not years. »
I remember nodding my head, even though, at the time, these words made no sense.
Months.
Not years.
Ben shook my hand so hard that I was in pain, but I didn’t let go. I couldn’t. I felt like if I let go, I would lose it faster.
So, we canceled everything.
The ballroom. The flowers. The caterer. The photographer.
Then I asked the chaplain at the hospital if he could get us married in Ben’s room.
He arrived that afternoon with a worn-out Bible and a gentle, tired look. Some nurses gathered discreetly in the doorway. Ben insisted on wearing the black bow tie that I bought him for the real wedding. He was wrong on his hospital pajamas, ridiculous and heartbreaking at the same time.
“A groom must have a minimum of dignity,” he said, trying to straighten out.
“You look like a very sick penguin,” I murmured.
He smiles. “Marry me anyway. »
So I did.
I stood by his bed and promised him eternity, even though everyone in the room thought eternity was shrinking a few months. My voice trembled with every promise. The chaplain stopped several times to let me catch my breath.
When he finally declared us husband and wife, Ben reached out to me. I leaned over and he put his forehead against mine.
“The best day of my life,” he murmured.
“Mine too,” I said.
At that moment, I believed every word.
I didn’t know he meant anything else.
The Nursing’s Warning
After the short ceremony, the guests left the room little by little, congratulating us in a low voice and squeezing our tears in their arms in their eyes. Someone had brought a cake bought at the supermarket, covered with white icing and plastic flowers. One of the nurses made incisions with a plastic knife while another dabbed her eyes.
Ben got tired quickly.
He dozes off, my hand always in his. I sat by his side for a long time, watching his chest rise and lowering under the thin hospital blanket.
I tried to memorize his face.
The smile of his lips. The fine wrinkles at the corner of his eyes. The way his fingers still wrapped around mine, even asleep.
It was like trying to hold water in my hands.
Finally, I went out discreetly to get coffee. I walked in the bright corridor, like in a dream, my new cold and foreign alliance on my finger. I was still wearing the veil bought at the pranks and catch shop.
That’s when someone touched my elbow.
I turned around and saw a nurse next to me. She seemed to be about my age, maybe a little more, tired eyes and face marked by worry.
“Ms. Carter? “She asked slowly.
My heart was squeezed at the evocation of that name. Mrs. Carter. Ben’s wife.
“Yes? »
She looked at room 407, and then looked at me again. His voice was so low that I had to lean.
“Please don’t tell him what I said. »
I had a thrill of anxiety. “What are you talking about? »
She glanced at the end of the hall, fear passing through her face.
“He
“She doesn’t know I saw her,” she said quickly. “Look. Please. Please »
Then she walked away, disappearing around the corner as if she had never been there.
I remained frozen under the raw light of the neon light, a cup of vending machine coffee in hand, a coffee that I could not remember buying.
He lies to you.
Look under his mattress.
For several seconds I stood still. My mind was fighting against words. Ben was dying. We had just married in a hospital room, because life had been cruel to us. There could be nothing more.
There could be no secret.
There could be no plan.
But on the way back to room 407, the alliance on my finger suddenly seemed heavier than before.
Ben looked up as soon as I entered.
“Here you are,” he said warmly.
I forced a smile. “The coffee machine was hiding from me. »
“You always get lost. »
I smiled again, not knowing what else to do.
Inside, my heart was beating so hard that I was afraid it would hear it.
For illustration only
The file under the mattress
A few minutes later, Dr. Klein entered the room, a tablet under his arm. It was the doctor who told us about Ben’s diagnosis. He had always seemed calm, professional and compassionate.
Now I looked at him differently.
“How is our husband? “He asked.
“Married,” Ben replied with a smile.
“I heard. Congratulations to both of you. »
Dr. Klein glanced at the surveillance screen near the bed, without really paying attention. Then he turned to Ben.
“Everything is always planned,” he said.
Ben slightly nodded his head.
“So tomorrow should always be possible? “Ben asked.
“Normally yes,” Dr. Klein replied.
Neither of them looked at me.
But I watched them both.
Tomorrow?
Ben had no treatment planned for tomorrow. At least not to my knowledge.
Dr. Klein left with a polite smile, and the room suddenly seemed smaller.
“Are you okay? “asked Ben. “You look silent. »
“I’m just tired,” I said.
He shook my hand. “Go home after the visiting hours. You need to rest. »
I nodded, but my mind was somewhere else. He was under his mattress.
A little later, Ben straightened up and walked towards the bathroom while dragging his infusion. The door closed. The tap opened.
I moved before I lost my courage.
My hands trembled as I approached his bed. I lifted the mattress just enough to see underneath.
And there he was there.
A thin cardboard shirt, slipped between the bed base and the springs.
I was breathless.
I pulled it out and leaned against the wall, listening to the sound of the water flowing behind the bathroom door. I opened the shirt.
The first page was a medical report with Ben’s name printed at the top.
My eyes slipped to the conclusion.
No trace of malignancy.
I stared at those words.
No. No.
That was not possible.
I turned the page. Another report. Another date. Same conclusion.
No sign of cancer.
Healthy. Blood tests.
No malignant tumors detected.
The dates gave me cold sweats. These were not old files prior to his diagnosis. They were recent. They were weeks after we were told he was going to die.
I read the lines over and over again, waiting for them to change.
They didn’t change.
My hands were trembling so much that I almost dropped the file. I pulled out my phone and took pictures as quickly as possible. There were other papers underneath, but before I could read them, the bathroom faucet stopped.
The panic invades me.
I put the papers back in place, slipped the back under the mattress and smoothed the sheet of my trembling fingers.
The flush was pulled.
I took the pitcher of water on the tray and pretended to pour.
Ben opened the bathroom door and looked at me carefully.
“Are you sure you’re okay? “He asked. “You look pale. »
“It’s okay,” I replied, even though my voice seemed strange to me. “Just tired. He went back, dragging his feet to the bed and tapped the mattress next to him.
“Come and sit with me. »
I sat down.
He took my hand.
And for the first time in twenty years, I wanted to get out.
I looked at the man I loved since childhood, the one I had just promised to be by my side until death separated us.
And suddenly, I wondered if I really knew him.
The truth is beginning to reveal itself.
At the end of the visits, Ben urged me to go home and sleep. I kissed him on the forehead, like a wife would.
Then I came out of room 407, the feeling of being a stranger.
The same nurse was in the hallway, putting supplies in a wagon. She looked up at me and, as soon as she saw my face, her expression softened.
“You looked,” she said.
I nodded my head.
“The reports say he’s not sick,” I whispered.
She closed her eyes for a moment. “I am sorry. I knew you needed to see it for yourself. »
“You said he and the doctor had a plan. What plan? »
She glanced around before answering.
A thrill went through me. “To say what? »
His hand hugged my sleeve.
“Before you leave tonight,” she murmured, “look under her mattress. »
I stared at her. “What? »
“He’s lying to you,” she said. “He and Dr. Klein. They have a plan. »