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I married a dying man to honor his final wish. Ten days later, I stood beside his coffin holding the ring he had been too weak to place on my finger. That evening, his lawyer arrived with something Carl had forbidden him to give me while he was alive… something to haunt me for the rest of my life.
Three times a week, I volunteered with a hospice support program.
Most patients wanted ordinary help. A warm meal. Clean sheets. Someone to sit with them.
Carl wanted to play Scrabble.
I volunteered with a hospice support program.
He was 40, thin from treatment, and lived alone in a small house crowded with books. On my first visit, he pointed toward the game board before I had removed my coat.
“Do you know how to play?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Do you cheat?”
“Only when necessary.”
“Do you cheat?”
He studied me for a moment.
“We may get along.”
We did.
***
I brought soup, washed dishes, and made tea. Before long, Carl remembered everything I liked.
At first, I assumed he was observant.
Later, I realized he was remembering.
At first, I assumed he was observant.
Carl had stage four cancer.
He never pretended the treatments were working. He simply disliked allowing illness to become the largest thing in the room.
When pain interrupted a conversation, he waited for it to pass, then picked up exactly where he had stopped.
Except once.
Carl had stage four cancer.
We were playing Scrabble when he tried to tell me about a teacher he had admired. His mouth opened, but the sentence would not come.
His illness had begun affecting his speech, and the harder he pushed, the more trapped the words became.
Carl gripped the edge of the table.
His illness had begun affecting his speech.
I looked toward the window.
“Did I tell you what happened at work yesterday?”
He shook his head.
I launched into a ridiculous story about a volunteer locking herself inside the supply closet. I added details until Carl’s shoulders loosened.
By the time I finished, he was smiling.
“Did I tell you what happened at work yesterday?”
“You did that on purpose,” he said softly.
“Did what?”
“Nothing.”
He looked down at the board, a calculating stillness settling into his gaze.
I did not understand why.
“You did that on purpose.”
***
A week later, I found him wearing a pressed blue shirt. A small velvet box sat beside his tea.
“Carl?”
“Marry me, Selena,” he said.
I nearly dropped the grocery bag.
He gave a tired smile.
“I know how that sounds.”
“Marry me, Selena.”
“We have known each other four months.”
“Four very competitive months,” he corrected.
I did not laugh.