She gave me the faintest smile.
“You always were terrible at pretending.”
I laughed quietly, even though my eyes were already burning.
That evening, after the doctors left, I stayed beside her.
I didn’t go home.
I didn’t want to.
Home didn’t feel like home anymore.
Home was wherever Carol was.
So I sat in that uncomfortable hospital chair beside her bed and watched the machines blink through the night.
Sometimes she slept.
Sometimes she woke up and stared at the ceiling.
Sometimes we talked about completely meaningless things.
The weather.
The food.
Our grandchildren.
A neighbor’s dog.
Anything except the one subject neither of us wanted to say aloud.
Death.
On the third night, Carol woke me around two in the morning.
“David.”
I opened my eyes.
She was looking at me.
“What is it?”
“Come closer.”
I moved my chair beside her.
She reached for my hand.
Her fingers felt incredibly weak.
