Notes 4/12
Patient had three sips of Ginger Ale and 3oz bone broth. Tried to eat powdered donut but couldn’t chew.
An alert sounds on my phone and the update shows in real time.
Your birthday was just last month, when winter still clung to the ends of tree branches and ice peppered the rural streets I’d spent so much time on as a child. I’m not a day over 29 — that’s what you’d say, even though I knew grandparents weren’t that young. That’s just between us, you’d finish with, and we’d laugh together.
Your hair is the color of ash now, like from the burning logs you put in the fire place next to your strawberry patch. In my mind it’s still black, dark like a crow’s feathers. You were my world when I was growing up, and I couldn’t picture one without you in it.
I hate Maine, you know that. But I love you, and you know that, too. I live so far now; 1,344 miles, which may as well be a million. I haven’t seen you in two years and selfishly I feel like I have no time even though you’re the one running out of it.
I know it’s the disease, the one that’s stealing you from me. It’s what makes you forget the last time I did visit. I haven’t walked the three creaking wooden steps to the screen door, the one that yelled every time it opened, alerting you and surely the neighbors of someone’s arrival. You think you’ve seen me more recent, but I know your memory confuses you.
I’m sorry I haven’t visited, I tell you when I call.
I see you all the time, you say. Ice cold guilt runs through me each time.
Notes 4/12
Patient plays solitaire. I’m helping him flip cards.
I’m sure you’d prefer cribbage, like we used to play, but not many people know how to play that game. I set up my own deck of cards across my kitchen counter. I’m alone, too. This way it feels like we’re playing together.
***
I wake and read the notes I missed overnight:
Notes 4/12
Provided sponge bath.
Helped patient into bed. He tells me about his granddaughter.
Notes 4/13
Patient having hard time swallowing broth.
Providing food intravenously.
I wipe a stray tear from my eye and browse the JetBlue app on my phone. Maybe I could find a quick flight for this weekend. I scroll and scroll and find myself second guessing the flight. I’m scared to fly. I know you understand.
My phone buzzes beside me as I wait for coffee to brew.
“Hello?” I put the phone on speaker and my Keurig rumbles to life.
“Miss Ketchum?” The voice is meek. She sounds young.
“This is she.”
“I’m the nurse assigned to your grandfather today. He’s having a hard time. His breathing is staggered.” I feel a pang in my heart and think of the flight I didn’t book. It would’ve been too late now anyway, right?
“Is he okay?”
“Yes, yes I think so for today. But I want to prepare you it might not be much longer. We haven’t seen any improvements over the past few months.”
Months. It had been months, hadn’t it, since he used his VA benefits for 18 hour a day nurse care?
“It doesn’t look good, Miss. There’s not much longer I’m afraid. It’s almost time. Come now if you can.” If you can.
“I live a thousand miles away.” I walk to the fridge and pull out the milk, pour a generous amount into my cup of coffee.
“I understand, Miss.”
***
Over the next week I call everyday. Sometimes multiple times. I do it each time I get an update that makes me want to vomit from guilt.
Patient coughed up his breakfast.
Patient won’t let us bathe him.
Patient is being aggressive, it’s the medicine.
Patient is talking about his granddaughter.
Everything was progressing. I search my phone again for flights but never hit the book button.
Another call comes just a couple days later as I get ready for work.
“Please prepare yourself. He can’t speak anymore, it’s too hard for him. You can listen to him breath if you’d like.”
I let out a choke of a yes and she puts the phone to his mouth. I listen to his rattly inhales and exhales until she puts the phone back to her ear.
“A priest is coming soon. Your grandfather requested it last month. For when this time came.”
“Can you call me when they come?”
“Of course, Miss.”
It was too late to visit now. I crawl back into bed and pull the blankets taught to my collarbone. I sob without letting any tears fall and wait for the phone to ring again. Ten minutes later, it does.
“The priest is here. He’s talking to your grandfather and I’m watching him smile. There’s a song on the radio and your grandfather, he blinks his eyes on beat. He’s happy.”
“That’s great.” I tell her, a half smile grazes my lips.
“Want me to stay on the phone with you, Miss?”
“Please,” I tell her.
I sit in my bed and listen to the breathing of his nurse, the lightly recognizable words of the priest, a subtle beat coming from a faraway stereo.
Soon, silence.
“He’s gone, Miss. I’m sorry.”
“Oh.” I swallow bile as she speaks. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there.”
“He loved you very much. He had a picture of you right next to his chair in the living room. He saw you everyday.”
I hang up and wipe my eyes. Time is now passing without him and will continue to. I will go on with my day, with my life.
I open the app on reflex and hit refresh, curious what the last note will say.
I smile and close it. I’ll keep it just between us.
Thea Roslin earned her MFA in Fiction in 2015 and now resides in Jacksonville, Florida, alongside her husband and young son. Though she currently calls Florida home, her roots trace back to New Hampshire. Her literary journey has led her to the pages of publications like Every Day Fiction, Cold Creek Review, The Henniker Review, and Six Word Short Stories.
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