The early morning sunlight streaked across the worn braided rug and glanced off the man's nearly bald head. His pajama clad body slumped against the restraints crisscrossed around his chest-restraints holding him upright in the cold sterile wheelchair. A soft pillow under each elbow helped cushion his wasted arms. Droplets of moisture on his upper lip glistened in the warm sunlight as he strained against the spongelike straps that held his thin wrists to the arms of the chair. His legs twisted around each other, constantly moving and jerking, beating a rhythmic tattoo on the carpet. His head lolled to one side, low guttural groans escaping from his drooling mouth.
"Just be patient, dear. Breakfast is almost ready. I'll be there soon." The slight, stooped white-haired figure stood at the stove, stirring oatmeal. She shut off the burner and began to fill a bowl with the hot cereal. "All done. Just the way you like it."
Her hands shaking, she set the bowl of cereal on the dining room table. Pulling a chair up next to her husband, she sat and began feeding him. Towel in hand, her eyes remained on his mouth while she spooned the cereal in, catching the dribbles with the edge of the towel as they ran down his chin. Spoon- wipe- spoon- wipe- never once looking into his eyes, nervously keeping up a steady commentary on anything that came to mind. She talked about the weather, the local news, national news, even the losing streak of the sox.
"Very good, dear. You got most of it into you today. Much better." She stood and turned away from his angry, resentful eyes, twisting the towel in her hands as tears started, thinking. I can't bear to look in his eyes. He's so angry with me. He's beginning to hate me, I know.
The bright sunshine now filled the room and she thought how deceiving it was. How cheerful and bright it made everything look, but she knew better. Ever since the stroke, his rage and frustration at her had grown. She knew the reason. The Promise. The promise they had made to each other when they were young and full of life, when she had watched him suffer so during the seemingly unending, pain filled last year of his father's life.
The pain in her chest never hurt as much as the pain she felt from his growing anger. What was she to do? She just couldn't bear to think of life without her husband.
The doorbell jolted her from her gloomy thoughts. She tossed the towel down on the table and hurried to the door. A young woman stood there, dressed in white.
"Susan. I'm so glad you could come early today," she smiled, putting on her coat. "My doctor's appointment is at eight. I should be back in time to help you with his bath. He's already had breakfast. Finished it all today."
Susan greeted the woman and walked into the dining room.
"Well, sounds like you're doing better. Don't glare at me like that. Wait until we get going on your exercises, then you can get as mad as you want. A little anger always helps then." The woman watched as Susan wheeled her husband into the family room.
The Doctor sat behind his desk, drumming his fingers on her chart, staring down at the words he had written.
"You'll have to make a decision soon. You're not well enough to care for him any longer. He'll have to go to a nursing home."
"I can't do that to him." She sat on the edge of the chair, hands clenched tightly in her lap.
"But your heart is just too weak. The diabetes is taking its toll on you. He could live another ten years, but you could have a coronary at any time. What's going to happen to him when you're not there?"
"I won't - I can't …even think about putting him in a nursing home!"
"You have to think about it. You don't have long, maybe a few months. Less if you continue to over exert yourself."
"I'll think it over." She stood and started to leave. "By the way," she paused and turned back, "I need another prescription for insulin. I've run out." She waited while he scribbled on his pad.
"I'll call you tomorrow and let you know what I've decided." Her trembling hand reached for the paper. The doctor nodded, not quite meeting her eyes.
She stood at the foot of the bed, staring at her husband. Susan had helped get him in bed as she did every night for the past six months. She wouldn't have been able to care for him if it hadn't been for Susan. Susan had become the daughter they never had. Well, after tonight, she wouldn't need Susan any longer. Slowly, the woman walked over to her husband's side of the bed, leaned down and kissed him on the lips.
"I remember the promise," she whispered. This time she looked deeply into his eyes. The anger faded. The rage was gone. His eyes locked with hers. A crooked, half smile touched his lips. She pushed up his pajama sleeve and gave him the injection. Then she went around to her side of the bed and crawled in beside him. She reached out and turned the light off. Tucking the blanket around them both, she curled up close to him.
"Remember the time we . . . "
Mary Jane Newell has been writing for the last ten years or more. Many of her stories have been published online and in small magazines. Her stories are sometimes fraught with horror, but her poems are hilarious!
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