“He’s resting,” she said. “He doesn’t need a scene.”
I could have pushed past her. I was his wife. But her hand was shaking, nurses were glancing over, and I thought of Russell hearing raised voices through the wall.
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I sat in the hallway for three hours. When she left for coffee, I slipped into his room. Russell looked paler than the sheets.
He squeezed my hand.
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“Don’t fight them,” he whispered. “Just trust me.”
I told him I did not care about the house.
“I know,” he said. “That’s why.”
I thought there would be time to ask what he meant. There was not.
The day before he died, he asked for the blue blanket from home. I brought it folded over my arm and found Marlene arranging flowers near the sink, throwing away lilies before they had opened.
For one second, she looked less cruel than simply exhausted. Then she saw me, and the hardness returned. Russell slept through most of that afternoon. I sat beside him, counting breaths instead of tips, wishing for any bargain that could buy us one more month. When he woke, he only touched my wrist, as if reminding himself that I was real.
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