“You hate hospital coffee.”
“It’s not for me.”
“You hate when I drink hospital coffee.”
“Tessa.”
“What?”
“I need fifteen minutes.”
I studied him.
“Are you hiding something?”
“Yes.”
I blinked.
I hadn’t expected honesty.
“For who?”
“For you.”
“That makes absolutely no sense.”
“It will later.”
I hated that answer.
But Marcus had lost almost every form of independence by then.
He needed help showering.
I cut his food.
I drove everywhere.
I managed his medication.
If he wanted fifteen private minutes with his doctor, I decided he deserved them.
So I left.
It happened three more times.
Once with Dr. Malik.
Once with a hospital social worker.
Once with both of them and a woman from legal services.
Each time, Marcus refused to tell me why.
And each time, I let him keep it.
Marcus died eleven days later.
It happened at the hospital shortly before sunrise.
I was sitting beside him.
Denise was on the other side of the bed.
Marcus had been unconscious for several hours.
At 5:42 a.m., the monitor changed.
A nurse came in.
Then another.
Someone touched my shoulder.
Someone said his name.
I remember almost none of it.
I remember Denise screaming.
I remember pressing my forehead against Marcus’s hand.
