LISA
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"We n-need to say … all … the things th-that need to be s-said," Rosé whispers a few minutes after Jennie leaves.
I grip the side of the bed until my hands go numb and my head feels too heavy to lift. "We have time." My denial is childish, but this crippling helplessness makes me feel like a child. Where are my mother's arms when I need them? Can I hide under the bed until this nightmare ends?
For the past few days, during her short coherent moments between morphine doses, she's asked me to say all the things that need to be said. If I don't say them, then she won't die. That's my new level of reasoning because it's worked thus far. I don't say it. She lives.
She's in pain …
"Lisa …"
"Don't say it." My voice cracks like my heart—like my soul.
"Just … h-hold me."
The anger inside builds until I can't find a breath, until my ears ring, until I can barely see through the tears blurring the life that's slipping away from me.
I'm. So. Fucking. Angry.
And I don't know who or what is to blame. Rosé is a better person than I am—times infinity. The morning of the day Tara died, I'm sure she said all the right things, did all the right things. Rosé never leaves things unsaid because she knows every second matters. She's practiced in losing part of her heart while holding on to her dignity and doing the right thing. That's not me.
I don't want to hold her until she stops breathing.
I don't want to give her permission to die.
I don't want to tell her that I'll be okay.
No.
I want to beat my fists into the wall until they bleed.
I want to yell and give the whole goddamn world the middle finger—the biggest fuck-you ever.
I want to kiss her until she's no longer just herself, until we are one, and I can fight this for her.
Breathe for her.
Beat for her.
Live for her.
"B-be mad."
Her words lift my head, and I turn it a fraction as if to confirm I heard her correctly.
"Be mad, Lisa." It's a whisper, barely even a breath, but I hear her. I understand her.
Tiny muscles in my face twitch as I clench my jaw and fight the burning in my eyes.
Be mad, Lisa.
Grabbing the lamp on my nightstand, I hurl it across the room. "FUUUCK!" It shatters. My chest heaves with heavy breaths. My heart rages. Next, I punch the wall a half dozen times, "IT'S. SO. GODDAMN. UNFAIR!" until it's cracked and stained with my blood.
Rosé blinks and a single tear trails down her cheek as her lips quiver.
My face scrunches while a sob chokes me. Pointing toward the door, I shake my head. "It's not okay. It might be okay for her." I jab my finger signifying Jennie. "But it's not okay for me. It will never be okay. So don't ask me to say okay. Don't ask me to say goodbye. Don't ask me t-to …" I grimace from the pain in my chest as I press my palms to the side of my head.
"I l-love you too," she says, closing her eyes and shaking with emotion. "A-and I … I'm s-scared."
I freeze. Shocked by her confession. Stunned.
She can't even begin to understand how much I've needed to hear this. Her strength has made me feel so weak. Her acceptance has made me feel ungrateful.
My wife is dying, and it's awful. I need it to be awful. That is the only thing that is okay with me. I can only accept the truth.
It's unimaginable.
It's cruel.
It's wrong.
It's harrowing.
It's tragic.
Her death holds no purpose.
I will never be okay with it. There might not be a light at the end of this tunnel. And I can't imagine there will come a day that my heart won't feel severed, a day it won't bleed, a day that I will accept this.
In the next breath, I'm at her side, pulling her into my arms as I kiss her head.
With a single light on us, I slide into bed next to her and hold her so tightly I fear I might break her frail body. I know I can't keep death from prying her from my hold, but it doesn't stop me from trying.
I breathe in the floral scent of the lotion I've applied to her skin for weeks and the faint vanilla from the lip balm.
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Several hours later, she shifts in my arms, moaning a bit. I feel her pain. I hate her pain so much.
"Do you need more for the pain?" I whisper, kissing her forehead.
She doesn't open her eyes, she just mumbles something.
"What, babe?" I lift onto one elbow and adjust the pillow under her head. "Better?"
"The rabbit … don't go." Another painful moan.
I narrow my eyes at her mumbling. "Are you having a dream? Are you awake?" I kiss her forehead over and over again, unsure of what to do for her—unsure of what to do with the fear clawing at my chest.
She stills and I still with her.
No. No. No …
Then her lips part and she draws in a breath—a sharp but shallow breath like she's been holding it.
I exhale too, feeling relieved. "Don't scare me like that." I kiss the corner of her mouth, lingering for seconds.
Again, she moans. It's been this way for too long. In and out. Dancing with death. What a terrible dance it is.
She's suffering …
This isn't love. I'm holding on too tightly, and it's killing her slowly. This isn't … love.
So I say it. I say what I think one is supposed to say if they truly love someone. "It's okay, baby." I swallow hard as more tears fill my burning eyes. "You can go," I whisper in her ear. "You … can … go …"
Another moan. I hate it. HATE. IT!
If God wants her so badly, then why doesn't he just take her?
For another hour I hold her, listening to her shallow breaths, one foot in this life and one in the next. She gurgles a bit. Fucking death rattle.
I sit up and stare at the bottle of sublingual morphine on her nightstand. It's been hours. She needs more. I don't want her in pain. No more pain.
No.
More.
Pain.
I fill the syringe.
My shaky hand moves the syringe to her lips, the tip of it disappearing between the crease, and I slowly press the plunger.
I start to set the syringe on the nightstand, but I stop. Rosé taught me patience, but she also taught me mercy. Refilling the syringe, more tears blur my vision.
I love her. I love her this much. I am her rock. These same words loop in my head as I give more … and more … as I give her mercy.
I lie next to my wife for the last time, and that time vanishes as I listen to her heart beat until … it doesn't.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
I feel nothing.
"Baby?" I press my hand to her cheek.
She doesn't move.
A silent panic snakes up my spine, wrapping itself into a noose around my neck. I rest my ear on her chest.
And I wait.
I wait for a beat.
I wait for a breath.
Five.
Six.
Seven.
Eight.
I wait.
I did this. I did it for her. I was her rock, even in death. "I love you," I whisper. "I love you this much."
This rock is broken.
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