The nurse bends low to open the cabinet, looking for the extra package of little white paper disposable cups, the ones with the pleated sides — the kind you can’t buy anywhere. Which is OK because nobody would want them anyway, because they aren’t useful for anything. But this doesn’t stop hospitals from billing insurance companies inordinate amounts for generous supplies of them, only to store them in white cabinets where nurses search for them, so they can put pills into them, and watch patients like Kate try to choke the pills down their throat, and then throw the cups away.

“Two more, Mrs. Turner.” With the remote control, the nurse raises the back of the hospital bed. “There. Is that a little easier?”

Kate dumps the pills from the paper cup into her left hand.

It seems to Kate that if you are going to use this cup for pill taking, it would be better to put water into it rather than pills, even though it would probably hold no more than two tablespoons full. At least you would then have a chance — no more than one chance, mind you — to wet your throat enough to down those pills successfully. If not, your throat constricts in an involuntary spasm. And hopefully you haven’t just exhaled, whereby you wouldn’t have the necessary air in your lungs to carry out the reflex cough necessary to eject the pills, which now have the consistency of couch pillows, from your mouth and into your hand — if you are lucky enough to have a hand available, and not restrained by straps across your chest. Lucky for Kate, her freedom of movement is not that constricted, and her hands are free to roam to the brushed steel bars on the sides of the bed.

Kate feebly raises her hand to her mouth and feels the pills slide from the cup to her tongue. Thankfully, the nurse holds a glass, not a paper cup, of water to Kate’s lips. Kate forces a swallow. No Mount Vesuvius reaction from her throat muscles.

“There,” sings the nurse. “Just like a pro.”

Kate turns her head to get a better look at the nurse who is again searching the recesses of the cabinet, which seems to be a receptacle for anything that doesn’t have a label on it. The pink flower pattern on her navy blue uniform gives her a sort of banal childhood warmth — though the pants do nothing to help the appearance of her backside when she bends over. Kate guesses that her own backside looks the same way when she bends down. Though this is probably an irrelevant observation since she can’t seem to remember the last time she was out of bed. The nurse looks to Kate to be about fifteen years old.

“What’s your name?” asks Kate.

“I’m Helen, Mrs. Turner.”

Helen. Helen was such a darling grandbaby. But too skinny. Kate warned her daughter, Anne about this. More than once. Kate used every occasion possible to try to stuff extra nutrients into her granddaughter when she was young. But when Helen was in her teens, she started to put on too much weight. Kate warned her mother about this also, especially since Kate now had little proper occasion to enforce any kind of diet of her own, and since Helen talked about nothing else than her desire to be a nurse when she graduates from high school. To Kate, this only underscored the urgency of regimenting her intake of food — after all, doctors and nurses have to set an example.

“Are you my granddaughter?” asks Kate.

“No, Mrs. Turner. I’m not your granddaughter.”

Kate leans her head back and stares at the blank screen of the TV on the wall. “You were so cute when you were a baby. And so good in school. Look at you now.”

The nurse giggles. “I’m not your granddaughter, Mrs. Turner. But I do go to school. I have lots of homework.”

Kate is silent.

“But I would much rather be here with you, Mrs. Turner.”

Kate’s daughter Anne, Helen’s mother, was always a charmer — always coming up with excuses when she was young. Especially about homework. Kate had to remind Anne, daily to do her homework. Sort of like Kate’s regularly checking and re-lighting the pilot of their kitchen stove whenever it blew out — which was often, because of its placement near the back door. The stove was susceptible to almost any kind of draft that entered through the screen door on a breezy day, or when the door was opened, or slammed shut — usually Charlie coming in from the barn, or returning from an auction and unknowingly extinguishing the pilot light. Charlie was the man of the house, supposedly — though he never seemed to care if the house smelled like a natural gas refinery or might blow up at any second. Besides, he was never around when it was time for Anne to do her homework. It was always Kate who had to be the disciplinarian.

“Roll to one side, Mrs. Turner.”

Kate props her arm against the bed and turns her other shoulder toward the wall. Nurse Helen removes Kate’s pillow, fluffs it up and places it under her back and head. “Is that OK?”

Kate nods and continues to stare at the blank TV.

“Do you want me to turn on the television?”

Anne was always asking Kate if she could turn on the television — though she knew her homework was not done. Or even started. When baby Helen came along, Kate was worried that her daughter Anne would pass on her lack of discipline to her new child, which indeed seemed to be the case as Helen aged. She became a finicky eater, refusing most of what was placed before her. This no doubt resulted in the child being so thin.

“No.” Barely audible.

“If you need anything, remember to press the red button, right here.”

As Nurse Helen disappears through the doorway, Kate detects the distinct sound of stretching leather, coming from one of the nurse’s shoes — white and oversized, the kind of shoes you see only on nurses, or women who work in the Post Office — designed to give support for long periods of standing, or searching through cabinets or walking up and down hallways at night, glancing at the clock some three hundred times before your shift ends. The new saddle that Charlie bought Anne on her twelfth birthday had that sound — when Kate would tighten the latigo leather cinch strap, or when Anne would bend herself backward to get a foot into the stirrup from the ground, and hop along with the other foot as her horse, Sadie, twirled sideways while Anne was pulling herself up by the saddle horn. Kate can almost smell that wonderful scent of horses and barns — and hay laying in rows in the field on a humid day before a thunderstorm. And freshly washed clothes as she hangs them on the line.

It’s a wonder how. Kate reaches up with her left hand to feel along the skin above her upper lip. Nothing but the callused sensation of the linen tape holding the oxygen tube to her nose. She runs the tip of her finger over the tape’s surface, a paper like substance which has the effect of shielding the sensory nerves of her skin from any possibility of detecting breath coming from her nostrils, or water dribbling from a glass tipped too much — or from the kiss from a lover. Not that she would have the need. The only lover she ever had was Charlie, and those days were in the past.

She pulls at the clear plastic tube leading from her nose, down her chest and under the blanket which seems to be wound, together with the tube, around her left leg. She feels it tighten as she pulls. She feels the air pressure pulse in her nostrils. No matter, since she is sure she could breathe fine without the tube. Maybe even better. But the paper tape which holds it has been there so long that the tube is virtually part of her anatomy. The tape is probably now holding her lips on.

Conversation gently floats from the nurses’ station, down the hall. The arrival of the night shift. Another night. It seems like the last one just ended. Hard to tell the night from the day anymore. The only difference is that the interruptions are less frequent. Like the slowing of the clicks of an egg timer after it has chimed.

It is such a waste to be lying in bed in the late evening. Evening is when the kids are finally in bed. Now is the only time in the day to catch up, to be gathering the dirty clothes from the kids’ room — and mopping all the tracks on the kitchen floor that Charlie incessantly deposits. His trail is always betrays his movements — countless trips to the refrigerator, around the corner to the pantry, back to the kitchen table. But he never leaves tracks on the rug in the dining room. Because he knows that Kate would just as soon slit his throat in his sleep, as have to apologize to Mrs. Aurelia when she pops in, uninvited — to tell Kate how much she was missed at the last three meetings of the Woman’s Missionary Union, or to ask if Kate has yet planned the menu for the Fall Tea, which is still three months away — all the while glancing around the room to examine Kate’s dining room table, china cabinet and carpet for the slightest hint of dereliction in the performance of the expected duties of a Christian housewife and mother.

Kate props herself into a sitting position and moves one leg over the side of the bed. She fights with the oxygen tube that is constantly stuck beneath her. The bed sheet is now wound around her other leg. She reaches down to untangle it, her back muscles hurting, yet calmingly reassured by the experience of some form of movement which approximates normal activity. She is unable to reach the lower part of her leg.

“What are you doing, Mrs. Turner?” A silhouette in the doorway.

“I need to get up.”

“You need to stay in bed, Mrs. Turner.”

“I need to go to the bathroom.”

“You have a catheter. You don’t need to go to the bathroom. Let me help you.” Nurse Helen unwraps the sheet from Kate’s leg and helps Kate lay back. “Do you want a blanket?”

Kate coughs a couple of times. She shakes her head.

The nurse pulls the sheet up to Kate’s mid-section, then changes one of the clear plastic liquid pouches hanging from the pole beside her bed.

Kate watches her study the equipment and write notes on a clip board hanging from the end of the bed. What a waste of time, energy and money. What could you possibly write about an old woman lying in a bed?

Kate closes her eyes. No noise from her shoes. Just the occasional rustling sound of cotton against cotton, or the clicks of a pen being laid on the desk — much like the sound of Charlie getting undressed late at night, trying not to wake Kate.

Finally, quiet settles in…

Kate listens for it… for the other sound.

And there it is. The barely audible, short beep of a monitor. It’s always there in the background, or so it seems — but mostly never heard. Until it’s quiet.

Beep.

A hospital noise. Not like the chirping of a bird, which might go unnoticed in the background. This is man-made. Some sort of byproduct of the electronic age. Alien…

Beep.

Never varying. But never predictable. It isn’t like the regular ticks of the antique clock that Charlie gave her. The ticking of that clock was predictable. Soothing. But this sound comes only when her mind drifts to other things. She is never able to tell precisely when the next sound will come. Counting seconds doesn’t help. No pattern. All she knows is that it will never come when she waits for it. Rather, it comes like the Chinese water torture that Charlie sometimes talked about. One drip at a time. Unpredictable. The unrelenting master of time. The electronic force that can bend time. Manipulate it. Draw it out. Like a claw that wraps around the mind, siphoning all other thought.

Beep.

It slows down the passing of time. There is no speeding it up. No changing its pattern. No stopping it.

Kate welcomes the muffled laugh of a nurse down the hall. But the silence again takes over. It will be like this…

Beep.

…for the next few hours, until it is time for her next set of pills. She closes her eyes…

Beep.

The sky is darkening again. The wind has a bit of a chill against her back. Where is Charlie? Probably fishing, down at the creek. Anne! Go get your dad, she yells. It’s going to storm! She pulls at the clothes pin above her head. The clothes on the line start to tangle. Panic begins to set in. She has to get the clothes off the line before the rain starts. The yellow shirt becomes more tangled around the clothes pin. Her arms are hurting as she struggles with the lines overhead. A dog barks in the distance. The clothes on the line are flapping. Charlie! Anne! Come and help me! No response. The yellow shirt tears as she yanks against the clothes line. The wind is colder. A branch from the big tree near her scratches against the window.

“I’m Sherry, Mrs. Turner.”

Kate opens her eyes.

“I will be the nurse on duty for tonight.” The woman has her back to Kate as she adjusts the monitors and tubes. “I’ll lower the back of the bed.”

The TV on the wall disappears from view.

The nurse turns again to the hospital equipment, jotting notes on the clip board.

Kate stares at the ceiling. She begins to count the rings holding the curtains that go around the bed. Two curtains. Thirteen rings, each. That totals twenty-six. Not twenty-four. Why would they make curtains with thirteen rings? Why not a dozen? She counts again. Thirteen rings each. She coughs. “Can I get a glass of water?” she asks.

No answer. The nurse has already left.

Beep.

Pulsing in Kate’s chest. She can feel her heart beating. She latches onto it as the only piece of her identity left to fight against the demon noise of the monitor. It seems that her life is now no more than this — an irregular, fragile heartbeat. But a telltale signature of life. Maybe the only one.

Beep.

Kate notices an echo of blood flowing in her ear, with each pump of her heart. How fragile is life. She wonders what will happen if the sound of the blood flowing past her ear drum no longer responds. Maybe that will be her release from the tyrannical driver of time, and its dreadful marker.

A new sound fills the background. Like bees in a cookie tin. She recognizes it as the TV in the next room. A late night movie? Charlie was always watching late night movies. Kate used to stay up with him. Especially when they were first married. Kate would lean into him, against the end of the couch. Sometimes they would listen to the radio. His arms enveloped her like a blanket. She felt warm and happy. Sometimes they kissed. And Charlie would say, Dance with me, Kate. In front of the TV, with the sound turned down and the radio playing soft melodies. Time would stand still. Charlie would lead Kate in a country waltz. Kate would drift into a dream world. They would float around the room in each other’s arms. Charlie would whisper, I love you, Kate.

Kate wakes, wheezing. More mucous fills her throat. She struggles for breath.

“Here. Take these. They will help you breathe.” Nurse Sherry slides her hand behind Kate’s back and sits her up.

Kate swallows the pills from the paper cup as the nurse holds water to her lips. Kate’s wheezing continues.

Nurse Sherry has the face of an angel. “Here. This is for you. I was going to leave them for the morning shift to give to you. But I think you need them now.”

Kate breathes heavily as she examines the flowers made of knitted yarn.

“I started them for my grandmother,” says Sherry. “But I was never able to give them to her.” She keeps smiling, but turns toward the window.

“Are these from Charlie?” asks Kate.

“No, Mrs. Turner. I made them for you.”

Kate holds the yarn bouquet against her chest.

“You must have loved Charlie very much,” says the nurse.

“He’s coming back.” Kate coughs.

Sherry gives her another sip of water.

“He had to run… some cattle down… to Omaha,” Kate continues. “He’ll be here next week.” Her every breath has a gurgling sound.

“Try to get some rest, Mrs. Turner.”

“He’ll be here next week,” Kate continues. She coughs again. “Maybe today.”

Kate’s labored breathing has replaced the relentless sound of the monitor. But time is not impacted. It continues to stretch between each breath. Kate’s dreams became more vivid. She smells the sweat of her mother as she sits at the table on a sweltering afternoon, peeling potatoes with her. A rooster crows.

A young orderly with a familiar face looks at her through the door. Kate stares at him, not hearing the consoling words that he is saying. He is slim and his legs bow a bit, just like Charlie’s.

The doctor on duty enters her room more often, asking the nurse questions.

Kate’s chest hurts as she breathes. She feels as if she is drowning, straining to separate air and water. She coughs. She wheezes. She hears her sister’s voice, faint in the distance. Kate! her sister calls. Lunch time! Kate gasps for air, trying to hold her head above the freezing water of the creek. How many times has her dad told her not to wade past the rocks? Her sister calls. Kate cries out her name. Emma! I love you! Kate’s head goes under. Her throat fills with water.

She coughs. The doctor is giving her a shot. “This will relax you, Mrs. Turner. You will breathe easier.”

A new monitor has been brought into the room. It makes a similar beeping noise, but in a steady rhythm. The sound grows louder in Kate’s head. Her life was never the same after Charlie left. At first she was angry. She went to Omaha, looking for him. Twice. After a few years, she realized that something bad must have happened to him. He would never have left her. He had promised that he was coming back.

Someone is playing a radio. At this hour. The scratchy voice turns to a melody that seems to repeat, over and over. A faint glow from the dark screen of the TV on the wall becomes more noticeable. She lays against the end of the couch, enveloped in arms that hold her close. She breathes easily as she hears the whisper of his words.

Dance with me, Kate.

She looks up at the form standing before her. The heels of his hastily polished cowboy boots have a sharp pitch to the outside from the awkward stress placed on them by his bowed legs. Her eyes land momentarily on her amateur sewing attempt to repair a torn flap on the left pocket of his corduroy sport jacket. She surveys his frame. Looking a little bit like a scare crow, he holds his cowboy hat in his hand with the discomfort of a teen on his first date. The crevices on his face have grown a little deeper, and his hair a little more silver. His eyes are a little more sunken, but as blue as the waves over a coral reef framed in aged leather. Those eyes. The sadness. The longing. They burn past her defenses as they always have.

“Charlie?”

He holds out his hand.

She sits still. “Charlie. Where have you been?”

His inviting eyes never leave hers. His hands hold themselves steady.

Her defenses have been traversed. She reaches and takes his hand. His rough skin is warm. The passing years have not changed the gentle strength of his hands. She feels weightless as he gently lifts her from the bed and leads her to the dance floor. It is then that she notices that the band is playing the waltz that brought them together fifty years ago.

“You asked them to play this,” she says.

She detects the same camouflaged smile that she remembered. The little sparkle in his eyes. The slightly pronounced line leading from his upper jaw. The little curve appearing at one side of his mouth.

His hand wraps around her extended palm like a fur lined mitten on a cold winter day. He gently places his right hand against her upper back.

Her heart beats so noticeably that she worries that her face betrays her unbridled emotions.

He leads with bold steps of awkward grace. Her body responds by reflex. The rhythm of the ballad has its effect. She is being carried to a dream land. In her last conscious act she looks into his eyes once again and sees a tear.

Copyright © 2015 David Lindstrom. All rights reserved.