Another time, a housekeeper came in humming while she changed the trash bag.
“Morning, Lila,” he said. “That song again?”
She laughed.
“My mama loved it, Tom.”
“I know.”
She paused. “You remembered?”
He only smiled.
“My mama loved it, Tom.”
That was Thomas.
At least, that was who I thought he was.
A kind dying man.
A lonely one.
***
On the fourth day, he asked me to marry him.
“Marry me, Sarah,” he whispered.
I froze beside his bed with a cup of ice chips in my hand.
On the fourth day, he asked me to marry him.
“Thomas…”
“I know.”
“You’re very sick.”
“Yes.”
“We barely know each other.”
He looked at me for a long moment.
“I know enough.”
“Enough for marriage?”
“Enough to know you’re the kind of person who stays.”
“We barely know each other.”
Two days later, a chaplain married us in Thomas’s hospital room.
I wore a yellow sweater because Thomas said it made the room look less tired.
He wore the same cardigan with one missing button.
A nurse asked me if I was sure. She said Thomas was old enough to be my grandfather.
I just said yes.
Because my heart had answered before my mind could.
Thomas was old enough to be my grandfather.
When the chaplain asked for rings, Thomas lifted his soda can, worked the pull tab loose with thin fingers, and slid it onto mine.
It was too big.
He laughed softly.
“We’ll pretend your finger is shy.”
For seven days, I was his wife.
“We’ll pretend your finger is shy.”
I signed forms.
Adjusted blankets.
Smuggled in better tea.
Sat beside him when pain made his breathing shallow.
Once, near the end, he opened his eyes and said, “Don’t mistake stillness for peace.”
“What does that mean?”
“Don’t mistake stillness for peace.”
His smile was faint.
“You’ll know.”
Then he slept.
He never woke up.
***
And the green backpack sat open at my feet like a map with no roads.
I didn’t open the notebook that night.
He never woke up.
I took the backpack home, set it on my kitchen table, and walked around it for almost two hours.
The apartment felt too quiet.
My mother’s mug still sat near the sink, though she had been gone nearly a year.
I had never moved it.
I told myself it was because I wasn’t ready.
I took the backpack home.
At midnight, I opened another envelope.
Airport.
Inside was a boarding pass from nine years earlier.
On the back: “He called his daughter from Gate 14.”
Then Laundromat.
A dryer sheet folded into a square.
“We both waited for the blue blanket. She said it still smelled like home.”
At midnight, I opened another envelope.
