Hank's Devotion

Wrists resting on cold metal armrests, his derriere sticking to the gray vinyl seat, Hank snoozes. An air purifier on the bed stand whirs quietly, creating a welcome white noise. Two bouquets of cut flowers, one with only red and pink roses, the other one with freesia in the same hues, exude a light scent. The overhead lights off, Hank has fallen asleep reading his iPad by lamplight.

Pale pink sheets offset Sage green walls accented by cream baseboards and trim. Freshly cut grass and a faint gasoline odor from the lawnmower wake him from his nap.

His iPad's black case is stickered with miniature photos of pets, children, friends, family, and Dilbert cartoons. As he starts to open it, a ladybug lands and begins a slow march across it, then spreads its wings and lands on the bed next to him. Observing his favorite insect, Hank is lost in memories. Bird songs and sounds of vehicles passing on the street blend with the rustling of trees outside the window and occasional light snoring from the bed next to his chair.

Hank's peripheral vision is finely attuned to Mattie, so he sees immediately when she opens her eyes. A soft breeze from the open window gently flutters pale pink curtains and blows strands of graying hair across her cheek. He scoots the chair close and tenderly brushes the hair from her cheek. Her eyes crinkle with her smile, and a dimple at the corner of her lips peeks out. One soft, delicate, and faintly liver-spotted hand covers his hand, squeezing it.

Hank lifts her hairbrush from the table, raises his eyebrows, and waits. Mattie nods slightly and makes a feeble attempt to turn onto her side. The IV tube interferes with movement; her aching body screams in protest. Frustrated, she groans inwardly, throwing a forearm across her eyes, and lies back.

Hank sits on the edge of her bed and brushes her hair in long, even strokes, smoothing and caressing it, calming her, then sets the brush down. Taking her left hand, he massages the palm, the thumb pad, and the sides of each finger, stretching them and the bowl of her palm gently.

**His hands are so strong and gentle. My God, he is hitting all the right spots...heaven, he knows what I need, my Hank.

***

Hank moves to her right hand, then notices her toes wriggling under the lightweight blanket. On top of the blanket, he squeezes her feet for a few minutes, finally uncovering the right one. His strong hands grip her foot, which looks small in his broad grip. He examines the bruised toe, a collision with a doorframe. He stretches the foot, and kneads pad, careful of the injured toe, using gentle massage strokes.

I miss my reflexology clients. Hank’s touch is perfect; he could get certified. Such a soothing touch and presence...

Hank stretches her left foot, pushing reflexology points, as he did on her right; he strokes the groove on top of the ankle and runs his fingers between the bones of the instep, toward her toes, stimulating her immune system. She dozes again from the relaxing treatment; Hank tucks her foot under the coverlet.

So much pain for my love; I want to ease it, not add more. I love you, my Mattie!

***

Mattie awakens as Hank places a pillow under her knees. He reaches under the covers to knead her calves, intently watching her. Their affection floats, filling the room in a tangible current of love. The scene in the room grabs a nurse's attention. She stops at the edge of the doorway, unseen by its occupants.

She sees the curtain fluttering, hears a Robin sing from the enormous Oak tree outside. Faintly, notes by a street musician of "This Magic Moment" by The Drifters can be heard coming from the park across the street. The nurse watches the man massage the patient's legs through the coverlet; lying on the bed, her lips are parted slightly and she sighs in the pleasure frequently heard from bed-ridden people during massage therapy. The man's cheeks are rounded by his grin; the patient's eyes crinkle above her dimples and gleaming white teeth.

Quietly passing, the nurse moves to the far end of the hall where the nurse's station bustles with activity.

***

Hank scoops a few ice chips into Mattie's mouth from the cup. As she noisily sucks on them, Hank takes a lip balm from the table stand and twists the tiny silver tin open. Using his pinkie finger, he rubs it back and forth across the balm, inhaling its faint citrus fragrance. Satisfied that he has enough to cover Mattie’s chapped and dry lips fully, he moves closer. Her blue eyes follow all the movements of his fingers. He leans in, and her chin lifts to hold his eye contact. As he kisses her forehead, her eyes close in quiet bliss, inhaling the faint orange scent, surrendering to his tender ministrations on her lips. Her tongue flicks them lightly when he is finished; satisfied, she gives him a thumbs-up.

A heavy food cart moving past Mattie’s room envelopes the two in aromas of turkey and gravy, hot tea, cinnamon, and freshly brewed coffee. Mattie looks at the enormous clock on the wall facing her, and on cue, her stomach growls. Hank bursts out laughing, as she puts her hands over her stomach, grinning.

Hank closes the door to her room, silencing all the hallway noises.

Since he knows it will be awhile before food reaches his wife, he removes its silver wrap and places a Hershey Kiss in her mouth; another and another, four in total. She raises her eyebrows and holds out her hand, so he sets one into her palm; he watches as she slowly unwraps it, then places the Kiss on the tip of her tongue, wiggling it at him. Reaching up, she grabs the back of his head, pulling him to her, into the game they play. As he tries to take the Kiss, she wiggles her tongue away, his seeking the chocolate. Soon there is brown chocolate sludge on her lips, down her neck, some dripped on the front of her t-shirt (she refuses to wear hospital garb).

Hank licks her lips, then passes a Kiss from his tongue to hers. He licks the chocolate from her neck, then wipes her down with a dampened paper towel. Her chest moves gently as she attempts to hold the laughter, wanting to control the pain laughter incurs.

Mattie runs her tongue over her teeth, and Hank sees her upper lip poof out with the movement. She opens her arms wide, holding them toward him, all dimples and eye crinkles. Her husband lays his head on her chest. Mattie strokes the fine gray hair, breathes in scents she loves - the scents of Hank - his cologne and shampoo, the light scent of his skin. She moves her hands to his upper back and gently pats it as she had done to calm her babies.

They rest together, listening to the sounds outside, a faint chocolate aroma emanating between them.

Hank squeezes his eyes tightly, then ever so slowly moves a finger to wipe away tears secretly, never wanting Mattie to feel his fear or despair of a future without her.