My Husband's Last Visit

My husband was such a wonderful man. The kind of man that would give any hitchhiker a ride. Even if they were sporting a two-headed ax and covered in blood, he'd say, "Honey, you can't judge a book by its cover, no matter how bad it looks." It was one of the things I always loved about him.

That and his tenacity. That man would take on any challenge head on. Didn't matter if he knew what he was doing, or if he was completely clueless. My husband was Johnny on the spot. He'd be there with bells on.

I'm pretty sure it was that tenacity and his loving heart that kept him by my side when schizophrenia finally took over. For many years, I was a normal, functional adult, for the most part. I had small spurts of deep psychosis. Times when I was so lost in the hallucinations and delusions that I couldn't actually tell them apart from reality. He was there for me then, too. Never left my side. Not willingly, anyway.

As a matter of fact, they practically had to pry him off of me this last time I was committed. I know he cried, after I left that day. I knew even before he told me. He always hid his sadness or fear behind a stone mask of false bravado and stood facial expressions, but I knew the truth. When he set his jaw in that way he had, I knew.

I always admired that about my husband. Unlike most men, he didn't hide his feelings to conceal his weakness or to impress his friends. He simply didn't believe that anyone should be privy to his secret heart of hearts, save me, that is. My husband was never secretive with me. Once we were alone, he'd spill his guts and let me help him pick up the pieces.

Even before my husband took up an interest in Old Norse history and culture, I'd considered myself to be his shield maiden. My job was to watch his back, always. To protect his weak spots in battle. To warn him when an enemy came too close, and to kill those who were within the reach of my blade.

One day, we were out at a local craft fair. There were all kinds of stands with a plethora of unique items for sale. One of those stands housed handmade wrought-iron pieces. Everything from necklaces to statues took up the inside of the makeshift tent. A particular necklace caught my eye. It was a round, wrought-iron shield. A Simple, yet beautiful piece. I bought it while my husband was drifting around another stand nearby, and slipped it around his neck when he wasn't looking.

"Whoa! What's all this, then?" He asked, lifting the shield for a closer inspection.

"Just a little token of my affection. Do you know how much I love you?"

He smiled. "More than you should."

I smiled back. "Always."

It was a couple of weeks after that when he mentioned to me that he had stumbled across the notion of a shield maiden and that it made him think of me, and the necklace. I laughed and asked, "Why do you think I bought it in the first place?"

He smiled at me and patted the necklace. The love in his eyes, and the warmth of his smile melted my heart. When I saw the tears well up in his eyes, I could barely keep my own at bay. "I love you," he said, just above a whisper, in a voice that trembled with emotion.

"I love you, too."

That necklace became my husband's security blanket, in a way. He never took it off, except to shower, and he always wore it proudly on his chest; only tucking it into his shirt at work because of their stupid dress code.

He'll die wearing that necklace, I used to think to myself as I watched him cherish my gift. He'd rub it, almost like a worry stone, when he was nervous or upset, and sometimes he would just look at it and smile. I don't know if he knew that I'd witnessed those moments or not, but I will always treasure those memories.

He was wearing that necklace the last time he came to visit me. I smiled when I saw it. It reminded me that, no matter what, I was always his shield maiden. Despite my flaws, he still wanted me to watch his six. Just as I was, wearing that ugly hospital gown and hearing voices, he still trusted me with everything that he had. He still wanted me with all his heart and soul.

We weren't supposed to kiss or hug each other, according to the hospital's rules, but my husband didn't care. He gripped me up in a bear hug and kissed me until I felt dizzy. It felt so good to be that close to him. To smell his cologne and feel the day's stubble on his cheek. I was home, if only for a moment.

After that, we sat down at a nearby table. We discussed things at home (or the lack thereof since all our children were grown). We talked about my treatment plan and the possibility of my release. At one point, we just sat there, intently staring into each other's eyes. Our lips didn't move, but more was said in that moment than in any conversation we could have had.

Joey wandered into the room, towards the end of the visiting hour. I knew he was having one of those days because he'd been pacing the halls all day muttering to himself. I could never quite catch what he said to himself, but the way he used to stare at the other patients caused ice cold ants to march up my spine.

"Hey, Joey," my husband said, waving at the younger man.

Joey paused, pulled the headphones down from his head and said, "Hi," in an awkward tone. He put the headphones back up and continued shuffling around the room.

"Is he all right?" my husband asked.

I shrugged. "I have no rightful idea, but I can tell you this," I said, leaning in so I could lower my voice, "I don't trust him at all. He scares the crap outta me."

My husband looked in Joey's direction. "I don't know," he said, "he seems harmless enough to me."

Just then, Joey zipped around the table between he and my husband and grabbed my husband by the collar. "I know what you are, man! I know what you are!"

"Joey!" I cried, jumping to my feet so fast, I sent the flimsy chair flying. "No!" I screamed that last as loudly as I could. Surely someone would come running. A nurse. Security. Hell, even another patient. Just someone that could help us.

"Easy, man. Take it easy, Joey," my husband said calmly. He put his hands up. "I ain't here to hurt you, man."

"Like Hell you aren't!" Joey screamed in my husband's face. Then he spun around behind my husband and grabbed the necklace. He pulled it tight and twisted it around his fingers. The string dug into my husband's neck, choking him immediately.

"Joey, please!" I shrieked, taking a step forward.

Joey pulled harder on the string. The look in his eyes said it all. My husband was dead, and I would be next, if I didn't act quickly.

I bolted for the door and ran into the hallway so fast I slid around the corner, barely keeping my feet under myself. It only took me ten or fifteen seconds to get a security guard and race back to that room, but it was ten or fifteen seconds too many.

My husband was dead at Joey's feet. Joey sneered when he saw me and then lunged in my direction. The guard, Sam, intercepted him, slamming him to the floor so hard that something cracked. Joey screamed and started thrashing in pain and rage. Sam dove on top of him again, driving him all the way to the floor and pinning him.

I ran to my husband, the world falling further away with each step. I could faintly hear Sam calling someone on his radio, but it sounded as if it were underwater. I was disconnecting from reality. I could feel it slipping away from me with each passing second. Before long, I was completely lost in a world that didn't exist, while my husband went to his grave, alone.

It's been many years since my husband's last visit. I haven't heard the voices in a long time. None but his. But, I won't tell the staff that. I'll keep up the façade until I draw my final breath. After all, how could I leave my husband? He never left me.