Ending #5

In which we find the fifth (and probably final) installment of an ending for something that has not been written.

David says that he is comfortable, that this is a good way for things to end. "I was glad we got to go to London," he says as though we'd been there yesterday and not several months ago right before things turned bad. "Could you move the vase off of the windowsill?"

Annie, our older sister, had sent the flowers--a bouquet of bright blooms that she hoped would add some light to the room. I lift the vase and set it beside the picture of Mom and Dad. "You need anything to eat or drink?" I ask.

"Not now," he says. He struggles to get his arm untangled from the IV. He doesn't want me to help with such things, but we both know that in a few days he won't be able to do it alone. "Is Terri coming by today?"

Terri is the head hospice nurse. "Yeah. In a little while. It's still early." He trusts Terri more than he trusts anyone else, even me. I can't blame him for that. Terri is a short, thin brunette, characteristics my brother has always sought in women. I'm usually here all night while Terri and her crew take over in the morning until I can return about lunchtime. Someone called in sick this morning, though, so I'm covering for a few hours until Terri can get here.

"I've lived a good life, you know," he says. "I'm happy with how things turned out, overall." He laughs. "Well, not with this part, but everything before this."

I sit down again and stay silent. I'm never sure of when I should talk. Terri told me that I should let David guide how each day goes. Sometimes we nap at the same time, and when we do I remember how we had to share a bed for awhile when we were kids.

"One thing I would change," David says, "is not eating enough bagels."

"Bagels?" I ask. I'm sometimes not sure of it's him or the morphine drip talking.

"Yeah. Bagels. I always liked bagels. But when I was married to Cindy, she wouldn't buy them because she was so anti-carb, as though bread was the worst thing a person could eat. I let her win that fight because at the time I thought letting her win was important."

"You can eat bagels any time you want to, David."

"Like I said, I'm happy with how things turned out. I mean, I'd rather die with small regrets--like bagels--than die thinking I'd missed something major."

"That makes sense," I say, and I start mentally counting my regrets. Maybe that's what he wants me to do.

David has drifted off. He seems relaxed, and I walk to his side and wipe the moisture from the corners of his mouth. He looks so young, now--not my older brother, not someone who has suffered so much in the last year. I turn the lights off and shut the window blind most of the way so that only a bit of light shines through. Annie's flowers stay bright. I sit down again and listen to David's breathing, and I watch the regular drops of fluid that leave the IV bag and slide down the clear plastic tube.

In the notebook that Terri and I keep on the table beside the chair, I jot notes about how David was last night--if he ate anything, how he seems to be feeling. I know that things will get worse soon, that at some point David won't even know we're here. I hear mockingbirds in the trees outside. In the kitchen, ice cubes fall into the tray. I consider how things have gone these last 65 years, and I realize that, overall, and except for this, I'm happy with how things have turned out.