Forever and For Always

Kat pulled the blinds a little further apart and squinted out. Behind her the nurse coughed softly,

"You can open the shades, if you want, Mrs. Herschman."

"Oh, no," she smiled, "I don't think he likes it..." Judy (strange how all the nurses seemed to be named "Judy") nodded and slipped out of the room. Kat went back to her squinting. For three days she hadn't moved from the chair next to the hospital bed. Now, for some strange, odd reason she didn't want to turn around. It was safer to stare out the window.

Kat had always played it safe. Phil never had. He lived life like tomorrow was something he was guaranteed. He had done that when they started dating. Kat had fought it tooth and nail. Phil didn't care. She'd turn him down and he'd show up anyway. She'd say "no" and he'd act like she had just said "yes." She remembered one night he had borrowed his dad's Cadillac and taken her to Rudy's Rally, the drive-in restaurant. She had ordered a salad. Salads were safe date foods... you didn't want your boyfriend thinking that you were expensive or (worse still!) fat. Yes, a salad with low-fat dressing was safe. Philip had looked right at her and said,

"You don't like low-fat dressing." This was true. "Waiter! A large chocolate malt and cheese fries." And she hadn't eaten her salad that night.

She smiled. He was always doing that. Looking right through her facade and destroying it. Finding what she was scared of, finding what she wanted, and then reaching out and grabbing it for her.

The monitor behind her beeped. She turned around. Quickly. Strange how easily her eyes read the screen- it had become a habit. She walked over to the bedside. Sat down. Ken would be back soon. She remembered the day that Ken had been born. Philip had cried. He always stoutly protested any other record crying, but that day he never argued about.

"I'm a dad. I'm a dad! Look, honey! Wow. I'm a dad!" He had stood with her in the hospital three more times after that. And had pushed swings, tightened training wheels, spanked, kissed, built treehouses for, and taught all four how to drive a stick shift.

She picked up his fingers and entwined her in his. Those folds of skin that she had once seen on her grandma she now saw on her own hands. A thin, blue vein of Phil's pulsed under her thumb. She caught herself holding her breath, waiting for each pulse.

There had been that time when he had come home, gray, drawn, and collapsed in the faded easy chair. She didn't even ask. Sitting on the arm of the chair she held his hand. Felt his pulse. And prayed. Prayed that somewhere there would be a job for her brilliant, hardworking husband. Prayed that he would find it soon. Prayed that the electricity would not go off. Prayed she could find food for all four children. It had pulsed under her hand when her mother died, and all she could do was draw one breath after another. The dull throb in the hand that held hers kept her sane. Kept her from crying.

Automatically she reached forward and brushed a piece of hair off his forehead. Phil had always said that he would never go bald. And he hadn't. Not completely. She grinned when she thought about that first day when she had told him she saw a shine on the crown of his head. He had looked at her solemnly and said,

"Woman, there is no shine. Would you like to know why? Because on the day there starts to be shine you shall start to have wrinkles." From that day forth there was no mention of shine. Or wrinkles.

Forty-eight years. She had starched and mended his dress shirts, made his dinner, soothed his anger. For forty-eight years her life had been entertaining co-workers and employees at every Christmas party, cleaning the house, and making sure that his socks were put away in their color-coded positions. There had always been tacos on Friday, because he loved tacos. She had painted their bedroom blue, although she hated blue, because Phil liked that color. Forty-eight years of no onions in her baked beans (Phil didn't like onions) and calling him to make sure he didn't miss his dentist appointments. Forty-eight years of watching the "Charlie Brown Christmas" with the traditional carmel corn and commercial tickling breaks. Forty-eight years of waking up every Sunday morning to the buzz of his razor. Forty-eight years of pretending to laugh at his horrible jokes and corny puns. Forty-eight years of tears, laughter, and fights. She had spent forty-eight years telling him to never wear his brown belt with his black pants, and he had spent forty-eight years "forgetting."

For forty-eight years her life had been Phil. And his had been her, Kat. Hand-in-hand they had walked. Like friends. Constantly straining towards the same goal. She remembered the day before their wedding,

"Kat, I want to stand by you. With you. I want to grow with you, serve with you, share with you."

And he had.

The monitor beeped again, but her eyes still looked at Phil. He was so handsome. She had never stopped thinking that. Not ever. Even with the ventilator in...

"Mom?" She turned. "Mom, it's time. Are you ready?" She wanted to scream. Cry. Yell. But she didn't. She stood slowly. Nodded. Then turned to her husband.

"Phil, I'll love you- forever and for always. Forever and for always. Always."

Ken led her out of the room, closing the door softly.

The nurse and doctor entered, quietly. The nurse looked to the doctor. He nodded. Glanced at the wall clock and then his file,

"And we are suspending life support for a Mr. Philip Herschman at... 3:28 p.m."

3:34 p.m. the monitor stopped. Forever and for always.