To Hold Your Hand

In the end he decided not to wake her. Instead, he got up and walked towards the door, holding on to the wall as he did so. There was more coughing. He let his good ear lead him. 

Soledad, he whispered as he walks into the room. His voice was soft, as if he were afraid to wake someone sleeping. Soledad. The coughing stopped. He heard rustles of the sheets, accompanied by laboured wheezy breathing, as he groped his way towards the bed.

 Ato! Soledad let out, startled. Are you ok? she said, and he had to smile. It was almost funny how she sounded like she was coughing out barbed wire, and she was concerned about him.

I came to see you, he said. His knee touched the side of the bed. He stretched his arms out to grab a chair but Soledad yanked his arm down. Here, sit. And he did.

Why are you still awake? It’s late. She said.

You were coughing so much. I was worried. And Soledad smiled. He didn’t know how he knew, but he could tell.

I’m ok. Even as she said it her voice sounded hoarse and painful. Caught a chill, is all. I’m fine.

Where does it hurt? He asks.

She breathed heavily. There were nights in the earlier years of their marriage when he could remember feeling delight at the sound of hearing her breathing. It was amazing, he would always ponder, that he’s right there, and the woman he adored so lay next to him and just breathing. She was the most beautiful thing he has ever known or cared for. He thought about her and dreamed her and lived her for the longest time. Hearing her breath so close to him...it was the closest thing he had to a miracle.

He crept his hand under the sheets to reach for her. She locked his hand with hers.

Your chest hurts from all the coughing, doesn’t it? He sounded firm and confronting, like a younger, stronger man. He could not remember the last time he sounded like that.

I’m fine, she says. I’m ok. As if repeating it would make it true. Is your arthritis getting worse again? She gave his hand a little squeeze.

I’m fine, he answered, imitating her.

Are you telling the truth? She asked testily.

Are you telling the truth? He snapped back.

She chuckled goodnaturedly, or at least tried. There was nothing goodnatured about her short hoarse breathing. He winced at the mere sound of it.

 My chest may be hurting a bit, she admits. And your joints?

My joints may be hurting a bit, too.

 Ok, maybe my chest hurts so much. She counters.

My joints hurt so much as well. 

She let go of his hand. For a moment he panicked at the lack of contact, so he reached out his hand, it landing on her heaving chest. He felt it rise and fall, her breathing all crackly. He moved his hand slowly, in circular motion.

Does it still hurt? He asked as he massaged her chest gently. Does this help? He asked, waiting for her response.

She caught his hand and squeezed it. Come lie with me, she said. So he did.

They were quiet for a while. He remembered the times when his heart would feel like it was going to jump out of his chest just by the feeling of her shoulders brushing against his. He was young and naive. He loved her so.