There was something odd about how calm he was. Most patients in his condition were angry, scared, or numb. Thomas seemed almost peaceful, like a man who'd been holding his breath for a long time and could finally let it out.
He'd never been married.
***
One morning, Thomas asked me, as carefully as a man stepping onto thin ice, "Do you have family nearby, Nancy? Anyone looking in on you?"
"Just a distant cousin. Raymond. He's been calling more lately."
Thomas's jaw tightened, just for a second. Then it relaxed, and he changed the subject to the weather.
I didn't think much of it at the time.
"Do you have family nearby?"
***
Raymond's calls got stranger that same week.
"Are you seeing anyone, Nancy? At your age, you shouldn't be alone. Family should have each other's backs."
"I'm fine, Raymond."
"Have you thought about a will? God forbid, but you know. Somebody responsible ought to be listed."
"I said I'm fine."
He asked about my bank and the apartment. He mentioned Aunt Margaret again and how he'd "helped her with everything" at the end. I remembered Margaret dying alone in a rented room, and I couldn't figure out why that sat so wrong in my stomach.
"Are you seeing anyone?"
I brushed it off. I always brushed things off. That was my whole life in one sentence.
***
Then came the afternoon.
Thomas asked me to sit down.
His hand found mine on the blanket. It was cold and light as a bird.
"Sweetheart," he said, "I feel terrible asking you this."
By then, our conversations had become warmer with each passing day.
"Ask."
Then came the afternoon.
"I've loved you my entire life. I know I'm going to die soon. But I've always dreamed of marrying you. Will you marry me? It's my last wish."
