He Hid Himself in Every Room So I Could Survive Him

I stared at him.

“You heard all that and that’s what you took from it?”

His mouth twitched.

“It’s what mattered.”

I sat beside him.

He reached for my hand, found it on the second try.

“Promise me something.”

I stiffened.

I hate promise conversations from sick people.

They always feel like emotional theft.

You end up agreeing to things because how are you supposed to say no to a man with oxygen under his nose and death sitting on the nightstand?

Still, I said, “What?”

“Promise me you won’t turn this house into a museum.”

I blinked.

“What?”

He looked at the ceiling.

“You know what I mean.”

I did.

And hated that I did.

“I’m not going to put ropes around your chair, Frank.”

“No, but you might keep every stupid screw and coffee mug and shirt with a hole in it because you think getting rid of anything is getting rid of me.”

I looked away.

That landed too close.

He went on.

“I am not in the screws, Nance.”

Now I laughed through tears.

“That is exactly where you are, unfortunately.”

He squeezed my hand.

Weak, but there.

“I’m in some of it,” he admitted. “But not all. Don’t confuse the objects with the life.”

I didn’t answer.

Because I wasn’t ready.

And because somewhere deep down I knew he was already giving me permission I had not asked for yet.

Two days after hospice started, Frank asked me to take him to the garage.

Not for long, he said.

Just five minutes.

The nurse would have hated it.

Ellen would have forbidden it.

Mark would have tried to carry him, which would have annoyed Frank enough to keep him alive out of spite.

So naturally we did it while the house was quiet.

I got him into the old rolling chair from the sewing room.

Wrapped a blanket around his legs.

Moved slowly.

He directed me like a foreman all the way down the hall.

“Watch the rug.”

“I know where the rug is.”

“Not from that angle you don’t.”

We made it to the garage.

The smell hit me first.

Motor oil, cut wood, old dirt, winter air.

Frank’s kingdom.

Small.

Drafty.

Crowded.

And more alive than some churches.

He looked around like a man taking attendance.

Then pointed.

“Workbench.”

I wheeled him over.

On the pegboard above it, every tool still hung in its place.

Of course it did.

Frank had been making order out of metal and wood since before our children were born.