“We are gathered here in the presence of God,” the chaplain began, his voice soft against the steady beep of the monitor.
I stood close to the bed, holding Ben’s hand. I slipped my father’s brass signet ring onto my own thumb to keep it safe during the ceremony, its weight pulling on my hand.
Ben looked up at me, his eyes bright as he spoke his vows in a clear, steady tone that did not sound like a dying man.
“To love and to cherish,” he whispered, his grip tightening.
I looked over at Evelyn, who was staring at the floor, her face tight with a look that was not joy.
“I do,” I said, my voice barely audible over the hum of the room.
The chaplain placed his hands over our joined fingers, offering a quiet blessing that seemed to drift toward the open window.
Ben did not let go of my hand, his fingers squeezing mine with an unexpected, crushing strength.
The chaplain’s hand was warm as he slipped out the heavy wooden door, leaving the room very still.
Ben let go of my fingers and leaned back against the stiff hospital pillows, his eyes already half-closed. The thin gold band on his finger caught the harsh fluorescent light from the hallway, looking too bright against his skin.
The wall clock above the sink read ten past nine.
The door clicked open again, and Nurse Evelyn stepped into the room, her rubber-soled shoes silent on the floor. The sharp smell of institutional floor wax hung in the air, thick and clean, mixing with the scent of rubbing alcohol.
She carried a small tray with a plastic cup of water and a fresh roll of medical tape, though her hands were empty of any actual medicine.
She did not look at me at first, keeping her eyes fixed on the plastic tubing of Ben’s IV line. Her fingers went to her blue plastic ID badge, adjusting it twice against her scrubs with a sharp, nervous snap.
The silver-plated water pitcher on the bedside table caught the green glare of the heart monitor, sweating small beads of condensation onto the tray.
