Forty-five
Ethan
Days later
As sunlight spills into the room, I squint against its brightness, my eyes slowly fluttering open. Glancing at my side, I find the bed empty.
“Lily?” I call out.
A sharp and violent sound erupts from the bathroom, sending a jolt of alarm through me.
“Fuck,” I swear under my breath.
I launch myself from the bed, the covers tangling around my feet for a split second before I tear free. I sprint toward the bathroom butt naked.
I raise a hand to the door, rapping softly. “Lily?”
No answer.
“Baby?” I try again. I knock harder this time, a frantic, insistent beat against the wood.
Still nothing.
“I’m coming in, Lily.” I push the door open just enough to peek inside.
The sight hits me like a sledgehammer, and I stumble back, breath stolen. She is pale, naked, and draped over the toilet, her shoulders shaking with silent sobs.
“Shit, Lily.” I am beside her in an instant, dropping to my knees on the cold tile. I reach out, brushing my hand along her clammy back, and flush the toilet clean. Her skin feels like ice.
“Can you stand up, baby?”
She shakes her head, her breath coming in ragged gasps.
“How long have you been like this?” I ask.
“I don’t know,” she whispers.
“Okay, okay.” My mind races, trying to find a way to fix this, to make it stop.
“Let’s get you in the shower. You’re shivering.”
Without waiting for her to respond, I scramble to my feet and reach into the shower, letting the warm water blast against the tiles. Steam surges, quickly filling the small room.
I kneel beside her again, gently sliding my arms under her, one beneath her knees, the other supporting her back.
She feels impossibly light, like a fragile bird.
I cradle her against my chest and step into the shower, the hot spray instantly warming my skin.
A soft, shuddering sigh escapes her lips as the heat surrounds her.
“I’m going to set you down on the shower chair so I can wash you, okay?” I murmur.
She dips her head, her eyes still closed.
I ease her onto the small plastic stool, but she slumps, too weak to hold herself upright even for a moment. A cold, sharp fear pierces through me. She is weaker than normal. So much weaker.
I force myself to breathe, to push down the rising panic.
Keep calm. For her.
I lather the washcloth, cleaning her skin from her shoulders to her feet, trying to be as tender as possible. I massage the shampoo into her scalp, rinsing it clean under the spray.
Finished, I turn off the water, and the sudden silence amplifies the frantic beating of my heart. Reaching for the nearest oversized plush towel, I wrap her frail body in the fabric. I lift her again, her head lolling against my shoulder, and carry her back to the bedroom.
I lay her on the bed, still wrapped in the towel, and pull on a pair of old basketball shorts.
I search the dresser for her softest clothes and find her favorite lilac sweats. I dress her in the cotton panties and sweats, then pull the sweatshirt over her head, guiding her arms into the sleeves. After adding her fluffy socks, I tuck her in, pulling the duvet up to her chin.
I look down at her pale face against the pillows, her breathing shallow and uneven. A hot, stinging tear escapes, then another.
“Oh, God,” I choke out, the words catching in my throat. “I can’t do this.”
I can’t watch her fade away, day by excruciating day. I can’t let her go. I am not ready. And I know, deep down, with a cold, hard certainty, that I will never be prepared when that time comes.
My knees buckle, and I drop to the floor beside the bed, burying my face in my hands, the sobs tearing through me.
Lily’s cancer is her death sentence, a slow, agonizing countdown. But her leaving this world… that will be my death sentence.