The diagnosis came in November.
Six weeks. That was all they gave us.
The hospital hallway smelled of antiseptics and lilies. Marlene intercepted me three doors before arriving at her room.
“He’s resting,” he said. He doesn't need a scandal.
I could have pushed her away. I was his wife. But his hand was shaking, the nurses were looking at us, and I thought of Russell hearing altered voices through the wall.
I sat in the hallway for three hours. When she went out for coffee, I sneaked into her room. Russell was paler than the sheets.
He squeezed my hand.
“Don’t fight them,” he whispered. Just trust me.
I told him I didn't care about the house.
“I know,” he said. That's why.
I thought there would be time to ask him what he meant. There wasn't.
The day before he died, he asked for the blue blanket from home. The suit folded over my arm and I found Marlene fixing flowers near the sink, throwing away the lilies before they had opened.
For a second, it seemed less cruel and simply exhausted. Then he saw me, and the harshness came back. Russell slept most of that afternoon. I sat next to him, counting breaths instead of tips, wishing for any barter that could buy us one more month. When he woke up, he just touched my wrist, as if he reminded himself that I was real.
At the funeral, her three children were in front of me in equal black coats, like a wall. People would give me condolences and then walk away to them. I was alone by the coffin and cried because I had loved him, and because no one there thought it was.
When the last guest left, the lawyer touched my elbow
“Elena,” he said, “Russel left instructions.
They were to be given in person, with their children present.
“Tomorrow morning,” he said. In my office, at nine.
Then his voice softened.
“He asked me to repeat his last instruction: trust him.
The cold funeral was still sticking to my skin when I sat in the attorney’s office the next day.
