The Doorstep Diaries, Day 21

Half of it was still here today. On the nightstand. The bread hardening, the meat cold. There was a fly. Just one.

Nurse had left it. Even when she made her rounds this morning. She cleaned around it, cleaned around the two cookies beside it that Sally had left—his favorite. She even lifted up the plate and cleaned underneath it. She spent longer today cleaning the room, made noise, woke him up or at least prevented him from getting a sound sleep, which he usually did on Mondays. For all of it there was that upturned lip—not a smile, I don’t think—but an upturned lip. A curl at the edges. A curl and a bit more attention to her work today, like today was a good day to be Nurse.

She knew, of course. That’s why she left it. Because he couldn’t eat it. Not with the hard crust, not even fresh out of the oven without some pain. She knew about throats and weak stomachs. She knew about the mess he made after the family had left. She knew about chemo.

I believe she intended to leave it until tomorrow when the mother drops in again. So she’ll know. So Sally will know, too.

I couldn’t. I waited until she left. I waited until he fell back asleep, the deep sleep, too, with the open mouth and loud breathing. The book says not to interfere. “It will create unnecessary confusion, interference may encourage belief in miracles, Jesus, etc.” is the exact wording.

But I ate it. Cleaned the plate and put the foil in the garbage. Not even a crumb for that fly or for Nurse.

And when he woke and saw it was gone he didn’t smile. He turned and fell back asleep, mouth open and snoring, but a little lighter looking. Our secret was safe. His. The nurses. Mine.