One More Day

Machines hummed and whirred alongside Elliot’s bed, their soft prattle feigning a liveliness within his hospital room that belied the sterile casket it was inevitably to become.

Other than the rhythm of Lily’s breathing from the chair beside him, living was at a premium within these four walls. Not that it was much of a surprise. His march toward death had been slow, and had increasingly left little vacancy for vibrancy.

It was fine; Elliot knew his time was drawing to a close.

Eighty-three years had come and gone; sometimes slow, often too fast, but occasionally at a pace that’d fit him like a favorite pair of slacks. Throughout the years, he’d carried his body like an instrument—one he undoubtedly could have kept in better shape—and when it’d inevitably begun to drift out of tune, he’d seen less-and-less of the parks and gardens he’d loved, and increasingly more of the insides of doctor's offices and hospitals. Each new surrounding rife with a constant procession of strangers’ faces, when all he truly wanted was to see the familiar ones: his children, his grandchildren.

Elliot sighed and looked toward his daughter again. She’d taken over for Abigail after dinner. The two having traded shifts like that for the past several weeks.

If someone had asked him before he took ill, he’d have said he had a good understanding of shame and gratitude. Nothing will teach you fresh humility for those concepts like having your own children wipe your backside. At his age, he wouldn’t have thought he could have grown to love his girls anymore, or, in any new capacity, but he had all the same.

How lucky I’ve been, he thought. We must have done something right after all, Emily.

He reckoned it had been right around the time that the word “progress” had been traded for “comfort” in his treatment plan, that he’d begun taking his leave of people—at least, from those he knew least. He supposed he’d been handing out last farewells like they were a pocketful of coins into a fountain; each released with a wish they wouldn’t be the last, yet not attached enough to hold any back. Here, at the end of it all, his last moments weren’t a surprise per say, letting his eyes close, but more of a weary kindness. And not just for me, he thought, thinking of his daughters.

The room stilled. Like the held breath before the candle flames are blown out . . .

Elliot opened his eyes—and found that he was no longer alone.

He hadn’t felt the figure take seat at the foot of his bed. Though seeing them now lent a weight that he couldn’t deny. An ease washed through him as their eyes met, like that first taste of coffee on a cool autumn morning. The light from the monitors didn’t seem to behave around the figure. As if the deepened shadow of his room were averse to them, or the figure was merely casting its own light. Perhaps, it was both.

For a moment, Elliot swore he knew the person, recognized the face of his first nurse in their features, then a childhood friend, then a stranger who’d shown him a kindness in the park. It seemed natural that the figure’s features changed—not truly masks of any kind, more like . . . a reluctance to settle. Everyone, but no one.

“I wondered if you’d come,” Elliot said, his voice hushed.

“I always come,” They spoke. Their voice a cat’s purr, the wind in the leaves, his mother’s soft lullaby.

Elliot swallowed, nervous, though unafraid.

“Wouldst thou name me?” The figure intoned.

“You’re—death,” Elliot whispered.

The figure inclined its head gracefully, a king or queen at their court, and Elliot felt his anxiety blow away like the scent of cherry blossoms in a breeze.

“You know, I always thought I’d be afraid,” Elliot said with a rueful shake of his head. The tubes running from his nose rasped against the stubble on his cheeks. “but . . . I’m not.”

“Fear is a thing for the living,” Death said evenly.

At its words, Elliot glanced toward his daughter. Asleep in the chair, her vigil the truest form of love; patient, compassionate, deliberate. He hoped he’d earned it.

“Will there be pain?” He asked. Not taking his eyes from Lily.

“Pain has ne’er been my purview. Merely release, and transition. A guide between and through all things,” it said. Its voice reaching through him like memory more than sound. “To ease thy journey, I bear thee a gift.”

“A gift?” Elliot asked, turning back with effort. “I wondered if I’d lived well enough to deserve such a thing. You can never be certain which direction you’re bound for.”

“This is not a thing of right or wrong living,” Death spoke.

Its hand lifted, slowly turning in a spiral motion as though twisting in a light bulb. “’Tis merely a boon of having lived. Your own reflection in the tide pool of time before the waves sweep it anon.”

A sphere of white light appeared above its fingertips, though calling the object light was akin to calling an unlit cavern merely dark; the volume and space hidden behind the darkness becoming lost in the context. The sphere lent Elliot the impression of a blank white canvas, of fingers hovering over strings, of a flashing cursor at the top left of a screen.

“A day.” Death said. Its voice absent any tonal peaks or valleys. “One day from thy life. Not to merely observe, but to live once more; moment for moment. Know thee, however, that regardless of the day chosen and how thy might interact with it, the course of events shall remain the same in the end. One cannot un-choose what thou hast already lived.”

“No going back and winning your fortune, eh?” Elliot jested. A racking cough took hold of him, and he heard the machines behind him stutter in alarm.

The light sphere flickered at his words—and Elliot’s wedding appeared. His beautiful Emily mouthing the words “I do” within its depths. There was no sound, but he felt the words. His chest tightened. Lord, he missed her.

“Thy words speak of wealth as a younger man would. However, wealth is oft a matter of . . . perspective,” Death said, inclining its head toward the image.

Elliot understood. Emily had made him feel rich in many ways.

“What do people often choose?” Elliot asked. As was his way, the question launched a dozen others in his mind. He kept it to the one though. Emily would have been proud.

“The choice varies across caste, culture, and creed.” Death said, then gave him a knowing look. For a moment, its features took on the shape of his third-grade teacher. “But thy kind are human after all. Many choose a penultimate triumph, or first love, or joy. The birth of a child, the day they wed. A day of regret, so-as-to see what may have been, if . . . only for a day.”

At each suggestion, Elliot watched the spark of his own memory alight in the sphere held within Death’s hand. As though he was flipping through the channels of his life. It looked—beautiful. Each worthy of a rewatch.

“What would you pick?” Elliot asked.

Death looked on him curiously for a moment, the face of a small child he’d seen at a bus stop shaping its features. “Thou art not the first to ask my opinion, though most inquire out of indecisiveness for their own choice. I do not sense this of thee, and so I will answer thus. A day of rest.”

“As a father of two, I can empathize,” Elliot grinned. Death smiled back.

“Come Elliot. I sense thou have made thy choice.”

And to his surprise, Elliot realized he had.

Elliot woke to the sound of his name.

“Daddy,” Abigail said, “wake up.”

Little hands clutched at the covers, pulling them back, then alighted on his chest, shaking him. His heart swelled, tears burning his sleep-heavy eyes. His hand found his daughter’s, covering it completely.

It was true. He could hardly believe it. “A day. Not merely to observe, but to live once more.”

“Good morning, sweetie.” Elliot answered.

Abigail stood, hair a mess, in her favorite pajamas. She’d give them over to Lily soon. Too much wrist and ankle exposed to fit for much longer. He scooted over and patted the bed, and she quickly scrambled up, a grin on her face. He hugged her to him, smelling her hair, the scent of he and Emily’s room, the rich aroma of coffee drifting up the stairs. He relished it, not wanting to let her go. He wondered if she had missed this too as she’d grown older.

“She does,” Death said. It didn’t startle him. Just felt it like a hand on his shoulder. “And it is why she holds her children so.”

Abigail giggled, his beard tickling her ear as he pulled her close. “Did you sleep well?” He asked.

“Mmhmm,” she said.

“Abigail Marie, where are you!” Emily shouted from downstairs. “I told you to go wake up your dad! We’ve got twenty minutes.”

“Well, sounds like you’d better go get dressed. Don’t want to make mom crabby.”

He hugged her once more and threw back the covers, eager for the day in a manner that hadn’t come naturally for him when he’d been living through the rush of it all.

He caught his reflection in the mirror on his way out from the bathroom. Thirty-eight? Thirty-nine? he thought. He remembered thinking he looked old at this age, but there was only a little grey in his beard. He still had a goodly amount of hair, and he looked strong. It felt like coming home.

He stopped in each room before heading downstairs, the kid’s playroom like the aftermath of a tornado through a trailer park. Getting them to keep it clean had always been a struggle, but today he didn’t mind. It’d been a spare bedroom for so long now, that he found he missed the chaos.

The girl’s bedroom smelled of them. Warm sunlight filtered through the curtains, particles filtering through the beams as he took in their bunk beds, the stuffed animals, and the clothes all over the floor. He moved from object-to-object, touching things—the feel of their clothes, their books, their toys—familiar as his own hands.

Downstairs, he found Emily in the kitchen by the coffee maker. His heart skipped. Elliot swept up behind, hugging her tightly to him. He felt her stiffen—then slowly relax, not quite able to hide her surprise at his embrace. They’d gone through a stretch where they hadn’t hugged enough—touched each other enough.

“Neglect and resentment will cause that, and many go through such when children and vocation take precedence over affection for one another.”

He knew it for the truth it was. It would eventually pass, and they would have their time again.

Emily turned in his arms, dark hair pulled back, her faded robe smelling of cigarettes and coffee. He used to find the smell of the latter off-putting, but today, it was just . . . her. His wife looked young, and vibrant. Her eyes were guarded as she looked at him, but she must have seen something within his own, for her warm smile shaped them with joy; her iris’ opening like flowers in sunlight. She was beautiful.

She launched into her plans for the day, as was her want: the kids to school, the appointments she had, what groceries were needed. The kids’ lessons later. Dinner. It all sounded so busy, so large. He memorized her voice like it was a favorite song, the way she spoke, her inflections, her timbre. He missed it like Christmas morning.

Her eyes landed on the clock, and she whirled away from him. “Five minutes,” she yelled, to everyone and no one, before running upstairs.

Elliot followed the scent of pancakes and syrup out to the living room. Abigail and Lily were at the coffee table, their eyes on the television as they finished their last bites. Upon seeing him, Lily dropped her fork and sprang up, wrapping her little arms around his legs.

He melted at the embrace.

He knew somewhere, there had been a last time she had hugged him this way. He wished he’d known to savor it more. Today he loved every second of it.

Backpacks in hand the kids piled toward the van, Lily in a booster, Abigail finally big enough to go without. They argued over who got to get in first—regardless that there were two doors—where to put their bags, the noise of it loud and full of life. Elliot didn’t mind. There’d be years of silent drives ahead.

Emily looked at him strangely as he got into the passenger seat. “Don’t you have work?”

“Nope,” he said. “Told them I wouldn’t be in today.”

His wife gave him an appraising look as she began to back down the driveway.

“They’ll survive. It’s just a day.” The words felt good to say. He’d spent so much of his time and energy worrying about work.

“’Tis a sad truth that some evils are as necessary as they are useful.”

The school’s parking lot was chaotic as usual. Other families distracted with their own days. He kissed his girls, and watched them walk around the building together hand-in-hand.

Emily dropped him at home afterward. He half expected a task of some sort to follow, but he could tell she sensed something adrift in him.

“Enjoy your day, love. I’ll get the kids on my way home,” she said through the car window. He leaned in and pressed his lips to hers, holding it for heartbeats beyond simple affection.

There was yardwork to be done, a fence that needed repair. An extra day typically meant knocking something off his list. Elliot instead reached for his phone and called his father. They talked for a time, his voice solid and warm as flannel. Elliot made a real effort to answer the questions he would have once hurried past. Being sure to tell his father he loved him, and he missed him.

He hadn’t heard his mother’s voice in years, and hearing it again brought him back to bedtime snuggles, good food, and such love and affection. He told her he loved her, and appreciated her belief in him, especially for those times he had none for himself. He listened attentively to stories of family he’d heard a dozen times before, and this time, asked for just one more.

The afternoon went by fast, and the girls and Emily were home, and then it was homework and dinner. He pulled Abigail in to help cook, much the way his mother had done when he was a boy, and when it was time to eat, Lily of course liked none of it. There was pouting, and bartering, and hedging for dessert, and Elliot sat back soaking it all in, knowing at times he’d found it vexing, but tonight loving every second of it.

He left the girls to their movie and joined Emily on the porch. They shared a beer together, talking of the next day, their full calendar, and other things. He watched the way her mouth formed the words. The way she twirled her hair, and fell in love with her all over again.

Teeth brushed, pajamas on, Elliot grabbed the book they’d been reading and they all piled into Lily’s too narrow bed.

“Not too long now,” Emily warned. “We’ve got a big day tomorrow.” She kissed each of them before heading to bed herself.

Snuggled in tight, he read one chapter then another—switching voices, asking questions until one, then the other fell gently asleep. He laid there for a time, the sound of the fan they used to fall asleep humming and whirring, feeling the life and love and joy in the room. Carefully, he climbed out of the bed, kissing each in turn, feeling he was leaving a part of himself behind.

“Can you give me dreams, Daddy?” Lily asked. Her voice soft with sleep. And he did, one to look forward to, one for her to imagine.

Elliot slipped into bed. Emily already asleep, and held her to him, his wife’s hand closing over his own across her stomach.

Despair and serenity warred within his heart. The day hadn’t been enough—it would never be enough—but . . . it had been everything.

Elliot drifted. The sound of Emily’s breathing intermingling with the hum of his ventilator, and a distant sound, like waves lapping against shore.

His youth slipped from his shoulders like a coat, exposing him to the elements that awaited. Death stood at his bedside, its hand in place of Emily’s as the void unfurled behind it.

“Thank you,” Elliot said, tears on his cheeks.

Death squeezed his hand gently in response.

“A fine day, Elliot. Though, if I may, why not the first kiss, the birth of thy first child, thy nuptials?”

Elliot took a long, shuddering breath. “Because that’s what life really was. Great moments are fleeting, and regrets will pile up if you let them, but what filled our years was the daily love and appreciation for one another—that’s the good stuff, friend.”

“I thank thee then, Elliot, for allowing me to share it with thee,” Death said, softly. “It may give thee peace to know, that thy Emily chose a day similar to thine own.”

His heart full, Elliot’s breath left him, quiet as a sigh.

And without fear, or regret, he walked with Death into darkness.