Rollback

"I will summon Dr. Bonhoff," the robot said, his voice sounding sad. At the very end of life, house calls had come back into fashion; there was no need to tie up a hospital bed for someone who had no hope of getting better.

Don squeezed her hand gently. "Remember what we agreed," she said, her voice low but firm. "No heroic measures. No pointless prolonging of life."

"She’s not going to last the night," said Dr. Tanya Bonhoff, after ministering to Sarah for several hours. Bonhoff was a broad-shouldered white woman of about forty, with close-cropped blond hair. Don and she had withdrawn from the bedroom, and now were standing in the study, the computer monitor blank.

He felt his stomach clenching. Sarah had been promised another six or eight decades, but now…

He groped for the stenographer’s chair and lowered himself unsteadily onto it.

Now, she might not have another six hours.

"I’ve given her painkillers, but they won’t affect her lucidity," the doctor said.

"Thank you."

"I think you should phone your children," she said gently.

Don returned to the bedroom. Carl was on a business trip to San Francisco; he’d said he’d take the next possible flight, but even if he could get a red-eye, he still wouldn’t be in Toronto until morning. And Emily was out of town as well, helping a friend close up his cottage for the winter; she was now racing back, although it would take her at least four hours to get here.

Sarah was lying in the bed’s center, her head propped up by pillows. Don sat on the edge of the bed and held her hand, his smooth skin such a stark contrast with her wrinkled, loose skin.

"Hey," he said, softly.

She tilted her head slightly and let out a breath that hinted at being the same word in reply.

They were quiet for a time, then, softly, Sarah said, "We did all right, didn’t we?"

"For sure," he replied. "Two great kids. You’ve been a wonderful mother." He squeezed her hand just a little harder; it looked so fragile, and bore bruises on its back from needles having been inserted there today. "And you’ve been a wonderful wife."

She smiled a little, but probably as much as her weakened state would allow. "And you were a won—"

He cut her off, unable to bear the words. "Sixty years" is what came out of his mouth, but that, too, he realized, was a reference to their marriage.

"When I’m…" Sarah paused, perhaps vacillating between saying "dead" and saying "gone," then opting for the latter: "When I’m gone, I don’t want you to be too sad."

"I… don’t think I’ll be able to help it," he said softly.

She nodded almost imperceptibly. "But you’ve got what none of the rest of us ever had." She said it without remorse, without bitterness. "You were married for six decades, but have even more than that amount of time to get over… get over the loss of your spouse. Until now, no one who’d been married that long ever had that luxury."

"Decades won’t be long enough," he said, his voice cracking slightly. "Centuries wouldn’t be."

"I know," said Sarah, and she rotated her wrist so she could squeeze his hand, the dying woman comforting the living man. "But we were lucky to have so long together. Bill didn’t have nearly that long with Pam."

Don had never believed in such nonsense, but he felt his brother’s presence now, one ghost already hovering in this room, perhaps ready to conduct Sarah on her journey.

Sarah spoke again, although it was clearly an effort. "We were luckier than most."

He considered that for a moment. Maybe she was right. Despite everything, maybe she was right. What had he thought, back on the day of their sixtieth wedding anniversary, while waiting for the kids to show up? It had been a good life — and nothing that had happened since could erase that.

She was quiet for a time, just looking at him. At last, she shook her head slightly.

"You look so much like you did when we first met, all those years ago."

He tilted his head dismissively. "I was fat then."

"But your…" She sought a word, found it: "Intensity. It’s the same. It’s all the same, and—" She winced, apparently feeling a knife-edge of pain, sharp enough to cut through the drugs Bonhoff had given her.

"Sarah!"

"I’m—" She stopped herself before giving voice to the lie that she was okay.

"I know it’s been difficult for you," she said, "this last year." She paused, as if exhausted from speaking, and Don had nothing to fill the void with, so he simply waited until she had regained enough strength to continue: "I know that… that you couldn’t possibly have wanted to be with someone so old, when you were so young."

His stomach was as tight as a prizefighter’s fist. "I’m sorry," he said, almost in a whisper.

Whether she’d heard him, he couldn’t say. But she managed a small smile. "Think about me from time to time. I don’t—" She made a sound in her throat, but he perceived it as one of sadness, not a sign of further deterioration. "I don’t want the only person thinking about me 18.8 years from now to be my pen pal on Sigma Draconis II."