Dearest Ivie

He put his arms around her waist and lay his head on her heart.

Wrapping her arms about him, she stroked his back and felt such an overwhelming sadness that her legs nearly fell out from under her.

“It’s going to be okay,” she whispered.

Guess that made them even on the lying front.

Chapter Eleven

After Ivie gave the shot, she helped Silas get back into a pair of silk pajamas. Then she was easing him out flat in the bed, and guessed, by how pale he became, what his pain level was.

Yet he refused the morphine.

“It’ll help you rest,” she pointed out.

“Makes me fuzzy. I don’t want that. I’d rather be uncomfortable.”

Recognizing that she’d already pushed him far more than she should, she nodded—and then realized they weren’t alone. Silas didn’t notice that his majordomo was lingering in the archway, however, especially not as he closed his eyes and tried to breathe.

“I’ll be right back,” Ivie said as she brushed his hair from his forehead.

“I look forward to your return,” came the mumbled response.

Walking over to the female, Ivie nodded for them to go out into the sitting room. And then she confronted Pritchard who was still dressing like gray was the sole color on the planet and pantsuits were the only outfits sold in retail stores.

“I’m accepting the job,” Ivie announced. “He just hired me. So you and I—”

“You are not the right fit for the position.”

“Why? Because he’s attracted to me? That will help him fight.”

“He does not need the distraction.”

“Oh, right, it’s better to make sure he can fully concentrate more on how uncomfortable he is.” Ivie rolled her eyes. “His major organs are shutting down, he can’t eat, he can barely drink—and you disapprove of something he’s connected to outside of all that suffering?”

As Pritchard arched a brow, Ivie decided the female had probably come out of the womb with that expression on her sour puss.

“I have taken care of that male for close to four hundred years.” The majordomo paused as if that were a rock-the-world kind of announcement. “I do not intend to step aside in favor of a floozy at the end of his life.”

Ivie tilted her chin down and stared hard. “Okay, FYI, the word ‘floozy’ was replaced by ‘ho’ in, like, the nineties. So you might want to make a note of that. And as for who’s at his bedside now, this is not some competition between you and me. This is about him. You do not need to respect me or like me, but you are going to learn how to tolerate my presence gracefully in front of him or I will have you banned from his room.”

Annnnnnnd now both brows were up.

“I beg your pardon,” the female stuttered.

Ivie put out her palm. “This is not about being territorial for me. This is about making sure Silas doesn’t waste his energy on things that don’t pertain to his health and his well-being. I have no problem if Santa Claus wants to see him or be with him, but what I won’t stand for is drama. As long as you and I are clear on this, we’ll get along fine. Otherwise, you can pound sand. Which is my polite way of saying ‘go fuck yourself.’ ”

In the back of her mind, she was aware that she was being less than professional. She was also cognizant that her decision to be Silas’s caregiver, motivated by love though it was, might not be the best decision for her mentally and emotionally.

But she’d made her choice on that one and to hell with the consequences or toll it took on her.

“I refuse to pay you,” Pritchard said. “I am in charge of all the household accounts and I will not cut any checks for the likes of this…abuse.”

Ivie jacked forward on her hips. “You think I’m doing this for the money? Are you insane?”

“And I’m going to go to Havers with this. I shall speak with him about your behavior, and if you still have a job by the time dawn arrives in”—the female officiously checked her watch—“an hour and a half, it will be a disgrace that I will make sure everyone in the race knows about.”

“Fine, have me fired. It’s not going to change the fact that Silas wants me as his nurse, and given that he is competent to make his own decisions, you have no legal basis for trying to override him. And Havers will know that.”

As Pritchard huffed off, Ivie hung her head.

Then she pulled herself together and went back to Silas’s bedside.

* * *

—

The medical record was so extensive it was heartbreaking.

There were entries going back a century, Havers’s previously handwritten files having been scanned into the computer system when the clinic went hi-tech in 2000. But that wasn’t where the bulk of entries were. Back then, Silas had been seen for the usual things: a deep cut that required stitching, a bad case of a flu strain that had ravaged the race, malnourishment from not feeding enough.

The tide began to turn about four years ago. Suddenly, he was coming in once a month, then twice…then weekly. The official diagnosis had been given to him about six months into the series of malaises and gastrointestinal problems. And Havers had done what he could to provide support to Silas’s organ systems through a combination of anti-inflammatories, immune suppressors and steroids, but then came the surgeries to open up the intestinal tract when blockages happened. And dialysis to address declining kidney function. More and more feedings.

Hospitalizations of two, three, and then four nights had begun. Conversations about end-of-life provisions were recorded, with Silas going the DNR route. Talks of the terminal nature of the disease were noted in short, concise sentences that made her eyes water.

When she got to the last month’s entries, her heart started to pound even though she was just sitting in a chair beside him while he slept.

The note about it being time to bring in a private nurse for palliative care had her shaking her head—

“I think it would be considered a melodrama.”

She looked up. “You’re awake.”

“My life story, that is. Well, perhaps an accounting manual followed by an episode of Marcus Welby, M.D.”

“Nothing more current? E.R.? Grey’s Anatomy?”

“I prefer the classics.”

“Understandable.”

“So did you find any hope in there? Something the good doctor missed?” He smiled and pushed himself up higher on the pillows. “I’m here for a week, try the veal.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Old saying from the Catskill Mountain resort days. Classics, you know. Stick around and I’ll do my Henny Youngman imitation for you.”

“I look forward to that.” She closed the clinician laptop and put it on a mahogany bureau. “You want me to get you some food?”

“You didn’t answer my question. About my records.”

“No, I didn’t find anything that was missed.”

“I’m not surprised. Havers is quite thorough and very knowledgeable.”

As they grew quiet, Ivie thought of the number of times she had walked into a patient’s room and stopped short, putting aside whatever she had come to do because a moment was happening at the bedside between two loved ones.

She had never thought she would be a family member.

Or at least not anytime soon.

“You know, getting diagnosed was…surreal,” he said absently. “It was just bizarre.”

“Tell me about it. And I’m not asking as a nurse.”

There was a period of quiet during which she listened to the hum of the machines behind that screen. They were on standby, the electrodes and IVs not currently hooked up to him, and she had to acknowledge a reluctance on her part to get them involved.

Not to his endangerment, of course. But the reticence was there, as if the monitors and medicine dispensers were a padlock that would link the two of them inexorably to the end of his sad, sad destiny.

“I’d been having symptoms for a while,” he said roughly. “Exhaustion, aches and pains, a bad stomach. I’m not a paranoid person, though, so I muddled through, telling myself that it was this or that extenuating circumstance. A weekend out with friends. Too much work. Stress. Those kinds of standard excuses.” He took a deep breath and stared off into space. “It was like…well, you know when you’re driving along a road, and you see something off on the shoulder? Like, a mound, that shouldn’t be there? In the back of your mind, you start thinking, God, please don’t let it be an animal. Please let that not be something that was living and breathing before it was hit. And you start to tense up, and you try to ignore it, and your eyes bounce around to oncoming traffic, or the dashboard, or the opposite lane ahead. You tell yourself not to look, you know, because whatever it is isn’t moving, and you can’t bear the idea that it’s someone’s pet or a deer or even a lowly possum. Hell, it’s too late to save whatever it is, there’s nothing you can do—so why look? Why put yourself through that?”