“Harry, is that you?” Rosalie called when he stepped into the house and closed the door against the bitter December wind.
“It’s me,” Harry replied in a strained voice. He felt short of breath, and his mind was full of what Dr. Snellgrove had told him. He knew Rosalie couldn’t cope without him; he also knew he’d have to trust that God would answer his prayer.
“I have lunch ready,” his wife said as he entered the kitchen.
He had little appetite, but Harry couldn’t disappoint Rosalie, since she’d made the effort of preparing their meal. At this stage, she only remembered a few of her favorite recipes. Almost always, they had canned soup for dinner. No doubt that was what she’d made for lunch, too.
Food didn’t interest Harry much anymore. He ate because it was necessary but without any real enjoyment.
Coming into the kitchen, he saw that he’d guessed correctly. Rosalie had heated up soup. Two steaming bowls filled with bright red tomato soup sat on the kitchen table. What was left in the small saucepan was boiling madly on the stove. When Rosalie turned her back to bring the silverware to the table, Harry reached over and switched off the burner.
Soon he joined his wife at the round oak table in the small alcove. They bowed their heads, and Harry murmured grace. When he finished, Rosalie smiled softly, her eyes brimming with love. “How did everything go at the doctor’s, sweetheart?”
Rather than worry her, Harry simply nodded. “I’m as fit as can be expected for a man of my age.”
Rosalie looked back at him with concern. She seemed about to ask him more but changed her mind. He’d told her what she wanted to hear.
“Is soup all right?” she asked.
“It’s perfect.” Not sure how to broach the subject of moving, Harry swallowed three spoonfuls of his lunch, then paused. This wouldn’t be the first time he’d brought it up—far from it. He carefully set his spoon on the place mat.
“How’s that nice Dr. Snellgrove?” Rosalie asked, shakily lifting a spoonful of soup to her mouth. She helped herself to crackers from the box and crumbled them in her bowl, one cracker at a time.
“I like him.”
“I do, too. Did he give you another prescription?”
Harry shook his head. As it was, the visiting nurse, who stopped by the house every second day, had to use a chart to keep his medications straight.
“You’re going to be fine, aren’t you?” his wife asked.
Harry saw that her face had tightened with fear. “Of course I am. It’s … it’s just a matter of getting the proper rest.”
She instantly relaxed. “Good. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
Harry didn’t, either. He sighed. Perhaps he should take this opportunity to introduce the subject—again. “I was thinking that the upkeep on the house is too much for me.” Harry felt that if he described the idea of moving to assisted living as something he needed, he might have a better chance of convincing her.
Rosalie ignored the comment. Although her face had wrinkled with age, Harry saw her as he had that first time, sixty-six years ago. She’d worked at the lunch counter at a Woolworth’s store in Seattle. Harry had gone over from Yakima to take a short training course, shortly after he’d gotten an underwriting position with the insurance company. He’d worked for the same company for more than forty years.
It had been his first trip to the big city, and the crowds and noise had overwhelmed him. A friend had suggested they stop at the lunch counter for a bite to eat. One look at Rosalie, and he was completely smitten. Until then, he would’ve scoffed at the very thought of love at first sight. He never did again. One look and he’d fallen head over heels for his beautiful Rosalie.
“Harry?”
He blinked, surprised at the way he’d become immersed in his memories.
“You’re finished your lunch?” she asked.
“Yes,” he murmured. “I’m not very hungry.” She didn’t seem to be eating much herself, he noticed.
“I’ll fix you something later,” Rosalie suggested.
“That would be good.” He lingered at the table. “Dr. Snellgrove wants me to use my walker.”
Rosalie pinched her lips together. “Haven’t I been saying the same thing? If you fall down again, I won’t be able to help you up, sweetheart.”
This was a problem. A week ago, he’d fallen and, struggle as he might, he couldn’t get back on his feet. Rosalie had tried to help and soon they were both exhausted. As a last resort, she’d phoned the fire station. They’d sent out an entire crew, embarrassing Harry no end, although the firefighters couldn’t have been nicer. He purposely hadn’t mentioned the incident to Dr. Snellgrove. No reason to. He was fine, a bit chagrined, but no worse for wear.
With careful movements, Harry shuffled into the family room and settled down in front of the television. Rosalie carried their soup bowls to the sink and after rinsing them out, sat in her own chair, beside his.
“Oprah will be on soon,” she informed him.
This was her way of letting him know she’d be watching the talk show. Rosie liked Oprah and Dr. Phil, and while she’d grown forgetful in some areas, she had no trouble remembering when her favorite shows were on. Harry hated to admit it, but he’d come to enjoy them, too. The complete lack of common sense exhibited by some of the folks on those programs continued to astonish him, and he was always heartened by the occasional portrayals of heroism.
“We might think about visiting Liberty Orchard one of these days,” he said, reclining in his chair. He reached for the afghan Rosalie had knit him years earlier and spread it on his lap. The cold never seemed to leave him.
“I don’t see any rush, do you?” Rosalie asked.
Rather than go into what Dr. Snellgrove had told him, Harry said, “Like I was saying earlier, this house is too much for me now. I don’t see any reason to delay. We could put our name in, anyway.”
“We can, I suppose,” Rosalie reluctantly agreed. “But I’d rather wait until summer.”
He didn’t want to alarm her and decided to put the discussion off until later. Perhaps after he’d rested …
Gabriel studied Mercy. Her deep-blue eyes brimmed with compassion as she turned to him. “He’s very weak.”
Gabriel nodded.
“How much longer does he have?” she asked, watching the tender look Rosalie sent her husband as she left her own recliner and walked over to where Harry slept. Rosalie gently tucked the hand-knit blanket around Harry’s shoulders and pressed her lips against his brow.
“Not long,” Gabriel responded.
“Surely God won’t take him until after Christmas?”
“Unfortunately, Harry will leave Earth before then.”
“Oh, dear. So his prayer request is urgent. Someone has to convince Rosalie to move, and quickly.”
“Yes.”
“But Christmas is only about a week away!”
No one needed to tell Gabriel that. “I know.”
“Oh, my.”
“Are you still interested in taking on this request?” he asked, certain she’d change her mind.
Mercy bit her lip, mulling over the situation.