Then he signed everything immediately.
“She plays dirty.”
“I like her.”
“You would.”
The hidden years returned in small ways.
Hospitals made Michael anxious when doors closed.
He needed to know who had keys.
He hated sedation.
He asked nurses what every medication was before accepting.
Some thought difficult.
Nora explained.
Most adapted.
One nurse put a dry-erase board near his bed:
DOOR UNLOCKED.
CALL BUTTON HERE.
MEDICATIONS TODAY.
MICHAEL DECIDES.
He stared at that last line.
Then cried.
Quietly.
I looked away until he was ready.
“D,” he said.
“Yeah.”
“Take a picture.”
“Why?”
“I want to remember somebody finally wrote it down.”
I did.
After he died, that photograph was one of the few things Nora asked to keep on her phone.
Michael chose hospice when treatment stopped helping.
At home.
Not my house.
His.
He had spent enough time inside rooms chosen by other people.
His final weeks were full of visitors he complained about.
“Why does dying turn everybody social?”
“Because they’re scared.”
“I’m the one dying.”
“Yes.”
“You all should leave.”
Nobody listened.
Lily brought Ava and Miles after asking him.
Michael wanted them.
Ava was eighteen by then.
Miles fifteen.
Ava sat beside bed.
“Do you remember when I found the key?”
Michael smiled.
“Your grandfather kept a prison key as a souvenir.”
“I threw it away.”
I protested from doorway.
“Eventually.”
Michael ignored.
Ava asked:
“Were you scared in that room?”
“Yes.”
“Of dying?”
“Sometimes.”
“Of Grandma Evelyn?”
“Yes.”
“Of Mom?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“She brought chicken.”
Lily laughed.
Michael continued:
“Your mom was tiny and bossy.”
“She still is.”
“Correct.”
Lily raised one finger.
“Cancer does not protect you from disrespect.”
Michael smiled.
Miles asked:
“Are you scared now?”
The room became quiet.
Michael looked at him.
“Yes.”
I expected more.
He said nothing else.
Miles nodded.
That was enough.
Later I asked Michael whether he wanted me there at the end.
He looked irritated.
“What kind of question?”
“Some people want privacy.”
“I hid in a wall eleven weeks.”
“I’m done with privacy.”
Fair.
On his final night, Nora lay beside him.
I sat in chair.
Lily on floor.
Vanessa had gone home because Michael ordered her to sleep.
At two in the morning he woke.
His breathing was shallow.
He looked at me.
“D.”
“I’m here.”
“Remember roof?”
“What roof?”
“Garage.”
When we were children, Michael jumped from our garage roof because I told him the grass would soften impact.
It did not.
He broke his ankle.