Waltz of Her Life

Everyone expected Mr. Gibson to simply waste off into nothing, the machines emitting a steady squeal and a flat-line image when he did. A couple of the more callous and brazen nurses kept a "Dead Pool" where they took bets on what day a certain patient would die and how.

That particular Saturday, whenever Linda entered Mr. Gibson's room, she noticed that it seemed too bright in there. Predictably, the hospital's lighting system was fluorescent, with platters of lighting banks blazing down from overhead. They'd installed something called a scrim on them, one of the maintenance guys once had told her, like what they used in theater.

The scrim softened the harsh rays of the fluorescent light, taking away the green, washed-out quality the lights would otherwise give.

Sometimes patient's families would bring in floor lamps or desk lamps to increase the feeling of a home atmosphere. They also helped if a patient liked to read. Linda checked his room to see if any of these types of lights had been left on, but there were none. She realized that the extra light had a diffuse quality, that it seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere. Mr. Gibson himself seemed to glow. Linda wondered whether she should note that on his chart, but instead she shrugged her shoulders and moved on to the next room.

Later in the afternoon, toward the end of her shift, Linda visited Mr. Gibson one last time. She checked his tubes, wiring, and readouts, noted the medication schedule on his chart and ran through his vitals. As she checked his temperature, he stirred slightly, his legs and feet moving beneath the bed sheets. This startled Linda, as she was used to him lying still. His bald, shiny head tilted and his lips moved, though for the moment, his eyes stayed closed.

He spoke: "Is that you, Linda?" His voice creaked and croaked like an old wrought iron gate during a winter wind. Luckily, Linda had trained herself to hear faint, minute voices.

She kept her voice to a murmuring whisper as she replied to him, close to his ears. "Yes, it's me, Mr. Gibson. How are you doing?"

His head slowly moved from side to side as his lips parted further and his eyes finally opened, revealing hazy irises and red bloodshot in the whites. Linda patiently waited for his next words, which finally came: "So beautiful."

He wasn't looking at her, but rather, staring out into space. She'd heard other patients say the same thing, many times. What happened next gripped her and would haunt her for years to come. Mr. Gibson's eyes opened all the way. His head lifted above the pillow a few inches.