Free The Hummingbird by Stephen P. Kiernan Page B

ground.
    It seemed that the Professor had softened the slightest bit, his eyes one degree less pinched. Also he had shown concern for me, which I hadn’t expected. I hesitated. I wanted the moment to last. Then I relaxed the professionalism an inch, almost the way he had lowered the newspaper a day before. “He had to go away for a while. When he came back, he didn’t want me to shave him anymore.”
    “Nonsense. It is a great pleasure to be shaved. Where did he go to learn such foolishness?”
    “To war,” I said. “He went away to war.”
    The Professor moved his chin in a circle, stretching his neck as though he wore a too-tight tie. “A dark place to obtain an education. Nonetheless, I would imagine any husband who survived a war would want his wife to shave him more than ever.”
    Ouch. But I nodded. “So you would think.”
    “That change is quite articulate about your overall situation.”
    I didn’t answer.
    “Yes. Diminished intimacy. Reduced contact. Perhaps loneliness.”
    I sat there, thinking: See if I ever lower my guard with you again, mister.
    The Professor cleared his throat. “Do something with me, Nurse Birch.”
    “Excuse me?”
    “Anything. I have missed an entire morning and some of the afternoon, out of the frustratingly small supply remaining to me. I’m desperate to do something so the day is not an entire waste.”
    I roused myself. This patient had just caused me pain, speaking about Michael with such accuracy. But the situation in this house was not about me; providing hospice care was always about the patient. Also I happened to know exactly where we could go.
    IT TOOK EFFORT TO PILOT HIS WHEELCHAIR through the garden without bogging down or harming the plants. He raised a hand to stop me when we reached the azaleas, which were at their peak: abundant, pink, and fragrant.
    The Professor scowled. “Don’t you find them shameful?”
    “Should I?”
    “They are so flagrant. So unapologetic.”
    “That’s how they attract bees, though. They have to be showy to survive.”
    “If only there were an analogous opportunity for me,” he said. “I would willingly perfume myself and wear pink if that would prolong my life.”
    I chuckled. “Actually, a few things could make a difference. In how long you live and how well you live. If you want, I can tell you about them.”
    “If I want.” He folded his hands in his lap. I was standing behind him, holding the wheelchair handles, so I could not see his face. “What I want, Nurse Birch, is to know what will occur. Likely you know as much about death as I do about the Pacific Theater in 1942.”
    “I doubt that, Professor Reed.”
    “Don’t patronize me. I am asking for something important.” He pointed at a little wrought-iron bench in the garden. “Sit there, please, and tell me in plain language.”
    The bench was painted dark glossy green. I sat leaning forward, forearms on my thighs, putting our faces on the same level. “Ask away.”
    He cleared his throat. “My prognosis, please. The unvarnished truth.”
    Barclay Reed had gone to that place right away. I read it to mean that he was prepared to hear everything. “You have kidney cancer with multiple metastases. The five-year survival rate is five percent.”
    “I presume the process is irreversible?”
    “Yes.”
    I expected a reaction, but the Professor only nodded. “Continue.”
    “Well. You may experience more pain, worse than last night, because there are bones involved.” I slowed because I was nearing the crux. “Last night you declined help for your symptoms, which is your prerogative. But I urge you to reconsider.” I stood, stepping toward him. “For many patients—”
    “Halt right there. No drama, Nurse Birch. Just give me the prognosis.”
    “All right.” I went back to the bench. The stones beneath were coated with moss. I looked at his profile, the large old man’s nose, his stubborn jaw. “What else would you like to know?”
    “A great