Free (2008) Down Where My Love Lives by Charles Martin Page A

like honeysuckle. The label said "Body Butter."

    For some reason, I don't smell too well. I mean, I can smell gardenias or bacon cooking or that perfume of Maggie's called Eternity, but on the whole, I don't walk around smelling life the way she does. Maggie can smell anything. We'll be walking in the mall, stop at the perfume counter, and she can close her eyes and differentiate between eight perfumes. To me, they all smell the same.
    But a week ago, I brought that cream from the house and put it in her bedside table. I opened the drawer, pulled out the cream, slid my chair to the end of the bed, gently slipped off her socks, and rubbed. Starting with her heel, up through the length of her arch, between her toes, and finally up her calf.
    Maggie has beautiful feet. Her toes are small, callused, trimmed. I used to kid her about having interchangeable toes, because they're all the same size. She has strong feet, a high arch, a slender heel, and a strong calf-working feet, I call them. She's a natural runner, with a much better gait than I have, and occasionally we jog along the river. But that's her second hobby. Her first love is her garden. She'd much rather dig in the dirt than run.
    AT FIRST, MAGGIE AND I COULDN'T SEEM TO DEVELOP A routine at the hospital. At some times we were like two kids on a continual first date, and at others we were like Papa and Nanny after fifty years. Sometimes I'd sit there and talk to her. Sometimes not. Sometimes the rubbing did all the talking. And sometimes, I just didn't know what else to say.

    Sometimes when I walked into the room, Maggie's forehead was real tense. Today she had a wrinkle between her eyes, so I started rubbing her feet and the wrinkle disappeared. Who knows what coma patients are doing or thinking on the other side of their eyelids? Maggie's forehead made me think that they don't sleep all the time. I'm no expert, but sometimes when I walked into the room, I could tell Maggie was awake even though her eyes were closed and she looked asleep. Her face showed it. Sometimes it was her hands, but mostly it was her face. Then there were other times when she looked asleep, and I knew she was asleep. Her whole body looked relaxed. Sitting at the end of the bed, I rubbed a few more minutes, and Maggie slipped off to sleep. And no, I never told her about the funeral.
    A wristwatch alarm on the arm of a nurse walking down the hall sounded at nine o'clock, and I woke up with my head slumped over next to Maggie's. I wiped off my drool and sat there a few minutes in the dark, letting her breath wash my face. The moon hung full, and a couple of clouds blocked the stars, but for the most part, it was clear and breezy. A sweet, South Carolina starlight serenade. If we were home right then, we'd be wrapped up in a blanket on the front porch. I tucked the covers up around Maggie's shoulders, checked her socks to make sure they covered her heels, set the cream next to the bed with the cap off, and pulled the door shut behind me.

    Walking out Maggie's door, I noticed that Amanda had taped a note to the doorjamb. Professor, come to church tonight. Daddy's preaching. 7:30. I'll save you a seat. Amanda.
    I pulled the note down, read it a second time, and thought to myself, The life of a preacher's kid. Probably front and center every time the door is open.
    Blue and I slipped down the hallway, and a fat old nurse nodded at me as I left. She glanced over her reading glasses, looked me up and down, and continued reading. The silver chains hanging down both sides of her glasses outlined her square jaw and double chin like a cowbell. Blue and I walked down the stairs and out the ER, and I started my truck. We drove out the main entrance of the hospital, and I pitched Amanda's crumpled note out the window.
    At 9:30 I rounded the last corner before home, and Pastor John's church came into view. The AME church was built in 1952. Since then, Sunday mornings had become a local spectacle. Almost a parade