A Promise is a Promise
by Tom Gumbert
He drains his whiskey, then wipes his mouth on his sleeve before shuffling to the deck railing and heaving the glass. It arches, reflecting the dying rays of the sun in a twinkle before smashing against a tree. The conversation had been difficult—hell, it had been brutal, and it left him feeling brutish. He knows what he has to do; he just hates the fact that he has to do it—but a promise is a promise.
Gripping the railing, he draws in a deep breath before exhaling while counting to ten. Lightning bugs flicker between the oaks and elms on the downside of the hill and he focuses on them, allowing their rhythm, and the alcohol, to calm the tempest of his mind.
“It’s sparkly,” she giggled holding her hand out, fingers splayed.
“Like your eyes.”
“Like my heart.”
“I can’t believe that you said, ‘Yes’.”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“Umm, because you’re young and gorgeous and perfect and could do so much better than me.”
“Nonsense. You’re by the far the best man that I’ve ever dated, and there’s no one with whom I’d rather spend my life.”
“It’s wonderful now, but what about years from now? Will you really be willing to take care of me when I can no longer care for myself?”
She twisted her mouth as she considered this. “I’ll tell you what—I promise to marry you and make every day we are together special. In exchange, you promise that when the time comes where you cannot take care of yourself, you will do everything necessary to ensure that I don’t have to.”
With a sigh he returns to the now vacant battle-site and pauses. She had retreated to the bedroom, and he can hear her giggle at cat videos, her go-to for mood improvement. The evidence of their ‘conversation,’ the test results, remained in the middle of the floor where he had thrown them. He stoops to retrieve them, totters, and balances himself by placing his hand on the carpet, momentarily reminiscing of his collegiate football days.
He brings his hand to his knee, and on the third attempt, makes it upright. As he walks to the kitchen, his eyes land on the diagnosis. Lewy body. When the doctor first told him, he thought she had said, ‘Lewdy Body,’ which he imagined a condition associated with the porn industry, not something he would have—and certainly not a cognitive disorder.
Opening the cabinet, he retrieves two tumblers and sets them on the counter next to the bottle of Jack Daniels. He had overreacted. He can admit that now. It was just so unexpected. Twenty years of bliss, and now she’s invoking the clause. He’s just not ready. Twenty years with her is simply not enough. Damn. He knows she wants him to hire help, just as he knows he won’t. He’ll honor the clause—but on his terms.
From his pocket he pulls out the vial. Why is this so hard? Goddamn child-proof containers. He loses track of how long it has taken before he manages to remove the cap and unable to control his trembling hands, spills the contents on the counter.
“What’s wrong?”
“Huh?” he looks at her and his eyes find focus.
“You were zoned out. I was asking you if were ready to come to bed but you wouldn’t answer. Are you okay?”
He looks from her to the counter and back to her.
She follows his eyes. “You made us drinks.”
He nods, though he isn’t entirely sure that he did. Someone did. Was it him? He can’t remember.
She smiles and picks up the two tumblers. “Come to bed. Maybe this will help you sleep.”
He looks around bewildered. Strange voices closing in and flashlight beams cutting through the early morning dew, creating grotesque images from Mother Nature. Who? Why? He stumbles toward a tree as he tries to hide behind it, feels the sharp pain in his foot, and falls to the ground.
They call to him—it has to be a trick. He doesn’t know his pursuers. Clawing at the low branches, he tries to stand but cannot. His heart races as they come closer, closer, closer.
“Larry, are you okay? Oh my god, your foot!” The man crouches and picks up shards of glass, blood smeared across the surface of the largest.
“Let’s get you up to the house.”
He won’t go—not without a fight.
In the backseat, teary eyes watch as the gurney is loaded into the ambulance. Suspicious glances and snippets of conversation—'Rivastigmine and alcohol, Inimical? Murder?’ pierce the air. Uniformed men place “Crime scene,” tape across the threshold.
The door opens and an officer leans in. “Do you remember your rights?”
“Yes.”
“There appears to be drug residue in the whiskey glass. Do you remember anything about that?”
He tries to focus—tries to remember...
Gripping the railing, he draws in a deep breath before exhaling while counting to ten. Lightning bugs flicker between the oaks and elms on the downside of the hill and he focuses on them, allowing their rhythm, and the alcohol, to calm the tempest of his mind.
“It’s sparkly,” she giggled holding her hand out, fingers splayed.
“Like your eyes.”
“Like my heart.”
“I can’t believe that you said, ‘Yes’.”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“Umm, because you’re young and gorgeous and perfect and could do so much better than me.”
“Nonsense. You’re by the far the best man that I’ve ever dated, and there’s no one with whom I’d rather spend my life.”
“It’s wonderful now, but what about years from now? Will you really be willing to take care of me when I can no longer care for myself?”
She twisted her mouth as she considered this. “I’ll tell you what—I promise to marry you and make every day we are together special. In exchange, you promise that when the time comes where you cannot take care of yourself, you will do everything necessary to ensure that I don’t have to.”
With a sigh he returns to the now vacant battle-site and pauses. She had retreated to the bedroom, and he can hear her giggle at cat videos, her go-to for mood improvement. The evidence of their ‘conversation,’ the test results, remained in the middle of the floor where he had thrown them. He stoops to retrieve them, totters, and balances himself by placing his hand on the carpet, momentarily reminiscing of his collegiate football days.
He brings his hand to his knee, and on the third attempt, makes it upright. As he walks to the kitchen, his eyes land on the diagnosis. Lewy body. When the doctor first told him, he thought she had said, ‘Lewdy Body,’ which he imagined a condition associated with the porn industry, not something he would have—and certainly not a cognitive disorder.
Opening the cabinet, he retrieves two tumblers and sets them on the counter next to the bottle of Jack Daniels. He had overreacted. He can admit that now. It was just so unexpected. Twenty years of bliss, and now she’s invoking the clause. He’s just not ready. Twenty years with her is simply not enough. Damn. He knows she wants him to hire help, just as he knows he won’t. He’ll honor the clause—but on his terms.
From his pocket he pulls out the vial. Why is this so hard? Goddamn child-proof containers. He loses track of how long it has taken before he manages to remove the cap and unable to control his trembling hands, spills the contents on the counter.
“What’s wrong?”
“Huh?” he looks at her and his eyes find focus.
“You were zoned out. I was asking you if were ready to come to bed but you wouldn’t answer. Are you okay?”
He looks from her to the counter and back to her.
She follows his eyes. “You made us drinks.”
He nods, though he isn’t entirely sure that he did. Someone did. Was it him? He can’t remember.
She smiles and picks up the two tumblers. “Come to bed. Maybe this will help you sleep.”
He looks around bewildered. Strange voices closing in and flashlight beams cutting through the early morning dew, creating grotesque images from Mother Nature. Who? Why? He stumbles toward a tree as he tries to hide behind it, feels the sharp pain in his foot, and falls to the ground.
They call to him—it has to be a trick. He doesn’t know his pursuers. Clawing at the low branches, he tries to stand but cannot. His heart races as they come closer, closer, closer.
“Larry, are you okay? Oh my god, your foot!” The man crouches and picks up shards of glass, blood smeared across the surface of the largest.
“Let’s get you up to the house.”
He won’t go—not without a fight.
In the backseat, teary eyes watch as the gurney is loaded into the ambulance. Suspicious glances and snippets of conversation—'Rivastigmine and alcohol, Inimical? Murder?’ pierce the air. Uniformed men place “Crime scene,” tape across the threshold.
The door opens and an officer leans in. “Do you remember your rights?”
“Yes.”
“There appears to be drug residue in the whiskey glass. Do you remember anything about that?”
He tries to focus—tries to remember...
Tom Gumbert, a Process Efficiency Manager by day and daydreamer by nature, lives with his wife Andrea and their ‘Gumbert Mountain Kitties’ in a log cabin overlooking the Ohio River near an Adena Burial Mound. He frequently thinks about death and legacy. Tom feels fortunate to have had his writing published in The Sunlight Press, Anti-Heroin Chic, Five2One Magazine, Fictive Dream, and others, alongside his literary heroes.