Prose: My Whiskey, Your Whiskey

By: Laura Fostier

“The whiskey tastes really bad here,” he said.

The thought of it gave him a grimace of disgust. He turned his head to the TV. A Neil Diamond concert was on. He nodded and hummed along with the song. “Have you seen your room, pet?” He smiled at me.

“No, I didn’t know there was one for me here?,” I replied. I sat on the armchair in front of him, leaning as close towards him as I could. He started mumbling from time to time, which made it difficult to understand him. His expression had changed; he was as thin as could be. Sometimes he didn’t notice that I was there for a while, and then all of a sudden, he would look up, see me, and give me his biggest smile, and an “Oh! you’re here, pet!,” followed by a big hug, while his arms were shaking.

I often brought him presents, for he loved receiving them. Different DVDs with concerts, his favorite CDs, his guitar and Belgian chocolates. The first time I brought the chocolates, his face lit up, he threw his hands together, and clapped like a little child. He took one, two, three ... and then I had to hide the box. In the middle of the night, I received a call. Due to strong pains, he had to be taken to hospital. The diagnosis was rather unexpected: pain due to constipation and indigestion. He couldn’t remember which room was the bathroom or which year it was, but he knew somewhere there were Belgian chocolates. He had found the box and enjoyed every single one. The next day, he was in a very good mood. He was chatty and humming along to a Johnny Cash song. He sat on the chair next to the window, looking outside. His head turned as I walked in, and I sat next to him. He took my hand and smiled. Like he knew. “I’m sorry, pet.” His eyes glanced at me and he was there. He held my hand tightly and started singing a song by Jim Reevey that was covered by Presley and Cash: “I love you because you understand dear/Every single thing I try to do/You’re always there to lend a helping hand, dear/I love you most of all because you're you..”

I put my head on his shoulder. We stayed like that for a while, even after he had sung the whole song. He remembered every verse. “Let’s have a whiskey, pet, and I’ll show you my new house, and your new room!” I dried my tears. We walked hand in hand out of his room into the cafeteria of the nursing home. A nurse brought us two glasses of cold milk, we raised our glasses and each had a sip. “Told you, pet, the whiskey tastes really bad here.” 

Dedicated to my grandfather, Tommy McNamara

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