The hospital room smelled like antiseptic and the faint lavender lotion Carol always kept in her purse. That scent had followed her everywhere for as long as I could remember. It was on her hands when she cooked, on her coat when we went to church, and sometimes on the pillow beside me when she fell asleep before I did.
Now it mixed strangely with the sterile hospital air.
I sat in the vinyl chair beside her bed, holding her thin hand between both of mine and listening to the slow, steady rhythm of the machines.
Beep.
Pause.
Beep.
Pause.
Each sound seemed louder at night.
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