A GOODNIGHT KISS ( A TRUE LIFE STORY)

Every afternoon when I came on duty as the evening nurse, I would walk the halls of the nursing home, pausing at each door to chat and observe. Often, Kate and Chris would be sitting with their big scrapbooks in their laps and reminiscing over the photographs. Proudly, Kate showed me pictures of bygone years: Chris tall, blond and handsome; Kate pretty, dark-haired and laughing. Two young lovers smiling through the passing seasons. How lovely they looked, sitting together, the light from the window shining on their white heads, their time-wrinkled faces smiling at the memory of the years, caught and held forever in the scrapbooks.

How little the young know of loving,

I’d think. How foolish to think they have a monopoly on such a precious commodity. The old know what loving truly means; the young can only guess.

As the staff members ate their evening meal, sometimes Kate and Chris, holding hands, would walk slowly by the dining room doors. Then the conversation would turn to a discussion of the couple’s love and devotion, and what would happen when one of them died. We all knew Chris was the strong one, and Kate was dependent upon him.

How would Kate function if Chris were to die first? we often wondered.

Bedtime followed a ritual. When I brought the evening medication, Kate would be sitting in her chair, in nightgown and slippers, awaiting my arrival. Under Chris’s and my watchful eyes, Kate would take her pill. Then very carefully Chris would help her from chair to bed and tuck the covers around her frail body.

Observing this act of love, I would think for the thousandth time, Good heavens, why don’t nursing homes have double beds for married couples? All their lives they have slept together, but in a nursing home, they’re expected to sleep in single beds. Overnight they’re deprived of a comfort of a lifetime.

How very foolish such policies are, I would think as I watched Chris reach up and turn off the light above Kate’s bed. Then tenderly he would bend, and they would kiss gently. Chris would pat her cheek, and both would smile. He would pull up the side rail on her bed, and only then would he turn and accept his own medication. As I walked into the hall, I could hear Chris say, “Good-night, Kate,” and her returning voice, “Good-night, Chris,” while the space of an entire room separated their two beds.

I had been off duty two days. When I returned, the first news I heard after walking through the nursing home doors was, “Chris died yesterday morning.”

“How?”

“A massive heart attack. It happened quickly.”

“How’s Kate?”

“Bad.”

I went into Kate’s room. She sat in her chair, motionless, hands in her lap, staring. Taking her hands in mine, I said, “Kate, it’s Phyllis.”

Her eyes never shifted; she only stared. I placed my hand under her chin and slowly turned her head so she had to look at me.

“Kate, I just found out about Chris. I’m so sorry.”

At the word “Chris,” her eyes came back to life. She stared at me, puzzled, as though wondering how I had suddenly appeared. “Kate, it’s me, Phyllis. I’m so sorry about Chris.”

Recognition and remembrance flooded her face. Tears welled up and slid down her wrinkled cheeks. “Chris is gone,” she whispered.

“I know,” I said. “I know.”

We pampered Kate for a while, letting her eat in her room, surrounding her with special attention. Then gradually the staff worked her back into the old schedule. Often, as I passed her room, I would observe Kate sitting in her chair, scrapbook on her lap, gazing sadly at pictures of Chris.

Bedtime was the worst part of her day. Although she had been granted her request to move from her bed to Chris’s bed, and although the staff chatted and laughed with her as they tucked her in for the night, still Kate remained silent and sadly withdrawn. Passing her room an hour after she had been tucked in, I’d find her wide awake, staring at the ceiling.

The weeks passed, and the bedtime wasn’t any better. Kate seemed so restless, so insecure. Why? I wondered. Why this time of day more than the other hours?

Then one night as I walked into her room, only to find the same wide-awake Kate, I said impulsively, “Kate, could it be you miss your good-night kiss?” Bending down, I kissed her wrinkled cheek.

It was as though I had opened the floodgates. Tears coursed down her face; her hands gripped mine. “Chris always kissed me good-night,” she cried.

“I know,” I whispered.

“I miss him so, all those years he kissed me good-night.” She paused while I wiped the tears. “I just can’t seem to go to sleep without his kiss.”

She looked up at me, her eyes brimming with gratitude. “Oh, thank you for giving me a kiss.”

A small smile turned up the corners of Kate’s mouth. “You know,” she said confidentially, “Chris used to sing me a song.”

“He did?”

“Yes,” her white head nodded, ”and I lie here at night and think about it.”

“How did it go?”

Kate smiled, held my hand and cleared her throat. Then her voice, small with age but still melodious, lifted softly in song:

So kiss me, my sweet, and so let us part.

And when I grow too old to dream,

that kiss will live in my heart.

Phyllis Volkens.

Submitted by Jane Hanna

EDITORS’ NOTE: Phyllis Volkens, the author of this story, died two days after we located her in an effort to obtain permission to use her story (see Introduction). Her husband, Stanley, told us how much it meant to Phyllis to be included in Chicken Soup for the Woman’s Soul. We are honored to include “A Goodnight Kiss” in Phyllis’s memory.

EXRACTED FROM THE BOOK, THE CHICKEN SOUP FOR THE WOMAN’S SOUL