~**~

The richest marriage is not a fifty-fifty partnership, but one where love makes all the difference, fills the gaps, and bears up under the stresses of real life. "In sickness and health, in good times and bad, till death do us part."

Who knows what depths of love we have inside ourselves until it's called upon? And maybe the best lap in the race of life is the last one.
Sally Law, Author

Letters From Heaven's Gateway Six ~ Quinn and Missy

********************

Missy Elliott awoke to unfamiliar surroundings, a new bed in a strange place. She wished whoever was doing this to her would be caught and arrested.

However, the TV was on and just happened to be displaying her favorite game show.

The nurse must've heard her. He came bounding into the room with a smile. "Good morning, Sweetheart."

"I'm not, nor ever was, your sweetheart," she snapped. "By the way, I don't like this new bed and it's too far away from the television!"

Her sour attitude was ignored as the nurse continued with his pleasantries. "Breakfast is coming, Mrs. Elliott, along with your morning pills."

"I'm going out for breakfast today with my husband. It's Tuesday. If you had known that, you would've been promoted by now."

"It's not Tuesday, it's Saturday, Mrs. Elliott. Maybe he'll call today for a surprise visit. Let's get you dressed, fed, and ready. You wouldn't want to be late."

Hum. This nurse actually makes sense. How refreshing.

"So, what has the chef prepared today? That is... if this run down, fleabag of a hotel has a chef."

"We do, and a fine one. Saturday is oatmeal with fresh berries and cream. Coffee... black. How does that sound?"

"It will do, I suppose. And Nurse, bring me a piece of writing paper and a pen, too."

Missy studied her new room while she waited for her meal. A few things looked like they might be hers, but she wasn't certain.

Her eyes caught something in the morning light. Glistening in a silver frame was a wedding photograph, a young couple kissing underneath a bough of flowers. Who could that handsome man be? she wondered.

A well-worn book was near the photograph, and was marked with a clip from her hair. It remained stalled in time on page fifty. She knew it was about a little boy and his hunting dog, but that's all she could remember.

Everything Missy Elliott had requested arrived within minutes in the hands of the accommodating caregiver. She thought the food in the commercial looked more appealing than the porridge.

The hearty breakfast sat there untouched, yet again. Jello was offered mid-morning, but it was the wrong flavor or color. The nurse wasn't sure what had set her off as the green Jello went flying through the air.

During his last house call, the visiting physician explained she was in the advanced stages of Alzheimer's, and that the progressive disease and memory loss were causing her decline. Challenges with Missy's appetite and swallowing had become a daily occurrence, along with her violent mood swings.

An afternoon thunderstorm knocked out the power for a few minutes and Missy became livid at the poor nurse as he tried to console her. He pulled up a chair by the window and began to read 'Where The Red Ferns Grow.' His soft spoken voice finally lulled her to sleep.

The following day, to her surprise, she was still in the same room. The nurse was nowhere to be seen, so she called out. Nothing.

"Where's room service when you need it?" she ranted. "Ah, it's Tuesday. I better get up and dressed."

Missy slowly rolled to the edge of the bed and hit the guard rail. Determined to get up, she inched to the foot of the bed and thrust herself forward, landing on the wood floor. Luckily, her wheelchair was close by and broke her fall. The nurse came swiftly to her side and lifted her up.

"Missy! What are you doing?"

"I called," she said, apologetically. "It's Tuesday, and my husband should be here any minute. Quick! I need to write him a letter. He'll think I forgot."

Exasperated, the nurse coaxed her back in bed and handed her the pen and paper.

Missy sat confused and disoriented as tears poured down her face. The scene was so heartbreaking, the seasoned nurse cried with her, blotting away her tears. He finally spoke, attempting to ease her distress.

"Here, let me pen the letter for you. You just speak what's in your heart and I'll write it down and mail it. How's that?"

She handed the pen and paper to him with a hint of appreciation. Surprisingly, her words came as she began to speak coherently.

********************

My dearest husband,

I know we must've had a beautiful wedding and many happy years together. But I'm embarrassed that I can't remember them, or your name. I look at the pictures on my nightstand and wonder, "Who are all these people?"

Why don't you come and take me home? Tuesdays come and go without you. My mind is like cobwebs. I cry and yell all the time. The meals served at this place are repulsive. I'm sure we had better food in our life together.

Forgive me. What I really want to say is... I remember love, even though I can't recall your name.

Wait... here's something. You like your coffee black, just like I do. I had a vision of how you slept close to me at night with your head resting against me. The smell of your aftershave... sweet humming as you dried the dinner dishes.

Long ago on Christmas day, we had a baby girl; and we said we didn't need any presents because we had her and each other. Why do I remember those days and not the others? I'm not sure. My kind nurse is helping me with this letter so you'll know I haven't completely forgotten love. I know what love is, and that we had it together.

Please, don't forget me. Come Tuesday, if you can.

********************

He handed the letter to her and offered to help her with the signature. But she broke down sobbing, and was unable to sign. Her mood grew darker and darker as the day was spent.

Missy fell into a deep sleep, but still sitting up in the bed, clutching the letter. Hours passed and she hadn't moved except to breathe.

The nurse wiggled the letter from her fingers and signed it for her. He tucked it in an envelope and set it next to the wedding photo. Tomorrow was Monday, and the Hospice nurse would be here to help with her.

Quinn Elliott lowered the head of his wife's bed and kissed her forehead, leaving tears behind. "You did well, Sweetheart," he said, stroking her hair. "We married on a Tuesday and you've never forgotten that. Every Tuesday is special to you. You're right. We've had love, and lots of it."

Quinn knew that Missy had crossed over the threshold that day, and that it wouldn't be much longer. Wheeling in a cot, he made himself comfortable right beside her hospital bed and finished reading 'Where The Red Ferns Grow' aloud.

Missy Elliott died the following Tuesday, her devoted husband and caregiver lovingly seeing her off to heaven.