by Sandi Ward
“Stop.” I smooth down his hair and look into his eyes. “Please stop. I’m not going to meet someone else. We don’t need to figure it out this minute.”
“Look, just promise me you’ll think about it. You could go to school for one year out here and then transfer out to a California school.”
“Sam. STOP. I’ll think about it, okay? But not right this minute. Please. We’re talking about my life and my future—”
“I know. Our future.”
“This is too much. I can’t figure out my entire college path and career and living circumstances right now, in this car. Okay?”
He nods, disappointed.
We spend another hour in the car, losing track of time, kissing and talking, but also sometimes just lying there quietly. He strokes my arm, and I undo a few buttons on his dress shirt so I can touch his chest. It’s hard to explain, but I want more of him. I need more, even though he’s right next to me, and I don’t know how to stop feeling so desperate. I leave my dress unzipped so he can slip his hand in and put his palm right on the skin of my back. It’s the most intimate I’ve ever been with another person in my life, which is scary, but it feels right.
“I love you,” he says again.
“What’s that? I don’t think I heard you the first four times.”
When he tickles me, I laugh and nearly fall off the seat. He holds me tight. I never want it to end.
But it’s long past midnight, my Cinderella’s carriage is already a pumpkin, and my sister is going to be worried about where I went. So eventually we sit up, get back in the front seats, and drive slowly back to the party.
I wish this were the end of my prom night story. I wish I could say Sam takes me home, where my sister is already sound asleep, and he kisses me good night in our driveway. I wish I could say we have a wonderful romantic summer together and say goodbye before we part ways for college; then I bump into Peter somewhere in Boston and it’s just chance that we end up together.
Sometimes now, I look back and wish we never drank that beer. It taints my memory of the whole night, because of what happened later.
His Final Day
LUNA
I can’t believe Annika just said Peter follows her everywhere, like a ghost. Yet she can’t see what I see. I wish I could tell her—you’re right, Peter is here with us!
Like Annika, I once thought Peter was invincible. I thought nothing could slow him down. He did a good job of convincing me anyway, even though I saw him in vulnerable moments. But he had an inner strength that made it hard to imagine life without him.
* * *
Peter’s final day before he dies is just a normal day, like any other. The sun shines, the waves crash, the earth turns.
Our home on the beach does not have a second story on top, because it would be hard for Peter to have to go up and down stairs every day. Instead, we have a lovely, sprawling space, just the one level, with magnificent views of the sea below. But there are four wooden stairs that Peter must climb to get up onto the deck after emerging from the path that leads to the ocean.
I sit on a sandy patch of grass, watching Peter taking his time to get himself up the stairs with his crutches. Donovan waits at the bottom of the stairs behind him. They’ve both been down at the beach for hours, and their bathing suits are wet. Peter’s cheeks are pink with exertion. Donovan taps his hand on the railing behind him, a towel around his neck. Donovan is tan and just as tall as his father. He’s putting on weight rapidly, eating anything he can get his hands on. Donovan could easily sprint up the steps, but he forces himself to be patient and let his father go first.
“Sorry,” Peter mutters over his shoulder as he gets to the top.
“It’s okay.” Donovan has a bright green board he swims with, and he looks at the way it’s lying on the grass. He decides to prop it up against the railing at the bottom of the stairs. “You probably shouldn’t go out when it’s so rough. We were out there a long time. You look tired.”
“I’m fine.” Peter wipes his brow. “I need my exercise.”
It’s the middle of summer, and the air is heavy with humidity. I sit in the shade of a tall tree, glad that I never sweat. Frankly, perspiration looks gross.
“You swallowed a lot of water, didn’t you?” Donovan looks concerned.
“Whatever. I love salt water.”
Donovan scowls. “Yeah, right. Why don’t you get a waterproof prosthesis? I know they’re expensive, but you could afford it.”
“Well . . .” Peter pats his chest. “This is good. This is better. To accomplish something without it. I’m glad I don’t need a prosthesis for everything.”
I’ve watched the two of them when they go out in the ocean. They are both strong swimmers, and Donovan helps Peter get into and out of the water, leaving the crutches on dry sand.
“Lunch is ready!”
Father and son look up. Annika is calling them from the kitchen window.
Donovan is clearly relieved. “Oh, cool. I’m starving. Lemme just rinse off my feet.” He jumps up the steps, two at a time, and heads over to the hose that is sitting coiled on the deck.
Peter takes advantage of the fact that Donovan is busying himself to rest a moment. He leans on his crutches, and his eyes scan the house. I watch as he gives a quick nod, and I assume Annika has seen him from the window.
“Help clean up after lunch today, okay?”
Donovan gathers the hose up in a few messy loops and throws it in a heap. “Yeah, but, Dad . . . I actually told Colin I’d meet him at the park, so I don’t have a lot of time.”
“Donovan.” Peter’s voice gets sharp. “You can spend ten minutes helping clean up.”
The young man rolls his eyes. He readjusts his hair, which is long and gathered in a bun on the back of his head with an elastic. “Whatever.”
“No, it’s not whatever. I want you to help out. I feel like you’re never around anymore. I don’t even know where you go half the time. Are you listening? Your mom is leaving today for a whole week, and I want you to spend some time with her. We can’t do it without your mom, okay?”
“Can’t do what?”
“This.” Peter nods up at the house and then looks all around him. “Life. Everything.”
The two stand there for a moment. There’s a mild breeze coming off the ocean that probably feels good on their bare skin, but how would I know? I’m covered in fur.
I come out from under the shade of the tree and trot up the steps, moving straight to the sliding screen door that leads into the kitchen. I’d like to see what’s being served for lunch. Something smells delicious. But I turn when I hear them still talking.
“You need to help out more, and not disappear with your friends all the time. And you can’t just keep taking cash out of my wallet. You’re old enough to get a summer job.”
“Dad. Not again.” There’s a note of disgust in the younger man’s voice.
“I get frustrated when your mother or I have to drag the trash can to the curb when I’ve asked you to do it ten times. You know, there are some things that are hard for me to do, and I feel like your mom gets stuck doing too much—”
“DAD. Jesus.” Donovan hops back down the stairs so he can pick his body board up and bring it up on the deck and rinse it off. I’ve noticed Donovan would rather climb or jump than walk. I imagine Peter was the same way when he was young. “Stop talking like that. You’re fine. You’re PERFECTLY FINE, and you do as much as you can. And I already do a ton. A TON.”
“Okay, yes, you’ve taken on more this past year, but I still think—”
“For Chrissake. We just had a nice morning together and you have to end it by giving me shit? Thanks a lot. I DON’T WANT TO HEAR IT.”
Donovan is finished spraying his board and he slams down the hose. He marches over and whips open the sliding screen door so I can enter. But I balk and let him go first. I don’t approve of him speaking to his father in that tone of voice. I decide to wait for Peter.
/> Peter is a magnificent man. He is a teller of great stories. A keeper of world secrets and knowledge. Possibly a descendant of King Arthur himself! And Donovan is rude to him, all the time. It’s a shame.
When Peter finally catches up to me, he waits. “Luna. Are you going in?”
I just stare. I know he’d pick me up if he could. But until he puts his mechanical leg on, he needs his hands and arms free for his crutches and for balance. I’m too big and awkward to be picked up without two hands.
Peter leans heavily on the handgrips of his crutches, frown lines around his eyes. I’m sure he’s wiped out from swimming. He gets very still, and I wonder if he’s replaying his talk with Donovan over in his mind. He also has moments where he disappears into himself, where he shuts down as he fights through pain. I wait, keeping him company.
Just then, Annika appears at the doorway. “Are you coming?”
Peter immediately straightens up. His eyes brighten. He gets that look on his face, the one where my woman is demanding something of him and he needs to respond in the affirmative because he must never, ever disappoint her. I have come to realize that he never allows himself to be seen struggling in any way.
“Yes, I’m coming. My bathing suit’s still wet, though. I need to change, but I’ll just be a minute.”
“Okay.” She squints out at the ocean behind him, beyond the rocks and sea grass, and holds a hand over her eyes. The sun sparkles off the dark blue surface. “They said the riptides might be bad today. I wish you wouldn’t take Donovan out when they make those announcements. There’s no one out there on the beach to even notice if the two of you drowned.”
Peter leans one crutch against the wall and wipes a bead of sweat from his temple with the back of his hand. “Don’t worry. I know how to deal with a riptide, and so does Donovan. He should’ve signed up for lifeguard training this year, but he’s just being lazy.”
She makes a noncommittal sound in the back of her throat. “Still . . . What if you couldn’t get in? I wouldn’t want Donovan in the position where he had to save you. Because what if he couldn’t?”
Peter rakes a hand through his wet hair. He leans toward her and gives her a look. He drops his voice so his words are clearly only meant for her. “Sometimes a man needs to swim in the ocean, and his wife should let him.” He reaches with his free hand to touch his fingers to her wrist, as if taking her pulse, and then easily slips his hand into hers. There is something to admire in how expertly he does this, how quickly he transforms himself into a stronger man and convinces Annika to drop her complaints.
Annika stutters her words out. “I . . . I always let you do whatever you want to do, and you know it. I wouldn’t dream of trying to stop you. I’m just saying, be careful.” She pauses. “Was Donovan being awful? I heard you arguing. You can yell at him if he deserves it, you know. You don’t have to spoil him.”
Peter makes a face. “Ah, it’s all right. I remember my dad yelling at me when I was that age, and I just don’t want . . . I think things will sort themselves out in the end. That’s all.”
“Well, okay. Now, come in here and change.”
He still holds her hand. “When do you leave for Cornell?”
“I want to hit the road between three and four. That way I can spend as much of the day with you guys as possible, but also get in a lot of the driving before it gets dark. Then I’ll be back next Saturday afternoon.”
He sighs. “What kind of deranged college kids take a math class in July?”
She gives a sharp laugh. “Very, very smart ones.”
Annika waits while he takes the final step into the house. He kisses her.
“Salty,” she says. “You must have swallowed the whole ocean.” She turns back toward the kitchen. He follows, at his own pace.
* * *
Annika keeps Peter’s pictures in frames by her bed. There’s one particular photograph of Peter that’s my favorite. He is looking away from the camera, clearly amused, with a smile on his face. He’s tipping his head the way he did when he was listening to someone talk, and that someone was usually my Annika. For that alone, for the way he gave her his time and attention, I will always love him.
I once heard Annika refer to Peter as Superman. But I know now he was not really a superhero. He did not battle a sea serpent, nor was he actually related to King Arthur. But oh! He could have been. He lived life to the fullest and appreciated what he had.
So, if Peter thinks Annika should have his journal, I will steal it away from Donovan, or find a way to lead her to it.
My Great Triumph
LUNA
Danny reenters the house with a great stomping of his feet. His hands and face are as red as a hot ember from the fire. I expect him to say something about the fact that Sam and Annika are sitting together by the woodstove, but he seems to consider it and then changes his mind. He kicks off his boots.
“Everything’s clear from the street to the back of the truck. Good news . . . the snow is tapering off, and the sun is coming out. You could practically get a sunburn out there.”
Sam laughs. His gaze turns to the picture window. “I guess it’s time to take the old tire off and put the spare on.”
“Not right now. I need to warm up again.”
Annika clucks her tongue. “Don’t you want to be ready for when they plow the street?”
“Look.” Danny has taken off his big, padded coat, but left on his fleece and down vest. He comes over to the woodstove and stands near it to warm up. “Trung said the town plows won’t get to this neighborhood until after midnight, so we have a little time.”
“Are you sure, Dan?” Sam asks. “You were pretty hot on getting a jump on things this morning.”
“Yeah, but now that I know it’s just the tire, I’m not so worried. Where’s that whiskey?”
Annika frowns. “Danny, you shouldn’t drink all day.”
Lisa enters the room. “I’ll have a shot of the whiskey, if you’re pouring.”
Danny gives Annika a shrug, and she just sighs. The truth is, the humans seem to have run out of things to do, and the relentless cold must be getting to them.
I decide to go fetch that journal, if I can. I really hate to leave the warm fire. Really, really hate it. But this is important.
I slink up the stairs, quiet on light paws.
When I reach the top step, I scamper down the carpeting toward Delilah’s room, because I hear voices. As I expected, the twins are on top of Delilah’s bed. It reminds me of when Peter read books and told us stories every night.
I like Delilah’s room better than Donovan’s. After they moved into the cottage, Delilah asked her mother to hire someone to paint the room a light yellow. So now, even though the window is blocked by a shade tree, it always feels cheerful and sunny in her room. There’s a bulletin board above the bed on which she has pinned colorful papers and photos, and a strand of twinkly lights hang around the window frame. Powered by batteries, the lights sparkle even though we’ve lost power in the house.
The kids are leaning against the wall, several soft throw blankets over their legs. Donovan holds up a big, clunky flashlight to illuminate the navy-blue leather book that I recognize as Peter’s journal. I suppose I will have to wait until Donovan puts it away in its hiding spot, and then drag it with my teeth to Annika. But I’m concerned about how I’m going to actually get to the diary, because the hiding place is in Donovan’s room, in the middle of the big geometry textbook Donovan has been reading, and he always buries it under many other thick, heavy books on his bookshelf.
Maybe I can stand near the books and HOWL at the top of my lungs. And I’ll just hope Annika gets to me before Donovan does. Then I can paw at the books until she inspects them and finds the journal.
Delilah giggles and doubles over.
“God, this is just sappy,” Donovan groans. “I can’t believe Dad wrote this in high school. I’m cringing.”
“Come on.” Delilah slaps her brother’s arm. �
�He had a crush on Mom. It’s sweet. It’s just how he felt. We don’t have to read this, you know. Besides, wouldn’t you write the same way about Lexi? What would you write?”
Donovan puts down the journal next to him on the bed. “I don’t know.” He rubs his hands together, palms flat, as he thinks about it.
“Actually, why don’t you write her something? Like a poem? Or a love letter?”
“Not poetry. Ugh. But . . . you think she’d like it if I wrote something?”
“Sure. Of course, she’d like that. But the thing is, don’t just write about how hot she is, or anything superficial like that. She’ll like it if you write something from the heart. Something honest about how she makes you feel.” Delilah pauses. “I mean, if you were listening to Dad at all while he was alive, you should be able to write a pretty good letter.”
“I don’t know.” He scratches behind his ear. “Lexi might think it’s dumb.”
Delilah shakes her head, eyes big. “Nah, not if you’re sincere. She’d love it.”
“Maybe a gift would be better. Christmas is coming and I was planning to get her something anyway. Do you think she’d like a bracelet or a necklace?”
“Yeah, maybe. But isn’t jewelry kind of intimate?”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because she has to wear it.”
He laughs. “Yeah, I like that. Isn’t being intimate kinda the point?” Donovan looks down at his lap, clutching his phone. “Del, I feel like I need to go over to her house right now, and I’m going to explode if I don’t. I feel like I’m going to be physically sick if I don’t see her. I’m sweating thinking about it. I would walk ten miles in the snow and I don’t even care. You have no idea.”
She raises an eyebrow. “I have some idea. You’ve been acting pretty strange lately.”
“What am I going to do about her dad? And what about Steve? Should I ask about the photo?” His phone pings! “Wait—this is her calling me back, finally. Lemme get this.”
Donovan hops up, and I duck out of sight. “Hi,” he says in a breathy voice, walking out into the dark hallway. He stops to lean against the wall. “Oh, I know, baby, I’m sorry about your dad. He called you?” He closes his eyes tight. “He yelled at you? He said what? Jesus. Okay, well—don’t worry. Please.” Donovan clenches his fist. “Listen, we’ll figure out something. We will. I promise we will. Lexi, please don’t worry. Don’t cry, you know that I—” He turns his face toward the wall and listens. “Okay. Call me back as soon as you can. As soon as you get free.”
