“Not at the moment,” she said. “There may be one starting in a few months, but for now, you’ll take this one. It’s one hundred and nine dollars a month, plus forty dollars for the gi. That’s your uniform. Go on! Get changed and come back in.” Jane went into her office. “Holy shit,” she said, poking her head out. “I’m going to have quite a pair of shiners!” She beamed at him, gruesome through the blood, and closed the door.
Josh looked at Sarah, who was pretending to study something very important on her phone. “Thanks,” he said. “This is exactly what I had in mind.”
“It’ll be good for you,” she said, struggling to keep a straight face.
“First I hit an old woman, now I get to beat up children,” he said.
“See? A hobby. Now listen to Sensei and go get changed.” She smiled. “I’ll buy you dinner after.”
He did as instructed.
The kids glared at him. “Why are you so old?” one little girl asked after she’d been assigned as his partner.
“I’m like a dragon,” he said. “Old and wise.”
“I can beat you up,” she said.
“I believe it.”
She punched him in the thigh to prove it.
“Ouch,” he said.
“Lyric, no hitting your partner! Give me twenty push-ups,” Sensei Jane said from the front of the room. Her voice sounded stuffy from the swelling. The little girl gave Josh a look that said, Watch your back, and started doing Marine-perfect push-ups. She couldn’t have been more than five.
They kicked the air and hit a punching bag. The kids were damn cute, Josh had to admit. And he liked kids. Even Lyric. He admired the way they didn’t trust him or didn’t think he was anything special just because he was an adult. The way they’d rushed to defend their teacher.
When class was over, and Josh had been introduced to the parents, one of whom was a former classmate from RISD and two who had known Lauren, Sarah took him to the sushi place next door.
“Did you know I’d be in a class with kindergarteners?” he asked.
“Honestly, no. That was just a gift. I knew Jane would throw you around a little. She does that to all the new students. Well, not the little kids. But the ones who think a four-foot-ten senior citizen can’t defend herself.”
“I punched her. In the face. Not great advertising,” he said.
“Oh, one of the kids distracted her. You’ll never win another fight with her again. Enjoy the moment.”
He took a piece of spicy tuna with eel and chewed.
Lauren would’ve loved this night, Josh thought as they ate their sushi rolls and seaweed salad. She would’ve been rolling on the floor with laughter at the sight of him towering over the little kids. She would’ve approved a hundred percent.
15
Joshua
Still month four
June 12
ON LAUREN’S BIRTHDAY, he went into her closet, sat with the last pair of pajamas she’d ever worn and held them against his face, breathing in her smell.
She would’ve been twenty-nine years old today.
For their third anniversary, the gift was supposed to be leather. He’d gone to the same jewelry store where he’d bought her engagement ring, and picked out a watch with a green leather band. While in the store, he’d also bought her a pair of dangling gold earrings with pearls on the end. They would look so pretty swaying against her hair, he’d thought. Pearls were her birthstone. His plan had been to save them for June, unaware that she’d die within days of his purchase.
It seemed so long ago, that dark February day, the salesperson complimenting him on his taste and saying his wife was a lucky woman.
Today’s weather was insultingly beautiful, the air dry and clear, sun shining, midsixties, flowers bursting out of window boxes everywhere. Even the ferns and hostas Lauren had planted on the rooftop garden had come back this spring, despite Josh’s neglect of them. (And the seagull, who shat on them. Maybe it was fertilizer.)
Life was everywhere except where he most wanted it to be.
The dogwood tree idea felt stupid today. He wished there were a grave where he could lay a bouquet of flowers. He should’ve thought about that, should’ve recognized that Jen and Donna would want somewhere to go.
Someday, he’d plant the tree. Where, he didn’t know.
He texted Donna and asked if he could come over. She said yes, and half an hour later, he was in her kitchen, holding her as she sobbed. “I didn’t know it would be this hard,” she said, her voice muffled against his shirt. “I don’t know if I can stand it. My little girl, my baby.”
No, he thought. It was unbearable.
“I have a present for you,” he said, handing his mother-in-law the box, and when she saw the earrings, she stroked them gently, as if they were alive.
“Her birthstone,” she whispered.
“Yes.”
She put them on, then looked in the small mirror by the door. “Thank you, sweetheart,” she said.
Then she poured Josh a cup of coffee, and they sat on the porch, Donna’s hand on his arm.
“I heard from Jen you’re seeing someone,” he said after a time.
“Yes. Bill. He . . . he lost his son. Car accident. It’s a comfort, having someone who understands. Do you have anyone to talk to, Josh? Another . . . person?”
“I do. Online, but yes.” He thought of what Lauren might say. “I’m glad you’re seeing someone. I think Lauren would like that.”
Donna tightened her grip on his arm. “Thank you,” she whispered, then wiped her eyes again.
This day would end. They would both wake up again tomorrow, and the first birthday without her would be over and done with. For now, he’d stay here, with his wife’s mother, and let her mourn her daughter.
16
Lauren
Eighteen months left
August 4
Dear Dad,
There are days when I’m still surprised you’re gone, when I have this nanoflash of a thought: Why haven’t I seen Dad in so long? It’s kind of shitty that he hasn’t been over. Then I remember.
That’s kind of how IPF is. I leave the house and take the stairs and think, Wow, I need to get in shape, and then remember that, no, it’s not that; it’s that I have a lung disease. Or I hear a pretty girl’s name and think, That would be a great name for a daughter, and then remember that motherhood is not in my future. Dr. Bennett told me she didn’t recommend it. That I’d be at high risk for miscarriage, premature delivery, pulmonary hypertension, stroke.
I couldn’t bear to lose a baby. I can’t ask Josh to risk my life for a baby that might not happen.
But never being a mom . . . that was quite a blow, Dad. That took a lot out of me. I can’t really talk about that anymore, because some things are just too sad. I think you understand.
On the happy side of things, Josh and I spent a long weekend in San Diego. He had a meeting with someone about something—he was very private about what—so I suspect it was about IPF and how to cure it. We rented a little house up the coast in La Jolla. Everyone is happy in La Jolla, and why wouldn’t they be? For one, it’s paradise. For two, Dr. Seuss used to live there, and I think his karma still hangs over the town.
Our house had a lemon tree in the backyard with actual ripe lemons on it, and we used them in cooking, because the landlord told us he couldn’t keep up with them. Avocados, too, so we ate a ton of guacamole. We went swimming, and snorkeling, and I even tried surfing, and for a few seconds, I stood up and it was AMAZING, Dad! I was so proud that my tragic stuffy lungs could do everything, even though I conked out at three p.m. that day and slept for six hours.
And then . . . we went hang gliding. Well, I went, because Josh is afraid of heights, but he bravely stood on the ground and filmed me. Oh, Dad, it was the best. The place was on a cliff over the ocean, and
no one was going up because it was a little too windy. So we sat and waited, then went down to the street to have lunch, and then came back, and it was still too windy. I finally walked over to the guy and said, “Look. I’m dying. We’re leaving Tuesday morning. My husband will sign anything you want, but you need to get me up there.”
He asked what was making me die, and I told him it was IPF. “Well, shit,” he said. “My mom died of the same thing. Get suited up.”
Half an hour later, I was ready. Gabe, my handsome and lovely instructor, was strapped to me so I wouldn’t crash. He told me to walk/trot to the edge of the cliff, but I RAN, Daddy, practically dragging Gabe behind. I wasn’t even a little afraid. Josh yelled, “Go get ’em, babe!” and then the wind caught under the wings, and we swooped up, and I was laughing and laughing with glee. The ocean was so beautiful and the sky . . . oh, it was so clear and blue. I could see the cove where all the sea lions hang out, and the buildings in the distance, but I just wanted to look out at the ocean and sky, and even with the wind roaring in my ears, and being strapped to Gabe, I felt so . . . calm. So happy to live in this beautiful world, Dad. So glad to be me.
Even with everything.
Being in La Jolla was like a vacation from real life, which I suppose is true of every vacation. But my IPF behaved while I was there, and I didn’t cough too much, though I needed a nap every day. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. Josh said if I wanted to move here, it was a done deal. But I want to be near Jen and Sebastian and Baby X, Darius and Mom, Sarah, Asmaa and Bruce and all the little kids at the Hope Center, even if they’re disgusting germ sponges. The trip was wonderful. It was perfect. The two of us are perfect.
Love you, Daddy!
Lauren
Lauren considered divorcing Josh the next week.
The fight came out of the clear blue sky. They’d gotten home from La Jolla, started back in their regular routine. Mara, Lauren’s best friend from RISD, called to say that her boyfriend’s mutt had had puppies, and would they like one?
They sure as hell would.
Pebbles was wriggly, an Australian shepherd–Lab–dachshund–something else mutt, a girl who excelled at licking faces and chewing up shoes. Lauren was in love. That face! Those eyes! The silky ears! The warm little weight against her on the couch!
That very first day of pet ownership, when they were sitting in the living room talking in new, goofy voices, professing their love for Pebbles, Lauren spoke without thinking.
“I’m so glad we got her, Josh! That way when I die, you won’t be alone.”
The air changed. The puppy, who was gnawing on Lauren’s fingers, stopped and looked at Josh, head tilted.
Oh, shit.
His face was stone. Jaw clenched, cheekbones looking ready to cut through his skin, and then a redness seemed to pulse out of him toward her. “This fucking dog is not going to outlive you, Lauren!”
She jumped, because she had never heard him yell before, and for a second, she thought it was someone else. But nope, it was her husband.
“Jesus Christ! Don’t you ever say something so stupid again! What the fuck is wrong with you? How can you say that?”
“I—I—uh . . .”
“How do you not see it?” he yelled, and his voice was scary. “Don’t you ever, ever say something like that again!” He stood up, went to the door and punched the wall next to it, so hard his fist went right through the Sheetrock, and he did it again, and again.
“Honey! Stop! Stop!” Lauren said, running over to him. When she touched his back, he jerked open the door and flew down the stairs. She ran to the window and saw him disappear around the corner.
The puppy was whining. She gathered the little dog against her chest and took a few shaking breaths, heart roiling and churning in a sick, panicked way. There were bloody streaks on the wall. From his hand. From his fist.
She had never seen him like this before.
She closed the door to the hallway and locked it, then slid down to sit on the floor. Tears were streaming out of her eyes.
What should she do? He was almost pathologically even tempered. She didn’t even know he could get angry, let alone at her. In their entire marriage, they’d had one fight, when he didn’t want to go to her office Christmas party because it was too loud and crowded. She said they could leave early, or that he could just come in with her and stay for ten minutes and leave her and she’d get a ride home with someone else, but he wouldn’t budge. She’d gone herself, and sulked for the next day, punishing him. This man gave workshops to hundreds of people, after all. He had gone to three colleges where there were many people and noises.
He brought her flowers the next day and apologized. Came to Mara’s holiday party a few days later.
But nothing, nothing like this. She had never been scared of him, or his anger, ever. She didn’t really know he’d been capable of it.
She sniffed, wiped her eyes on her sleeve and kissed Pebbles’s little head. The puppy answered with a snore.
Lauren debated calling Steph to ask if this had ever happened, but didn’t want to put his mother in the middle. Instead, she went to Google and typed in a few words: Asperger’s, autism, anger, loss of control.
And then, after she’d read a few articles that seemed to describe what had just happened to a T, she looked up “anger when your spouse is terminally ill.”
Then she called her sister and told her everything.
“Oh, honey,” Jen said when she was done. “Can you blame him?”
“It was scary,” Lauren said, wiping her eyes.
“Were you afraid he’d hurt you?”
“No! No, of course not. It was just so shocking. Like he went Incredible Hulk on me.”
“He’s probably repressed a lot of shit. Do you guys talk about . . . oh, fuck, now I’m crying, too. Do you talk about everything, Lauren?”
“Sort of? We have. I just didn’t expect . . . this.”
“You struck a nerve.” She swallowed loudly. “And if the statistics are right, you were saying the truth.” Jen drew in a shuddering breath. “That fucking dog may well outlive you. I think I want to punch a wall now, too.”
“What do I do about Josh? I don’t even know where he went. I hope he’s talking to Ben. I hope Ben kicks his ass, quite frankly.”
“I think you should probably just . . . cut him some slack, Lauren. He loves you so much. You’re his whole world.”
She knew that.
She hung up with her sister, feeling slightly less alone. For the first time, she wondered about her and Josh. Was it selfish of her, being in a relationship that was doomed? Should she . . . divorce him? It had been really easy to picture him as her rock, her hero, but maybe this was too much for any human heart to endure.
Maybe, she thought, tears dripping onto Pebbles’s head, maybe it would be better if she cut him loose sooner than later. Because she would be leaving him. They both knew that. Divorce might be easier for him to handle. She knew he loved her; that was almost the problem.
Lauren cleaned up the Sheetrock, though obviously she couldn’t patch the hole in the wall without the proper supplies. She took the puppy for a walk. She texted Josh, then called him. He didn’t respond. She had the immature idea to pretend she felt horrible to guilt him into coming back, but she immediately dismissed it as a teenage move (though tempting, sure).
She texted again, saying that she loved him and wanted to talk. He didn’t respond. She called him. It went to voice mail.
She pictured herself going through IPF alone. Well, she wouldn’t be alone. She had Jen and Darius, Sarah, her friends, her mother, her coworkers. There would be plenty of people, and maybe a shared burden would be best (because let’s face it, she’d be a burden).
He came home around ten that night.
“Hi,” he said.
“Hi.”
He looked at the wall and didn’t say anything else.
“You scared Pebbles,” she said. “And me.”
“Sorry.”
She rolled her eyes. “Shitty apology, Josh.”
He stood there with his arms at his sides, looking as if it were the first time he was in his own body—stiff, agitated, foreign. “You can’t make jokes about your life, Lauren. Not to me.”
“It wasn’t a joke, honey. The odds are—”
“No! Stop.”
“Joshua,” she said, going to him and taking his hands. They felt like dead things, like pieces of wood. “I have a terminal disease. You know this. I know this. The odds are this dog will outlive me. Plus, she’s prettier than I am.”
“Every time you say something that’s supposed to be a joke, it’s . . . it’s like a knife in my chest,” he said.
She pressed her lips together. “I’m sorry. I don’t . . . I just don’t want to be like my mother. I have to be able to make a joke.”
“No, Lauren!” He jerked his hands away. “Not about your life! Stop trying to be Princess Butterflies and Rainbows all the time!”
She threw up her hands. “You’re the one who just punched a hole in our wall and didn’t return my calls for seven hours. Should you be lecturing me about how I should handle my own diagnosis? Just because you’re a super-genius doesn’t mean you know how to do this. No one does.”
The conversation was going off course, and Lauren’s throat locked down. Being Princess Butterflies and Rainbows (a new name, and one she kind of liked) . . . that was her thing. She clung to that. It was her defense mechanism.
“Josh, I think we should talk about it if you can . . . if we should . . .” The words were a lot harder to say out loud. “Sit down, honey. Come on. It’s me. Let’s talk.”
They sat. The puppy put her paws on Josh’s knee, and he scooped her up, not smiling.
“Honey,” she said, “if you can’t handle what’s coming, then maybe we should . . .”
Pack Up the Moon Page 15
