The little girl was terminal, too.
Lauren stood there, leaning against the doorframe on her weak and shaking legs, for as long as she could.
* * *
WHEN JOSH CAME back, shaved, adorable, smelling delicious and holding food, they ate, him sitting on the foot of her bed. Sumi had made that fabulous sticky chicken with sesame seeds, and Steph had contributed grilled brussels sprouts and mashed potatoes with sour cream to put some meat on her bones, Josh reported.
When they were done and Josh had cleared the plates, Lauren patted the bed again. Josh sat down, kissed her hand and then looked at her. His expression grew somber.
“So, honey,” she began, holding his hand tight in hers. “I think we need to talk.”
“Okay,” he said.
“I’m going to die from this,” she said, her voice shaking. “Not today. But I . . . yeah.” It was the first time she’d said it aloud. “I’ll die from this.”
“No. No, you’re not. We have to stay positive.”
“Well, I’ve been—”
In a rare move, he interrupted her. “I’ve already talked to someone at Johns Hopkins. They have something really promising in development. You’re on the list when human trials—”
“Josh, please. We have to be realistic.”
“—start, and so far, the results are fantastic.”
“In mice,” she said. He wasn’t the only one researching IPF.
“Yes. In mice.” His jaw tightened.
“I need to talk about the future.”
“And you will be fine in the future,” he said.
“Joshua!” she said, then coughed. “Please listen.”
“No!” he barked, then lowered his voice. “No, Lauren. You’re not going to die. I won’t let you.”
“Okay, God.” She forced a smile. “Good to be married to the Almighty. If you were a mere mortal, this might be a disaster, but lucky for me, you won’t let me die.”
“Don’t,” he bit off, staring at the wall. “The cure is right on the horizon.”
“For mice.” Most of these promising mouse cures didn’t make it to human trials. And even if they did, most of the patients with IPF wouldn’t be alive when that day came.
“There’s a trial coming in about a year that has—”
“Are you going to sit there and ignore what I have to say, or are you going to be my husband?”
His face cracked a little. “The trial . . . it looks good,” he said, but a few tears slid out of his eyes.
“I’m glad,” she whispered. “I hope it works.”
They sat in silence for a few minutes, the shadows lengthening as night crept toward them.
“I saw a little kid today,” she said, looking at the doorway. “Maybe five years old. She’s not gonna make it. She was so thin, and her skin was yellow. But she smiled at me.”
He bowed his head.
So he knew, too. That her life would be short.
“Honey,” she whispered, “aside from a miracle cure, I’m going to die from this. And I need to wrap my head around the idea, because I’ve been pretending it’s not true.” She paused, took a slow, careful breath. “It is true. It’s something we need to accept.”
“I will never accept this.” His voice was low and fierce.
Her eyes filled. “I need you to. So we can have more in our lives than me being sick.”
“No. I won’t accept it.” But he bent over so his head was resting on her lap, and she felt his shoulders jerk. She stroked his shiny, shiny black hair, smoothing in her teardrops as they fell.
“Josh,” she said as gently as she could, “if you’re sad for the rest of my however-long life, I won’t be able to stand it. I’ll die of a broken heart before I die from this stupid lung thing. I need you to be with me, not trying to cure me.” She started crying in earnest now and had to cough. “I’m scared, and I don’t want to be, and I can’t be brave without you. I want to be like that little girl. I want to smile on my last days. I want to love the rest of my life, and I can’t, Josh, I can’t if you’re not right here with me.”
“Oh, honey, I am. I’m here.” He got into bed with her and held her tight, her tears soaking into his shirt as she cried.
She didn’t want him desperate and working to find a cure, the days sliding past as he Googled and researched and called people at Stanford and tried to invent something that would Roto-Rooter her lungs. Because in the end, she would still die. She knew that now. And if she only had a little while left, be it months or years or even a miraculous decade, she needed him to be here. Present. Happy to be married to her.
“I understand,” he said, his voice rough. “I’ll do whatever you want. Be however you want.”
“I only want you.”
He raised his head, and his eyes were so sad. “I only want you, too,” he whispered.
“I know,” she whispered. “I know, honey.” The sadness, the grief, the fear were suddenly crushing. He gathered her in his arms and held her so close.
That little girl would never have this.
Lauren was the lucky one.
“Think of what a hot widower you’ll make,” she whispered.
And, because he was the best husband ever, because he could read her so completely, he said, “I think I might have a chance at Beyoncé.”
* * *
THE HOSPITALIZATION CHANGED her. Being able to admit that her life could end at any minute, having been that close to death, and having Josh understand where she was—it triggered something unexpectedly joyful. She beamed at her mother when Donna came to visit, let her nephew push the buttons to raise and lower her bed, looked at Sarah’s matches on OkCupid and offered advice, sent Darius to get her and Jen a double order of cheeseburger sliders from Harry’s. “I’m also eating for two, in solidarity,” Lauren told him. And later, when Josh was lying next to her in her hospital bed, she let her hands wander.
Life was good. Life was here, and she was in it. She was with the living, and she was damn lucky.
She didn’t see the little girl again. Didn’t know her name to ask after her.
When she was finally discharged, two days after Dr. Bennett promised, the ride home seemed so full of color and beauty, she felt new, her nose practically pressed against the window. It was summer! It was so green! The sky was unbelievably blue, and it seemed like every business and residence was in a competition for most beautiful window box. You could almost forget what season it was when you were hospitalized.
Sarah had been at the apartment, Josh told her, and when they went in, Lauren practically cried at the welcome sight of the place. It felt like she’d been gone for years, not ten days. Someone—Steph, no doubt—had baked a coffee cake, which was still warm and made the whole apartment smell like cinnamon. On the kitchen table, there was a vase full of yellow roses and a note that read, Welcome home, you two! in her mother-in-law’s blocky printing.
“Wow,” Lauren said. “I’m so happy.”
“Are you crying?” Josh asked. “Such a sap.”
“I am. And I’m stanky. Those CNAs did their best, but I do not smell good. See you soon, pretty boy.”
Oh, the shower, that beautiful shower. Lauren spent forty-five minutes shampooing, shaving her ridiculously furry legs and scrubbing her skin with the almond-lemony shower gel she loved. When she was finished, she was a little tired, but it was worth it. Thunder rumbled in the distance, and Lauren looked out the window, the view so familiar and beloved. The formerly clear skies were clouding over, since New England could never make up her mind about weather.
Home. She’d never take it for granted again.
“Hello, big boy,” she said, walking into the kitchen in her silky pink robe, naked underneath. She wrapped her arms around Josh’s waist and pressed her face against his shoulder.
“Nope.
First I feed you, then I shag you.”
“I accept.” She sat down to grilled salmon over an arugula salad, vegetable fried rice. It smelled like heaven—ginger and garlic—and suddenly she was ravenous.
“Who brought this?”
“I made it, thank you very much. I’m upping my cooking game.”
“Huh. Being hospitalized has its upsides.”
“Glad you think so.” He smiled. They were both so giddy that she was home that even a mention of her illness couldn’t put a damper on their moods. They ate—and ate—then had fat slices of coffee cake.
God, it was good. Josh cleared the dishes, then led her to the couch and pulled her back against his chest, his arms around her.
“Don’t I smell nice?” she asked. “Better than the hospital?”
“You do. Fish and flowers. My favorite combination.”
For a while, they just sat and looked out the big windows at the lights of the city, smeared by a thunderstorm. The distant rumble and pattering rain sounded so pretty and gentle.
“Listen,” Lauren said eventually. “That whole lung collapse and intubation . . . I’m sorry you had to go through that. It must have been terrifying.”
“Yes, it was all about me, now that you mention it.”
She laughed and snuggled closer. “I know IPF is part of my life, but I still want to love it. My life, that is. Every day. Every hour. I want to have fun and do things and go places and be irresponsible and eat bad food—just once in a while, don’t panic—and . . . and all that stuff. I don’t want to be constantly checking myself to see if I’m okay.”
“‘Get busy living, or get busy dying,’” Josh intoned in his best impression of Morgan Freeman.
“Don’t you Shawshank me. But yes.”
He turned her to face him, and his eyes were shiny. “You’re the best thing that ever happened to me, Lauren. That hasn’t changed. That will never change.” His voice grew hoarse. “And, yes, I’m terrified of losing you.”
“I’m so sorry, honey.” Hot tears slipped out of her eyes. “I don’t want to die. I don’t want to be sick. I don’t want to leave you, but I’m here now, and that . . . that has to be enough.”
He looked at her for the longest time. A tear escaped, and she wiped it away. His eyes were so kind and gentle. That flame was still there, lighting up her heart. “Okay,” he finally whispered. “It will be enough. I’m still gonna keep trying to find a cure, though. Obviously.”
“Just not twenty hours a day, because I need you. Right here. With me, not attached to the computer.”
“I get it. Yes, ma’am.”
She kissed him, his lips so soft and wonderful. “I love you with all my heart.”
“I love you with all my liver.” He grinned, and she was abruptly laughing and crying. He knew. He understood. He always did.
“Okay.” She wiped her eyes. “So am I gonna get laid, or what?”
The answer was yes. He was gentle and slow and maybe a little too careful, but they were together, where they belonged.
And it was more than enough.
19
Joshua
Month six
August
JOSH HAD INTENDED to make things right with Sarah, but she’d taken a vacation just after his outburst. If she got his text, then email, she hadn’t answered.
He was tired of himself as he was. He hated the word widower, hated the oppressing sense of fatigue that started every day. The other day, his friend Keung in London had emailed him. Said he was thinking of Josh because—wait for it—his grandmother had died, and he was really grieving, man, it was so hard, such an empty space in his life, he wanted to reach out to Josh, who’d understand.
Josh looked up her obituary. Old Gran-Gran had been ninety-seven. No. He did not understand. He wrote a furious response, sent it and then blocked Keung’s number and email address. It wasn’t like they’d been close anyway. Who needed a friend like that?
He unblocked Keung the next day and apologized for being an asshole (even if Keung should’ve been a teeny bit more sensitive).
Josh wanted to make his wife proud. He wanted her approval. After the unpleasantness with Sarah, and the resentment when she, Donna and Jen had gone through her things, the angry email to Keung, he needed to do something to show he wasn’t that guy . . . to her, and to himself.
He wanted to do something good. Something Lauren-ish. Something that required him not to simply throw money at a cause—last month, he’d donated a chunk of money to the Hope Center’s latest project, which was turning a parking lot for a former podiatry office into a children-run community garden. Asmaa had gotten a grant to buy it, but she asked him if he’d like to donate to get the tarmac ripped up, buy supplies and plants, etc. “We’ll call it the Lauren Carlisle Park Children’s Community Garden,” she said. “Even if you don’t donate a dime, we’re naming it after her.”
“I’ll donate more than a dime,” he said. “But let’s just call it Lauren’s Garden.” He told Jen and Darius about it, too, and Donna, and his own mom, and they all donated, too, as he knew they’d want to.
But he wanted to do more than just write a check, so he met Asmaa at the garden site. They were struggling to design an irrigation system, he offered a solution, and just like that, he became a volunteer. A couple of times a week, he showed up to shovel dirt, help the younger kids make trellises for peas and beans for next spring. He helped them figure out where to put the paths and where to put the beds. His mom, who was quite the gardener, brought in plants that would grow again next year, and showed the kids how to deadhead the flowers.
It was exactly what Lauren would have done. The Hope Center was where they remet that perfect night when he saw her and knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that he had been really, really wrong about Lauren Rose Carlisle.
He was functioning. He’d started cooking and eating better. He took better care of Pebbles because the dog deserved it, and looking into her eyes gave him some sense of connection. She had lost Lauren, too, so he tried. Brushed her and threw the Frisbee to her in the dog park, rubbed her belly and told her she was a pretty girl. He was tidying up the apartment more regularly. He let his mom cook him dinner a couple of times, understanding she needed to be needed, and that, like him, she was better with actions than words. He texted or called Donna every third day. He started babysitting for Jen and Darius, the way he and Lauren had.
But God, he still felt so empty. He wasn’t in constant agony anymore—it had been almost six months—but he wasn’t better, either. He went to karate and managed to smile and even laugh there; hard not to with all those little warriors. Same at the Hope Center, and when he got to see Sebastian and Octavia. He and Radley did something once in a while, too—drinks or food or a movie at Josh’s.
But those were a few hours. Three or five hours in a week that lasted one hundred and sixty-eight.
He adjusted the calendar on his computer so it only showed two days at a time, because looking at the days and weeks and months and years ahead of him . . . it was just too hard. All that time would come and go, and still Lauren would not be back. Ever.
Darius called him one muggy Saturday morning. “Dude, there’s a marathon today. It raises money for rare disease treatment and research. Jen and I are running with the kids. Sarah, too. You want in? It’s a 5K. You can handle it, right? Sorry I just told you about it. Jen is giving me a dirty look right now, because I was supposed to call you last week.”
Josh wasn’t used to this kind of rushed decision, to spontaneity. It made him nervous. “You want me to sponsor you?”
“No, brother. Just run with us.”
“Oh.” He winced, then silently chastised himself. “Yeah, okay.” Why not? He liked running, more or less, and had nothing else going on this weekend. Radley was in Chicago, doing the residency part of his low-residency program. Besides, R
adley had gone above and beyond already, and Josh didn’t want to give him friend fatigue (another term he’d learned on the forum). “Sure. I’m in.”
“Excellent! Meet us in an hour. Texting you the info now. See you there, buddy.”
* * *
THE RACE STARTED at Providence College, the beautiful Catholic school on the other side of the city from Brown and RISD. Josh brought Pebbles; Sebastian and Octavia loved the dog. He paid the entry fee, filled out a form holding the organizers free from liability should he drop dead at some point—it was pretty hot—and got a chip for his shoelace.
“Are you running in honor of someone?” the lady at the table asked.
“Um . . . yes. My wife.”
“What’s her disease?”
Such a weird question. “Idiopathic pulmonary fibrosis.”
The woman knew enough to flinch. “I’m so sorry. If you want to write her name on your number, go right ahead.”
“No, thank you.” The last thing he wanted was for people to know he was a widower, which would compel him to talk about his beautiful wife with strangers who would say stupid things like she’s at peace now and heaven has another angel.
He found Lauren’s family at their meeting spot and exchanged the usual awkward, sad hugs. He gave Jen a kiss on the forehead, and managed not to pull away from Donna. Sebastian declined to hug him; he hadn’t been the same around Josh since Lauren died. Poor little guy was only four.
“High five?” Josh suggested. Sebastian shook his head, and Josh wanted to cry. Once, the kid had run into his arms. Now, he knew Josh was broken somehow. Luckily, Pebbles came to the rescue and began licking Sebastian’s face, getting the kid to giggle and wriggle. That dog was worth her weight in gold.
“Unca Josh!” Octavia announced.
“Hi, peanut,” he said, his voice husky.
He remembered to ask Darius about work and ask Donna about Bill. People kept coming by to say hello, which Josh hated. Too reminiscent of Lauren’s funeral.
Pack Up the Moon Page 19
