Pack Up the Moon

by Kristan Higgins

  Most of all, she ached with the loss of a grandfather for Sebastian . . . and her own future children. Darius’s father was still alive, but Josh had never met his. There’d be no grandpa for their kids, except for sweet Ben Kim, who had already offered to stand in when the time came. There were moments when, walking home from work, she’d look at the sky and think, Can you see me, Daddy? Are you still here? Writing those letters to him . . . they helped her feel like he was still there.

  When she started feeling seriously tired, she thought she might be pregnant, birth control or not. She practically skipped to the drugstore to buy a test. She didn’t tell Josh—she’d show him the stick if it was positive—and peed on it at work.

  Negative.

  Drat. Not yet. Well, that was okay. They were young, they still wanted to take a few big trips before kids. But the tired feeling didn’t lift.

  She started eating better—spinach a few times a week, more protein—and it helped a little. But when the fatigue hit, it wasn’t like being sleepy . . . it was like her whole body was leaden. Her cough was still there, though sporadic, and she noticed she needed to clear her throat more often. Her GP told her she had bronchitis and acid reflux, chronic allergies. She took Claritin and Pepcid, and occasionally steroids if her asthma flared. She tried a new type of inhaler. It sort of helped. She started doing weight training in addition to yoga and power walks. Running tended to exacerbate her asthma.

  When they had been married for seven months and autumn was bursting into color all around them, Lauren fainted again, this time at a work site, banging her head on a concrete post. Bruce the Mighty and Beneficent freaked out at all the blood, and he fainted, too—not exactly Pearl Churchwell Harris’s finest moment as a company. They were both taken to the hospital and put in side-by-side stalls in the ER.

  “You always say to make an impression,” Lauren offered, holding a wad of gauze to her head.

  “I was picturing something slightly less gory,” he said.

  “How bad is my cut?” she asked, taking the gauze off. Eesh. Lots of blood.

  “Don’t show me! Jesus! Do you want me to fire you?”

  “You’re such a wuss,” she said. Josh was already on his way. She texted Jen, filling her in on the melodrama. Heads bleed a LOT, she typed.

  “If we lose this account, it’s your fault,” Bruce said. “Eat breakfast, for the love of God.”

  “I do eat breakfast. I have protein and carbs and fresh fruit every damn day. I just have low blood pressure.” She glanced at the monitor over her bed. Her blood pressure was low—94/52. O2 sat 93, heart rate 88, all fine. “Be nice to me, or I’m throwing this gauze your way.”

  “Nurse? Can you sedate her or something?” He covered his eyes with his hand.

  The resident came in and drew the curtain between her and Bruce. “Time to staple that closed,” she said cheerfully.

  “Can we make my boss watch?” Lauren asked.

  “Of course,” the woman said, smiling.

  “Stop it!” Bruce ordered. “I’m very fragile.”

  The doctor explained what she was about to do—clean the wound, lidocaine and staples—but Lauren was abruptly sleepy. How much blood had she lost? The staples went in without fanfare, tugging at her scalp a little.

  Then Josh burst in. “Honey! Oh, my God, sweetheart, what happened?”

  She opened her eyes and smiled. “Hi, babe. Sorry to worry you.”

  “Your wife bleeds like a Romanov,” Bruce called.

  “Hi, Bruce,” Josh said. “Lauren, what happened?”

  “I fainted and hit my head on a pole.”

  He sat on the edge of her bed and kissed her hand. “Poor thing.” It was so good to see his face, warm with concern and love. Maybe he could lie down next to her for a cuddle and a nap.

  “What about me?” Bruce asked. “I had to watch her blood spurt out of her head like a frickin’ faucet.”

  “You’re also a poor thing,” Josh said.

  “And heroic,” Bruce added.

  “That too.”

  “It wasn’t that bad,” Lauren said, lowering her voice to an exaggerated whisper. “Everyone knows Bruce is a baby.”

  The doctor was done stapling. “I’m gonna check with my supervisor, okay?” she said. “Be right back.”

  Be right back in emergency room lingo apparently meant when you’ve aged a good year, because it took hours for the senior doctor to come in. By this time, Bruce was gone, having given Lauren the next day off and orders to never bleed in his presence again.

  “Is it possible you’re . . . you know. Pregnant?” Josh asked, that light in his eyes glowing.

  “Anything’s possible,” she said, squeezing his hand. It had been a couple of months since that other pregnancy test, and she hadn’t been that religious with birth control.

  “I hope you are.” There it was, his unguarded, unfiltered love. Her heart pushed against her ribs so hard she was surprised it didn’t fall into his lap.

  “Well. I can toss the birth control anytime.”

  He thought about that a minute, her serious husband. “Actually, I have a Christmas surprise in mind. Not that you being pregnant would cancel it out or anything.”

  “What is it?”

  “It’s a surprise. Don’t ask. Don’t look at me like that. Fine. You broke me. I’m taking you to Paris for Christmas.”

  Her fatigue evaporated. “Paris! Oh, my God, Josh, really? Really?” He nodded, and she kissed him, threading her fingers through his silky hair, feeling him smile against her mouth.

  Paris at Christmas! Oh, how stinking romantic! And classy! She’d bet there were no Frosty the Snowman inflatables in Paris, no sir.

  “Excuse me,” came a voice. It was the senior doctor, the resident behind him, smiling. “We just wanted to take a listen to your chest. Your O2 sat is a little low.”

  “I have asthma,” she said. “And bronchitis, on and off.”

  “Mm,” he said, putting his stethoscope in his ears. “Breathe in and hold. Exhale. Breathe in. Again. Again. Now cough, and breathe in again. Really deep this time. Good.”

  When he was done, he didn’t look at her. “I’d like you to see a pulmonologist to be on the safe side,” he said. “We can refer you to someone. Dr. Yoshi, get Kwana Bennett’s number.”

  “Her inhalers never work for long,” Josh said. “And she has a dry cough. They said allergies first, then mold, on top of her asthma. She gets tired pretty easily.”

  “Well, aren’t we full of complaints?” Lauren muttered.

  “Right,” said the doctor, who was as warm and inviting as marble in the snow. “Give Dr. Bennett a call. Good to meet you. Take care.”

  “Such charisma,” Lauren murmured as he left, and Dr. Yoshi, who was signing a tablet, snorted. Ah. An ally.

  “Is there anything I should know?” Lauren asked the young woman.

  “I’m really only treating your scalp wound, and I’m a first-year intern. Come back in ten days, and we’ll take those staples out.” She didn’t look at Lauren or Josh.

  “Why did he listen to my lungs? Was there something weird?”

  “Your O2 sat is low. It’s under ninety-five.”

  “But ninety-three is good, right? I mean, it’s still an A.” Lauren smiled.

  Dr. Yoshi didn’t smile back. “It’s a little low. It’s a good idea to see a pulmonologist, not just your regular doctor.” She paused. “If you’re on asthma meds, they should be doing better for you, so you probably just need them adjusted.”

  There. Nothing to be scared of.

  But a cold slither of fear twined around her ankles.

  Josh looked uneasy, too. She squeezed his hand, and he squeezed back.

  But she felt fine the next day and the day after that, and any fear subsided. She called Dr. Bennett, got an appointment
in three months’ time.

  October was truly gorgeous, the yellow leaves and brilliant blue skies putting on quite a show. Thanksgiving was a loud, happy affair at Jen’s.

  At Christmas, they did go to Paris, wandering the rainy, ancient streets, marveling at the architecture, the statues, the creperies. They rented bikes and rode in the cold air along the Seine, and looked at Notre-Dame’s reconstruction. She bought presents for Sarah, Jen and Asmaa on Boulevard Saint-Germain and a tie for Darius at Dior. They ate and made love in their lovely hotel room, drank coffee outside under heaters. The only downside was that France was unaware of the miracle invention known as half-and-half.

  On their last night, they took a pedicab down through the Christmas village along the Champs-Élysées, delighting in the lights and smells, strategizing where to eat after they went up to the Arc de Triomphe. It was five or six flights of narrow, winding stairs, and Lauren felt a little winded and dizzy at the top. Asthma. Cold air.

  But she didn’t want to think about that when the Eiffel Tower was glittering with lights, when the Christmas village stretched all the way back to the Tuileries, when they were young and in love and able to take a trip like this.

  They stood there, looking out at the City of Light, arms around each other. “We’re so lucky,” Josh said.

  Nearby, a young man dropped to one knee in front of a pretty woman and offered up a ring. She burst into tears and threw her arms around him. “Oui! Oui! Bien sûr!” she laughed.

  “I hope they’re as happy as we are,” Lauren said, then kissed her husband. She had tears in her eyes. Tears of gratitude, that was all. Gratitude and awe at all life had to offer. She was going to ignore that little slither of anxiety. It would be wrong to let it into their golden life.

  26

  Joshua

  Month ten

  December

  SARAH HAD DROPPED the December letter off early, because she was going to Arizona to visit her father and myriad half and stepsiblings for a week.

  The task was a shock, and Joshua was not at all sure how to feel about it. For the first time, he questioned Lauren’s decision.

  For one, it wasn’t her business.

  For two, it might hurt his mother.

  For three, it was a lot harder than any other month.

  Hello, my darling!

  I hope last month’s task went well and you are no longer a widower who hasn’t kissed anyone since the tragic death of his wife. (I hope it was great, for the record.)

  So this month’s is on a very different note, and you might not like it, which is absolutely fine. So let’s cut right to it.

  Meet your father.

  You told me once that never knowing your father—which was his mistake, don’t get me wrong—has always made you feel a little disposable. And I understand that, honey. If I had met your father, the first thing I would’ve done is kick him in the nuts. Maybe you deserve that chance, to call him out (and kick him). Or just see what he looks like.

  I could be wrong about this, Joshua. If you hate this idea, don’t do it. I just want you to have some kind of answer. We talked about it on our honeymoon. Do you remember?

  Even if this guy is as different from you as he could possibly be, maybe—maybe—it would feel like a puzzle piece clicking in. If nothing else, it’s a distraction, a project. At best, it would give you some kind of closure.

  You know I only want the best life for you, Joshua, my truest love. But this one is up to you.

  I love you, sweetheart.

  Lauren

  He did remember that night, that conversation, and his heart gave a surge at a memory he hadn’t accessed yet, the fresh wave of love and longing, so deep he could feel it radiating out from his bone marrow, through muscle and tendon, all the way to his skin.

  They had spent the day swimming and paddleboarding and goofing around at the beach in Hanalei Bay, truly one of the most beautiful places either of them had ever seen. The water was so clear, the waves big enough to be exhilarating. They swam all morning, took a nap on a blanket under the shade of the palm trees, got lunch at a little takeout shack, went back in the water, the epitome of a newly married couple—in love, young, attractive, demonstrative, laughing. Blissfully ignorant of the future.

  Afterward, they drove back to their house on the cliff to watch the sunset. There were two rainbows that evening, followed by the pounding rain that was so frequent on the Garden Island. Then they’d gone to bed, like any good honeymooners, and made love in a long, slow session. He could smell the sunscreen on her skin, and her faint, citrusy perfume, salt and sweat, and lying there afterward, he blurted out the thing he’d thought since about their fourth date.

  “I never thought I’d find someone who would really know me, and love me anyway.”

  The words hung there in the dark, and Lauren was silent.

  Then she propped herself up to look at him. “Why, sweetheart?” she asked, and her voice was so gentle.

  He shrugged.

  “I don’t know. I never . . . loved anyone before you. I felt like there was something wrong with me. Something that couldn’t . . . connect.”

  “We all feel that way, I think.”

  “Did you, though?” he asked. “Or were you just waiting for the right guy?”

  She kissed his shoulder, her hair cool against his skin. “I was waiting for you.”

  He pulled her close, still amazed that this beautiful, smiley woman was his wife. “I guess I always figured I’d be the wrong guy. For anyone.”

  “You grew up so loved, though,” she said, and it was one of her tiny flaws . . . she hated to let people sit with a negative emotion. “Your mom’s only begotten son, Ben and Sumi call you their favorite child . . .”

  He thought a moment. “That’s true. But . . . well, I had two parents. One never stuck around even to meet me. Never wrote, called, visited, asked for a picture.” He shrugged. “It made me feel . . . a little . . .” His voice trailed off the way it so often did when he tried to describe feelings. “A little expendable. Unimportant. And growing up without having a dad, not even a shitty dad who only came by once a month . . . it made me different. Plus, Rhode Island isn’t exactly the most diverse state. The other kids would always ask what I was, if I was Latino or Asian or Arabic, and I couldn’t even answer. My mom just wouldn’t discuss it.”

  “Those Swedes and their secrets.”

  He smiled a little. “Yeah.”

  She kissed his shoulder tenderly, her hair falling across his chest. “Oh, honey. I wish we’d been friends when you were little. I would’ve punched anyone who made you feel bad.”

  “It wasn’t that, really. It was more . . . a hole in my life where a father should’ve been. A void.”

  There was a long silence.

  “Did you ever try to find him?” she asked.

  “No.”

  “Would you ever want to?”

  He thought on that. “I don’t think so,” he said. “Not at this point in my life, anyway.”

  She tucked her head against his shoulder, sliding her cool arm across his stomach. “You have the biggest heart,” she said. “You’ll be such a good dad. We’ll have the most beautiful kids in the world. Smartest, too. And they will adore you.”

  It was just what he needed to hear, with his secret fear that there was part of him that was locked away, uncaring and dead. She pressed a kiss to his chest, and another to his neck.

  “Should we practice making babies?” he asked, feeling a smile start across his face. “So we get it right when the time comes?”

  “Yes, please, husband.” She laughed, a sound as beautiful to him as the morning birds.

  What a perfect day that had been. What a beautiful, perfect day. He would always have that day, proof that he could be utterly, completely happy.

  And now, remembering th
at conversation, pressing the memory into his heart, he could see he had given her some reason to think that he would like to meet his father.

  He knew his father’s name . . . it was listed on his birth certificate. Christopher M. Zane. But first, he’d have to talk to his mom.

  * * *

  THE NEXT DAY, he sat in his childhood home. His mom had made pot roast for him, Sumi and Ben. Sometimes she insisted on being the one to cook, since Sumi took care of that most of the time.

  They ate dutifully, Sumi sneaking some seasoning out of her purse and dashing it onto her plate, then Ben’s as Stephanie’s back was turned. Josh smiled, and she passed him some. Ah. Bulgogi spice mix, the magic of paprika, garlic, ginger and brown sugar. A pity that thirty years of living next door to the Kims hadn’t made his own mother a better cook. She viewed meals as a necessary evil, good Lutheran that she was.

  “It’s delicious, Mom,” he said, winking at Sumi.

  “We have happy news,” Sumi said. “Hana’s expecting again. Five months along! We thought she was too old, but guess what? She’s still got some good eggs.”

  Ben chuckled. “Their oldest is a senior in high school. So much for retirement, but a baby is always a blessing.”

  There was a pause.

  “How wonderful!” said Stephanie, too emphatically. She carefully avoided looking at Josh.

  So here it was. The awkward moment as the Kims realized Stephanie wouldn’t be a grandmother, or Josh a father, and that Lauren was still dead.

  Sumi looked at her hands. Ben cleared his throat.

  “Congratulations,” Josh said, getting up to kiss Sumi’s cheek, clapping Ben on the shoulder the way Darius would have. Like a normal person.

  “Thank you, Joshie,” Sumi said, though her voice was subdued. “We’re thrilled.”

  “Do you think they’re hoping for a boy or a girl, or do they care either way?” he asked, and so it was that he had to make pregnancy small talk with his old friends, feeling the tug of grief like a riptide.