by Staci Hart
Beth cooed. "You're so sweet to do that, Mary."
She waved her free hand, the motion sending the wine sloshing dangerously in its glass. "Oh, it's nothing. Get some rest."
"Come here, Elliot. Hug your old father." He wiggled his hand in the air impatiently, and I bent to hug him. The embrace was thin.
"'Night, Dad."
"See you in the morning," he said, dismissing me.
I left gladly, descending the stairs and slipping quietly into my sanctum.
I clicked on the light next to my bed and peeled off my clothes, walking naked to my bathroom to turn on the shower. As the steam rose and curled around me, I stood in front of the mirror for a long moment, glancing over my quiet features, my dark hair, small nose, lips like a rosy bow. The only thing loud about me were my eyes, dark and shining, heavy with all the things I didn't say, and I wondered if there would ever come a day where I'd let all those words free.
8
Here and Now
Here
(Not there, not far)
Now
(Not then, not ago)
You will find a way
To love.
* * *
-M. White
* * *
Wade
I had no idea how I was supposed to feel.
My room was cold, my hands rough against the pages as I sat in my bed reading Byron, for lack of anything more constructive to do.
I shouldn't have been reading it, but it was a torture I'd come to find comforting, pouring over the poems she used to read to me like a prayer, an homage. It was like the pain that came from running until my body ached and my heartbeat rushed in my ears, a welcomed pain. A reminder.
* * *
The waves were dead; the tides were in their grave,
The moon, their mistress, had expir'd before;
The winds were wither'd in the stagnant air,
And the clouds perish'd; Darkness had no need
Of aid from them--She was the Universe.
* * *
I closed the book and closed my heart along with it.
Dad would be home that afternoon, and every moment pressed on me in anticipation of that event, that marker that would set us on the path to the end. It was the quiet before the storm. I took comfort in the fact that once he was home, I'd have something to do, someone to tend to. An objective.
Without an objective, I was untethered.
I'd spent the morning working, filing for extended medical leave, talking to Dad's lawyer, setting up meetings, speaking to hospice to coordinate with the nurse who would help us get set up. The things that needed to be done flapped their wings in my mind like buzzards, waiting. Always waiting.
But I did them, thankful for busy hands and a busy mind. When I was idle, the fear set in, and I had no room in my heart for fear.
Deep down, I knew it was only a matter of time until the fear broke down the door and took over.
Elliot had come over early enough that coffee had just finished brewing. She'd breathed life into the room with quiet purpose, a distraction, a buffer. For my sisters, at least.
For me, she was a curse, a presence that invaded my heart and thoughts.
Sophie had answered the door, and I found that the second she was in the room, I had to get out. Something in the way she watched me, something about her body language told me she wanted to talk to me. The thought of that conversation only spurred me to leave the room.
I wasn't ready. I didn't know if I'd ever be ready.
She held my gaze for a long moment, and I wished I could give her what she wanted.
But she was in the back of my mind as I checked tasks off my list. After all these years, I was still so affected by her. I'd convinced myself I was fine, made a new life for myself, but the old dreams never died, the imprints I'd made in my mind of what our lives would be together never fading. Her refusal was the moment that split my life into two paths — what was, and what could have been.
And now I would endure what would be the most trying time of my life with the woman I'd tried to banish from my heart by my side.
It was an impossible situation with no solution.
I glanced at the clock, wondering when they'd get here, when he'd be home. Like I'd been holding up the levee, but the pressure was too great, too much, and the second he arrived, it would fall and sweep us all away.
The doorbell rang.
My heart stopped.
Dad.
I walked out of my room with my heart thumping, meeting my sisters and Elliot in the hallway, all of us wide-eyed as I opened the door to a paramedic. I showed him through the house and to the library where they'd bring Dad, and he headed back out to the ambulance at the curb.
Elliot stood in the entry with her arm around Sadie and Sophie at her side — fear colored their faces, fear that I felt whispering in my ear, knocking at that door to my heart, but when I caught a glance of my reflection, my face was calm, stoic. A mask. A lie.
We waited for a few long, silent minutes before they carried him in on a gurney. He turned his head to find us as soon as he was able, eyes searching, body relaxing with relief at the sight of us. And his eyes stayed on us as we followed them into the library. He already seemed so much thinner, so much smaller even than he'd been when I'd seen him last night, his skin pallid and slack. I wondered if I imagined it, but when he squeezed my hand and I could feel his bones, delicate and hollow, I knew it was real. He was already leaving us.
The nurse showed up in the middle of the shuffle, and when the doorbell rang, Elliot let her in, a gesture I was grateful for. Dad was home, and I didn't want to leave his side.
The nurse bustled around, chatting pleasantly as she worked on getting him hooked up, explaining what we could expect, how to administer his oral medication and what times, discussing what we could feed him, providing the list of numbers to call should anything happen. Most of it had already been covered, but it was nice all the same, something to listen to, to focus on. And my father watched me silently with his hand in mine, as if he were trying to memorize my face.
The nurse left a little while later — an aide would be by later that evening to check on him again. And with that, we were all finally alone.
Elliot turned on Dad's wireless speaker and played Chopin as he looked around the room at his things. I'd brought in a dresser for his clothes, lined with photos — my grandparents, he and my mother on their wedding day, all of us as a family, baby pictures — his life chronicled in moments.
Sophie pulled an extra throw over his legs. "I'm glad you're home, Dad."
He smiled. "Me too." His speech had improved over the last couple of days, a glimmer of hope in the darkness.
No one seemed to know what to say, all of us quiet for a few minutes, standing mutely as we soaked it all in.
Dad chuckled. "So quiet. Not contagious, you know."
The girls chuckled, and I smiled, just the slightest pull of my lips. I couldn't find any humor, though. I wondered for a moment if I'd ever feel joy again.
Sadie sat on the edge of his bed, smiling at him. "What would you like to do?"
"Talk. Nap. Ice cream."
"In that order?" Sophie asked as she took a seat on the couch, and Elliot followed.
"Yes, please."
Sadie stayed where she was at the edge of his bed holding his hand, and I sat in an armchair next to Sophie and Elliot, keeping my eyes on Dad.
He asked us questions, prompting us, guiding us even when we should be caring for him, knowing we didn't know what to say, what to do. There was too much in the air, too much between us, too many things we weren't ready to talk about, and I felt the pressure, the need to make every second count, every question, every breath and heartbeat. I wanted to tell him all my fears. I wanted to take away his. I wanted to scream and cry and fight for him. I wanted to laugh with him. But I found myself unable to say much of anything as we talked about the mundane, the meaningless, the nothings of our lives. Al
l that in a moment we should have spent in the truth, not hiding behind cordiality.
The falsity of it all sank into my heart and twisted.
Elliot stayed mostly quiet during the light conversation, listening attentively without interrupting. And when he touched upon my life, I felt Elliot's presence as if she were tethered to me, so aware of her that I struggled to form the words to answer his questions. Because the words all held hidden meaning, underscored by the loss of her.
"Germany's beautiful."
I wish I could have taken you there.
"Ben and I went to Neuschwanstein Castle last month — it was like something out of a fairy tale."
I imagined you standing in the throne room with me, reverently reciting Byron.
"Skiing the Alps was a religious experience."
Would you have loved it as much as I did? Would it have stolen your breath like it stole mine?
And then he moved on to Elliot, prompting a discussion that led her to mention that her father had come to town. She kept her eyes trained on Dad, but I knew she was as aware of me as I was of her.
The urge to get up and leave the room climbed on top of me and squeezed until it was almost unbearable — the last thing in the world I wanted to even hear whisper of was her father, or her sisters, for that matter.
Seven years gone, and that wound still hadn't fully healed.
I took a breath, trying to be still and quiet while I dismantled an M4 carbine rifle in my head and reassembled it. It was a trick I'd acquired a long time before, after long nights in Afghanistan when sleep escaped me. The repetition, the imagined motion hypnotized me, quieted my mind. Like counting to a hundred, except it made me feel safer.
The doorbell rang, interrupting the conversation that felt like a lie, a charade, and frustration twisted through me. I jumped at the chance to escape, standing to excuse myself. I opened the door to find Lou and my aunt Jeannie.
My aunt's composure was thin, and it broke when she saw me, nearly breaking mine along with it. She looked like my mother, though a little bit older, a little bit different. She had the same dark hair and hazel eyes, the same smile, her appearance close enough that I imagined for a split second that it was Mom. I wondered fleetingly what she'd do if she were there, wondered what she'd say. She always knew just what to say.
My throat closed as she pulled me into a hug, standing on her tiptoes to reach around my neck as sobs shook her body against me.
"I'm so sorry, honey. So sorry," she whispered shakily.
I said nothing. If I spoke, I'd lose hold of myself completely.
She pulled away after a long moment, wiping tears from her cheeks. "How is he?"
I ran a hand over my mouth and swallowed hard. "He's okay. Come on in."
She cupped my cheek like I was a little boy as she passed, and I was about to turn to follow her when Lou leapt into my arms, surprising me.
"I'm so sorry. I just … I hope you're all right, Wade," she said, lips near my ear, voice sincere. "I'm always here for you if you need me."
I let her go, though she hung on a second longer, sighing sadly as she took my arm. We made our way into the house together, the physical connection of her hand in the crook of my elbow, confusing me. She seemed upset, and I wondered if this was just how she was dealing with it or if she was making a pass at me. I had to think it was the former — the latter seemed ludicrous by comparison.
I broke away from her once we entered the room, though not quickly enough for Elliot to have missed it. Color rose in her cheeks, her eyes full of regret and apology and pain before they darted away, finding Jeannie across the room.
Jeannie smiled at Dad and made a joke that elicited a relieved laugh, but the look on his face said he saw my mother too. It was something we'd always said — everyone who knew the two women noted their similarities — but now, knowing he'd be gone soon … the longing for her was a physical presence in the room.
Everyone in America could tell you where they were that day. Sophie and I were in elementary school, sitting together in the gym with all the other terrified kids as we wondered what had happened and why the adults were crying. Sadie was just a baby, at home with our nanny. Dad was in class, lecturing on Dickenson. And Mom was at work at the Trade Center.
She'd called Dad from the stairwell to say goodbye as the building burned and crumbled. I'd imagined that conversation thousands of times, what she said, what he'd said, her final words. But he'd never been able to tell us. He'd tried, but he could never form the words, never pass them on to us without the act breaking him down. So instead he would pull us into his arms and whisper, She loved you more than anything, and that love will never die.
I dreamed about her every night for nearly two years. Sometimes she'd be running down the stairs and the building would fall. I could see her pain, feel it, the nightmare waking me with her name on my lips. Sometimes in my dreams she would just disappear, vanish in the middle of some mundane task. Sometimes she held me and whispered in my ear with a warm, sweet breath that she was okay. She told me that she loved me. She said it didn't hurt.
And so I decided at age ten that I was going to join the Army. I would protect all the moms from dying, all the dads from hurting, all the kids from losing their parents. It was all I wanted, until I met Elliot.
I blinked back tears at the memory, the moments piling on higher and higher. There were all of a sudden too many people in the room. Too many things to say. It wasn't real, nothing was real or meaningful. Life was cruel, and we were caught in the web of it, helpless.
I turned to leave the room, breath shallow, needing air, needing clarity. Needing solitude. "Gonna go for a walk," I muttered to the room as I passed Lou.
"I'll go with you," she offered, and I couldn't say no. Literally, I couldn't speak, couldn't refuse, couldn't explain myself if she argued, so I just grabbed my jacket and walked out with her on my heels.
It was cold and gray, the winter sky pressing down on me as I hurried down the sidewalk toward Central Park.
Lou didn't speak, and neither did I, though I cursed her name in my mind, wishing for a second's peace, wishing for a way to stand my ground against the onslaught of emotions. I couldn't control myself, couldn't control the situation. I had no leverage, no purchase. I had nothing.
It was a long time before I finally slowed to a normal place. We were out of sight of the streets, surrounded by rustling winter trees, their branches naked, their bones reaching up for the sun, so far away, hidden behind the clouds. And I felt as naked, as stripped and cold, reaching for the sun that had disappeared.
I came to a stop at the edge of the reservoir, watching the rippling surface of the water, the reflection of the sky and trees upside down.
We stood there for a long while, her presence irritating and unwanted. I wasn't allowed to feel what I felt, not with her there. I had to say something, but I had no room for pleasantries or pretense. So I gave her none.
"Why did you follow me?" I asked with my eyes on the water.
"I thought you could use a friend."
My jaw clenched. It wasn't untrue, but a friend who knew me would know I'd have preferred to be alone. Instead, I found myself in a position of some social requirement to fake it, to survive the conversation when I only wanted to be selfish, when I only wanted to grieve without concern for anyone else. It seemed like such a simple thing to ask, but there we were.
"I know you're not okay," she continued when I didn't speak, "but we don't have to talk about it." She paused, watching the water too. "I just want you to know I'm sorry, Wade, for what it's worth."
"People keep saying that, and I don't really understand what it means. It's empty, meaningless, something to say when there's nothing to say."
She didn't answer, just glanced down at her shoes, shifting on her feet.
I sighed and ran a hand through my hair, huffing a swear word.
"It's okay. You're right. I don't know what to say other than I'm sorry. I'm sorry he's s
ick. I'm sorry this is happening to you and your sisters. But that doesn't make anything better."
"No, it doesn't." My eyes fixed on a far point of the pond. "I'm having a hard time pretending right now. I just wasn't looking for company."
"You don't have to explain yourself. I can go." She turned to do just that.
I breathed deep. "I'll go with you."
She placed her hand on my arm. "You don't have to do that, I'll be fine."
"I don't want you to walk back alone. It's getting dark."
"Really, Wade, you don't—"
"It's fine," I said sharper than I meant to. "I shouldn't have left anyway."
She nodded, and we began our walk back to the house, back to the truth and the fear.
"So," she started tentatively, "we brought more food for dinner, and Jeannie and I are going to get some groceries for you tomorrow. Just let me know if there's anything specific you need and we'll pick it up."
"Thank you." The temperature had dropped, taking my mood with it. "It seems like that's always the last thing to think about. Food. Something so basic, so essential, and I have no room to even consider it."
She shoved her hands in the pockets of her coat as we walked past a copse of trees, leaving the water behind us. "We're here to help with whatever you need. Should we, ah, plan for Elliot when we bring food?"
My jaw clenched. "Probably."
Lou nodded slowly. "Sure. And she's … Sophie's friend?"
"Her best friend."
"Oh."
I felt like I needed to explain her presence, and I didn't like the sensation. So I kept it as short as possible, hoping she would take the hint and leave it alone. "She and Dad are close — he's her mentor. She's been a part of the family for almost ten years."
Speaking about her felt too personal, too close to the edge of the chasm between us, and I backed away.
"This way." I gestured to a split in the path. "It's faster."
She rubbed her hands together and put them back in her pockets. "Good. It's a little colder than I'd realized," she said with a self-deprecating laugh.
