I’ve also learned how to defeat the hormones and win “Husband Points,” as she calls them. Her scowl is replaced by an immediate grin. One point for me. I’ll collect my prize when she returns. “You’re so sweet. But I want to go.”
“I don’t like you driving alone.”
“Excuse me, mister. I’m pregnant, not an invalid. I’m perfectly capable of going to the store, caveman.”
Pacifying her, I rub gentle circles across her stomach. “I know. But it’s my job to look after you, especially when you’re pregnant. You should take advantage of that as much as you can.”
Her laughter illuminates my soul, the way it’s always done. From the first time I heard her laugh, I knew I’d do anything to hear that sound for the rest of my life. “Oh, believe me. I plan to take full advantage. I’m only letting you off the hook because you’re building this stunning crib and my hormones are all over the place. Enjoy the break because you’re back on devotion duty tomorrow.”
“Wouldn’t have it any other way.”
She lifts my hand and kisses it, linking our fingers. “I’m just as devoted to you, you know.”
“I know. It’s a miracle we ever make it out of the house.”
Charlotte buries her face in my chest and laughs. “Right? You’d think after almost ten years of marriage, we’d be sick of the sight of each other.”
“I could never get enough of you, mi amor.”
“Ugh. Me neither. I think I’m as addicted to you as this baby is to ice cream.”
My eyebrows raise. “That much?”
She slaps my chest. “Shut up.”
I silence the rest of her laughter with my mouth. It doesn’t take long for the spark to turn into an explosive inferno.
“I can’t tempt you to stay? I can think of something more delicious and satisfying than ice cream.” My hands slide up her thighs. Cupping her from behind, I pull her closer into me. My hard body rubs against her soft one. “Plus I have my very own pickle for you. It’s bigger than anything you can find at the store.”
Our laughter blends into one. I conceal my face in her neck when she throws her head back. “Oh, my God. That was terrible. You’re so ridiculous sometimes.”
“Only with you.” The simple truth rings with my gratitude, replacing the laughter in her eyes with tenderness.
“You know how much I wish you’d share your smiles and laughter with the world. But a small part of me loves that you save them just for me.”
“My smiles belong only to you, mi amor. And to this little one.”
“Our little secret, huh?”
“Exactly.”
“Okay, you have to let me go now because you’re starting to make it impossible. The sooner I go, the sooner I can come back and both the baby and I can feed our… hunger.” She licks her lips as she stares at me, making me want to take them between my teeth.
“You’re hungry, mi amor?” She steps back as I step toward her.
“Mmhmm. Starving. So stay away.” Grasping the hand, she’s holding out, I pull her back into my chest. Our arms wrap around each other’s bodies like a vine.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to go to the store for you? I don’t mind.”
“Thank you, honey, but no. I’ve got this. Plus, I need to get out of the house and get some fresh air. I’m going a bit stir crazy in here. You finish working on this incredible crib.” She runs her palms over my bare chest, playing with the coarse hair. “By the time I come back, our daughter will be fed and have a beautiful place to sleep. See? We’re already acing this parent thing.”
I reach out and tuck her hair behind her ears. “You’re going to be an amazing mother, you know? You already are.”
“And you’re going to be an incredible father. Our daughter is almost as lucky as I am to have you.”
“No. I’m the lucky one.”
“We both lucked out.”
I nod, unable to disagree. People search forever for what we have. Most never find it.
I sigh. “Okay, if I can’t seduce you into staying, I’ll have to let you go.”
She giggles. “Thank you. Good try, though. You almost had me.”
“I’ll always have you. Te amo.” I kiss her and then slide my hands around her stomach. “Y tu también, Señorita Isabella,” I use the nickname I already have for my daughter. I’m sure I’ll create more when she arrives. A smile breaks across my face when she kicks against my hand, recognizing my voice.
“We love you, too.” Charlotte rests against my chest for a few moments before walking to the door. Just before she leaves, she stops and blows me a kiss over her shoulder.
And with a final wave, she’s gone.
If I had known it would be the last kiss, I would have glued her lips to mine, so that they could never have been parted.
If I had known it would be the last look, I would never have blinked, not wanting to miss a single second of her smile.
If I had known those would be our last words, I would have said everything my heart never told her. All the poems I had yet to write.
I would have said so much. Felt so much. Done so much.
But I didn’t know.
So I let her go.
Unaware I was turning an everyday moment into a lifelong regret.
Half an hour later and Charlotte still isn’t back from the store. Trying to ignore the heavy knot in my gut, I focus on building the canopy for the crib. It might be nothing. Knowing my wife, she’s run into someone she knows and has lost all track of time catching up and gossiping. My unsteady breathing is just due to overexerting myself, the thick tension in my shoulders a result of not taking a break.
Focus on the crib. She’s always accused me of worrying too much about her safety. Those instincts have gone into overdrive since she became pregnant. I’ve never been more of a caveman. My primal instincts have taken over my mind and body. I no longer take time to think things through; I just act on emotion. What is it Americans say? Get a grip.
If Charlotte were here, she’d laugh at my behavior. But she’s not. I silence the reasons running through my mind as to why that might be and turn up the volume on the radio. A Spanish song from my childhood crackles through the speaker. I hum along as I sand the wood. Time comes. Time goes. And Charlotte is still gone.
I’m securing one of the beams, when an invisible punch to my stomach takes me by surprise. The hammer slips from my grip, just missing my bare feet. The sound of it hitting the ground is drowned out by the white noise in my head. All the air has left my body in a rush. Clutching my stomach with one hand, I grab on to the wall with the other, trying to recover my breath.
The pain subsides, but the nausea remains. Something is wrong. My mind races with panic and confusion. As I try to straighten, my sweaty palm slides down the wall. Wrenching a hand through my hair, I catch a glimpse of my frantic eyes in the window pane.
I search for my phone and fumble with the touchpad. My hands shake as I bring it up to my ear. When her beloved voice hits my ears, it does nothing to calm me.
‘Hi, this is Charlotte Cruz…’
I want the real thing, not a recording. I need the real thing. A growl escapes my tight chest as I wait for the voicemail to finish. When the beep comes, my words tumble out in a rush.
“Charlotte. It’s me. Where are you, mi amor? Call me back as soon as you get this. Right away. You should be back by now and I’m worried. Call me. I love you.”
That feeling of unease won’t go away. My father may not have approved of my career choice, but he taught me always to follow my gut and my heart. Right now, the life is being squeezed out of my stomach, and my heart is beating out of control. I don’t like what either of them is telling me.
Not wanting to just sit around and do nothing, I jog out of the room to find my T-shirt and shoes. The dry fabric clings to my damp chest as I shove it on. I’m probably over-reacting. It’s probably nothing. But poets see the world in different shades of grey. We know that probably is
a dangerous word. Too many lives have been destroyed, wars fought, and destinies decided over probably. When it comes to my wife and daughter, them probably being fine isn’t good enough.
I’ll take my car and see if I can meet her on her route. She’ll be annoyed, but it will give me some peace of mind. I’m shoving my arm into my jacket, car keys in hand, when the phone rings. Releasing a breath, I bring it straight up to my ear.
“Charlotte?”
The beat of silence that follows is the longest of my life. In this moment, I realize time is not equal.
“Is this Mr. Cruz? Mr. Gabriel Cruz?”
My heavy arm falls to the side. The keys drop out of my hand. My head shakes frantically from side to side in denial of what hasn’t yet been said.
“Hello? Mr. Cruz?”
My vision blurs as the ground shifts beneath my feet. For the second time in an hour, I’m grabbing onto the wall for support. I consider cutting the kind voice on the other end off. Then I won’t have to hear what they have to say. But I know I need to hear it. Need to know if…
“Sí. Y-yes.”
“Mr. Cruz, this is Shana from San Francisco General Hospital. I’m afraid your wife, Charlotte, has been involved in a serious car accident.”
I almost choke on my sharp breath. “Is she…”
“I’m afraid I don’t know. The only information I have is that she’s been rushed to surgery and is in a critical condition. Are you able to get here quickly?”
“I’m on my way.”
My voice is emotionless, my movements robotic. From the intense, violent feelings of a few minutes ago, now there is nothing. All the air, all my thoughts, all my feelings have been swallowed up into a vacuum.
I don’t know how I manage to make it to the hospital. I don’t know how I manage to keep control of the car. I don’t know how I cope when I realize the reason my usual route there has been closed off by the police. I just don’t know.
One minute, I’m standing, dazed, in an empty room at home.
The next, I’m standing, dazed, in an empty room at the hospital.
The Waiting Room, they call it.
Even in my numb state of terror, the irony is not lost on me. I don’t want to wait. I just want my wife. But I have no choice. So I wait. And I wait. And I wait. To be told what my grieving body knows to be true.
My shattered heart already knows what my brain is refusing to acknowledge.
My broken soul mourns a truth my lips won’t speak.
My leaking eyes and trembling hands accept what my heart denies.
The loneliness and loss coursing through my frozen veins have not yet reached my soul. But they will. And so I wait, for them to catch up.
When the doctor walks in minutes or hours later, the wait is over. As a poet, I’m used to observing people. I pride myself on finding meaning in the mundane, and beauty in the ugliest of places. But until this moment, I’d never realized that loss had a look.
If he looks like this, I have no idea what must be in my eyes. Whatever is there must be too difficult to stare at, because he lowers his gaze.
Staring at my nose, the doctor takes a rough breath as he removes his surgical hat. “I’m sorry, Mr. Cruz. We did everything we could to save your wife and unborn baby but her injuries were just too severe.”
Twenty-three words.
I’ve written hundreds of thousands over the course of my career, but in the end, it took just twenty-three words to end my life. In fact, it took just eight:
Charlotte is dead.
Isabella is dead.
I’m dead.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” he murmurs.
My head is yanked up by a sudden rush of emotion. “I don’t want your apology. I want my wife. I want my d-daughter.” My voice cracks at the thought of the little girl I’ll never get to meet. To know. To love. To protect.
I tried to do all of those things before she’d even taken a breath. And because I failed to do the last and most important one, to protect her, she never will. She may never get to be a person, but she will always be my daughter.
His pity is washed away when burning water fills my eyes. Emotion simmers within me, but doesn’t boil over.
The loss is just too great to comprehend. Not one, but three lives have ended in this hospital today. Yet, I know it’s not registering as it should. I’m reacting to the devastating news on a human level. Like someone might do when watching a heartbreaking story on the news, or hearing about the tragedy of an acquaintance.
But on a personal level? The full implication of my wife and daughter being dead hasn’t hit me. A part of me still expects her to come back from the store, wearing the smile that belongs to me. My muscles still expect to slide my hands across her expanding stomach later and whisper words of love to our growing daughter. My lips are still planning to kiss her and drink in as much of her vitality as I can. My body is burning to fulfill the promises we made earlier, to show my love in the most physical form of poetry.
The doctor continues to speak to me, but I don’t hear anything else.
My wife hasn’t just taken my heart and our baby with her.
She’s taken sound.
She’s taken light.
She’s taken color.
She’s taken joy.
She’s taken everything with her.
But me.
I’m not sure how much time passes, when the door to the waiting room opens again. I’m not sure what to call it now that the wait is over. I should leave, but I have nowhere else to go. I can’t face going back to the house yet.
The police came by to talk to me not too long after the doctor left. They believe Charlotte was on her way back home when she swerved to avoid an animal on the road and crashed into a tree. It sounds like her. Anger that she and our baby died over something so pointless wars with cold affection that she died trying to help others. Just like she did when she was alive.
The strongest emotion, however, is regret. Regret that I didn’t go to the store instead of her. Regret that I wasn’t by her side. Regret that I didn’t die instead. Or too.
Wondering if another anxious or grieving person is coming in to wait, I raise my slumped head. A kind-faced doctor, different from the one who destroyed my world, smiles at me.
“Mr. Cruz?” For some reason, her delicate voice reminds me of my mother’s. Mama, if you’re up there, please look after my girls… like I wasn’t able to.
“Gabriel.” My mind has already associated my formal name with hearing bad news. I can’t take anymore. “Please call me Gabriel.”
“Hi, Gabriel. I’m Doctor Stevens, but you can call me Brittany. On behalf of everyone here at San Francisco General, I’d like to offer our deepest and sincere condolences for your immense loss.”
I nod, because thanking her seems wrong.
“Can I take a seat?” I shrug when she gestures to the empty chair next to me.
“Look, Gabriel. I’m going to be honest with you. My job is difficult because of the sensitive nature of these situations. I always hate this part, but—”
“What part?”
She sighs. “Are you aware that your wife had signed up to be on the organ donor registry?”
Every muscle in my body seizes up.
“Medics on the scene found a card in her wallet along with her other identification. She’s been on the list for many years. Did you know about her wishes? Had she ever spoken to you about wanting to donate her organs?” My nod is so stiff I’m surprised she notices it. “I know how painful and difficult this must be, but—”
“Do you?”
We watch each other for several moments, a current of understanding passes between us. “Yes. I do,” she says in a small voice. “Not only through being a doctor, and seeing both sides of losing and gaining life, but both my father and my brother died in a freak fishing accident several years ago. They were both on the donor list, but my mother and I had to make the decision to honor their wishes. Even though i
t’s something we both believe in, especially me, it still wasn’t easy.”
I bury my head in my hands. The same palms that held my family earlier and let them go. “What do you want from me?”
Waiting until I’ve looked up, Dr. Stevens tilts her head. “Permission to honor Charlotte’s wishes. As her next of kin, you can override them if you wish. I’m not here to make judgments. As I said, I understand how difficult it must be. But in many ways, it can be comforting.”
“How?” Comfort is nowhere to be found in this situation.
“Well, think of it this way. Not only can you be happy knowing you’ve done what she would have wanted, but she’ll be saving lives. It means her death won’t be in vain. And in a way, it means she’ll never die. Because of Charlotte, others will get the chance to live. I didn’t know her, but I can’t imagine a more beautiful legacy for her life. Don’t we all want to leave the world a slightly better place?”
I stay silent for several moments while I contemplate her words. My brain is heavy and overloaded with information. I just can’t take anymore. But I know I have to. For Charlotte.
It’s strange because although I feel her loss, I also feel her presence. My eyes snap around the room, but I don’t see her. I guess I’m going to have to get used to that. Still, I feel her, sitting on the other side of me, her head resting on my shoulder as she tells me to do the right thing. She always was my conscience. Now she’s destined to forever be the voice in my head. I let her down when she needed me most. I won’t do it again.
Somehow, words manage to push past the lump in my throat. “Not her eyes. You can take everything but her eyes.”
Dr. Stevens’ own eyes mist as she nods and squeezes my shoulder. “Okay.”
Charlotte’s once-whispered words ring through my mind.
“Why everything but your eyes?”
“Because I want to be able to see heaven. And to be able to watch over you.”
“No. It’s my job to watch over you. You will never have to watch over me.”
“Gabe. Honey, you don’t know that for sure. Nothing is guaranteed. I know this is difficult, but we need to talk about it, just in case. Hope for the best, but prepare for the worst, okay?”
This Old Heart of Mine Page 20
