These Three Words

by Holly Jacobs

I knew that I was expected to sit in one of the chairs, but despite the fact my knees felt weak, I couldn’t seem to.

  The room was private. Probably because it was easier if they had to deliver bad news.

  Easier on the doctors because they could get up and leave through their back door.

  Easier on the other families who were waiting to hear the outcome of their loved ones.

  I paced back and forth. The room was six steps from wall to wall.

  I wasn’t claustrophobic, but this small, windowless room was oppressive. I stood in the center, closed my eyes, and tried to picture my view of Presque Isle from the Ferncliff house, but instead I saw my room on Willow Lane.

  I was in bed, propped against a pillow, watching Gray in the bathroom shaving.

  The sheets were freshly laundered. I’d hung them outside and they smelled of summer air.

  I could almost smell the shaving cream as I watched him tilt his head this way and that, scraping the stubble from his face. He leaned over and splashed water on his cheeks and as he reached for the towel, he spotted me watching him.

  His expression changed. He didn’t smile, but rather he looked at me. And in his gaze, I could see desire, but more than that, I could see love.

  I reached for him, and without words, he understood my need . . .

  I wished I could reach for him now.

  I opened my eyes and again felt as if the walls were closing in.

  Where was the doctor?

  Would she tell me he was going to be fine or . . .

  No, there was no or. He would be fine. Gray was the strongest man I’d ever known. He had more determination than any man I’d ever met. He wouldn’t leave me.

  He couldn’t leave me. We had ice cream in the freezer at Willow Lane waiting for us, so he couldn’t go yet.

  And then I remembered that in a way, he’d left me months ago.

  But a small, honest voice reminded me I’d been the one to leave the house.

  The doctor came in with a grim expression and a tablet. I clutched my manila envelope as if it were a lifeline. Maybe it was, in a way. When I’d brought the papers to Gray, he’d been alive and healthy; his name was on them, marking his permanence.

  The doctor didn’t seem to care that I hadn’t sat down. She took a seat and as if in slow motion tapped something on her tablet and then as if remembering me, said, “Mrs. Grayson. The surgery progressed as expected.”

  I thought she’d been going to tell me he was gone.

  I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. My knees felt wobbly so I finally sank into the other chair. “So he’s going to be okay?”

  She shook her head. “He’s still touch and go. He’s in recovery now, but he’ll be heading to ICU so we can monitor him.”

  “But I can see him?”

  She nodded. “But you need to be prepared. We’re keeping him in a medically induced coma. The medication we’re using means that he needs help breathing. So he’ll be hooked up to a ventilator to help him breathe. He has IVs; there are monitors. He’s not going to know you’re there.”

  Coma. Not a coma like he’d been in an accident and might not wake up, but one that the doctors were using to keep him asleep. “How long?”

  “Mrs. Grayson, we need to get your husband’s blood pressure under control. We’ll keep him sedated until we do. It could be hours or days. Days are more likely.”

  “And if you can’t get his blood pressure under control?” I asked.

  “The stent we just put in won’t be able to do its job. The results would be catastrophic.”

  I understood what she was saying by using the word catastrophic. If he blew out that stent, I would lose him. I nodded. “I can see him?”

  “Yes. But the visiting hours are strict in ICU. They need an hour to get him settled in the unit, then you may see him. The nurses will fill you in on the specifics, but they generally want to give the patient a quiet night. So they’ll be sending you home when visiting hours are over.”

  “I planned on staying with him,” I admitted.

  “Most families say that, but it’s better for the patient if they get a quiet night, and frankly, ma’am, it’s better for the families.” There was a kindness in her voice now, not just a brisk recitation of facts. “When a patient is in the ICU it generally means that their hospital stay isn’t going to be a sprint, but a marathon. When we finally wake your husband up, he’ll need physical therapy. He’ll need to make some lifestyle changes. You need to take care of yourself in order to take care of him when he is released.”

  She stood as if she’d decided she’d given me all the information I needed.

  Gray had made it through surgery, but he was still touch and go.

  Gray would be in ICU. He’d be in a medically induced coma. He’d have tubes and wires galore. He wouldn’t know me.

  His condition wouldn’t be a sprint, but rather a marathon.

  “The nurses will fill you in with any updates when you go upstairs,” she said.

  I didn’t get up as well, but just nodded.

  She finally looked at me as if I were a person, not some obligation she had to meet. “Why don’t you go get something to eat?” she asked gently. “When you’re done, you should be able to go up to the fourth floor and see him.”

  “Thank you.” I still sat in the chair.

  She reached out and squeezed my shoulder. “I had the easy part. You’re going to have the hard part. When he wakes up you’re going to have to convince him to make some changes.”

  Changing Gray wasn’t simply difficult; it was impossible.

  I went out the patient door as the doctor went out the one she’d entered. Book reader—Harriet Mumford—was back in her chair.

  “Is he okay?” she asked.

  I nodded. “So far so good. I can go up and see him in an hour. The doctor is sending me to get something to eat.”

  She shut the book and stood. “They said I can’t see Ruby for at least that long. Why don’t I come with you? I’ll let the nurse here know where I am and she’ll get me if she needs me.”

  We checked in with the nurse who sat at a desk in the back of the waiting room. “I’ll definitely come get you if anything happens. Getting something to eat is a great idea,” she said with more pep than was probably necessary. “Just turn left and walk until you find the plant, then turn left again.”

  “You use the plant as a landmark?” I asked.

  The nurse smiled. “It’s artificial, and because we’re in a windowless section of the hospital, it does stand out.”

  We made our way down to the cafeteria. It was on the same floor . . . the lowest floor of the hospital. There were windows in the dining room, however. They pressed against the ceiling and ran the length of the room. I couldn’t see out of them, but I felt better seeing some natural light.

  Harriet and I both got a salad. She got a bottle of water; I got some ice tea. Then we both played at pushing around our food.

  “I just realized that I’ve eaten more than a couple of bites of my salad and forgot to put dressing on it,” I said.

  Harriet managed a small smile. “To be honest, I could be eating grass for as much as I’m tasting this. I know they said my daughter’s fine, but I won’t really know it until I see Ruby . . . until I hold her. I felt the same way when she was born. They said I had a daughter, but she didn’t feel real until I held her. I don’t think I’ve ever fallen so instantly in love with anyone or anything. The moment they told me I was pregnant, I was in love. Well, once I adjusted to the idea I had a baby, not menopause.” She stopped. “Are you okay?”

  I nodded, but it was a lie.

  Her words took me back to a happy night. I couldn’t decide if I’d tried to block the memory before, or if remembering that one happy moment had been simply too painful. But now, when th
e memory resurfaced, I didn’t turn away from it. I embraced it.

  I was sitting in our upstairs bathroom on the edge of the claw-foot bathtub.

  I stared at the stick in my hand. The news didn’t come as a surprise, but the confirmation made my suspicions real. I put my hand over my still-flat stomach. How would it feel as it expanded?

  How would it feel to have a baby inside me, kicking?

  How could I possibly wait all the months ahead of me to meet this baby who was part of me and part of Gray?

  “I love you,” I whispered, trying on the words for size. I didn’t need a book on babies to know that mine was tiny and not fully formed yet. And yet, those three words were such a basic truth. I loved this baby. Love for this little boy or girl permeated every piece of my being and I knew that I’d never be the same now that I knew.

  It was as if this moment marked a definite line in my life. Everything from here on out would either fall before-the-baby or after-the-baby.

  “I love you,” I whispered again. I would tell this baby every day of its life that I loved it.

  Boy. Girl. It didn’t matter. I was head over heels in love.

  What a wonderful life this child would have.

  I sat on the side of the bathtub and no longer saw the gray tiles or the large antique mirror I’d bought at an auction last year. All I could see were so many possible futures for the baby. Sports? Academics?

  A reader? Would this baby be a reader and hide away, able to lose him or herself in the pages of a book like me?

  I was already thinking about books I’d read to Wills and loved. I’d need copies for—

  “Addie?”

  I jumped from the side of the tub and landed on the cold tile.

  Gray would love this child. I knew that. But he wanted to wait a while longer before we had kids. He had a timetable in his head and this was too soon. I knew that it might take him a little longer to adjust to the idea, just as I knew that once he did he’d be thrilled.

  I took the little stick with me and hurried down the stairs.

  “There you are,” he said. “I thought maybe you got held up at work. I was going to call your cell.”

  He put his keys in the small bowl on the table to the left of the door . . . just as he always did.

  He put his briefcase under the table . . . just as he always did.

  Then he came to kiss me . . . just as he always did.

  Gray was a man who thrived on routines and plans.

  I wouldn’t allow myself to be hurt if he took a moment to acclimate to our news, I warned myself.

  “I left work early today,” I said slowly, trying to find the perfect words to share our news.

  Those were obviously not them, because he immediately looked concerned. “Are you okay?”

  “Yes. I’m fine,” I said. “It’s just—”

  “What’s wrong?”

  I was making a muck of this. I took a deep breath and tried to come at the news slowly. “Gray, do you remember back in college when you told me someday you’d ask me to marry you and I said whenever you asked, I’d say yes?”

  He nodded slowly. “I don’t know what’s going on.”

  “Give me a second. Back then, you had our future all laid out in your head. You’d build a successful business, and when you were financially stable, you’d ask me to marry you.”

  “Yes,” he said slowly.

  “Then you found this house and asked me sooner than in that original plan.”

  He nodded again. “Sometimes plans have to shift and alter.”

  I grinned. “Yes, that’s just it. Sometimes life happens and takes an unexpected turn. And that can be good. After all, it all worked out, didn’t it? I mean, you’re happy?”

  He put his hands on my hips and pulled me closer. “Addie, of course I’m happy. I love you.”

  There they were . . . those three words.

  “And I love you,” I assured him.

  “So what’s going on?” he asked.

  “I wanted to remind you that I understand you like to plan things out, but sometimes, life won’t allow itself to be scheduled, and even if something happens that’s not what you planned, that can be okay.”

  “What is going on?” he asked again.

  I held out the stick.

  “What is . . .” He didn’t finish the question. I saw the dawning of understanding on his face.

  “You’re pregnant?” he asked softly. I nodded.

  He stood still for a long moment. And slowly, his look of surprise gave way to happiness. Utter, complete happiness.

  Maybe because his expressions were so frequently inscrutable, moments like this stood out more clearly. Because there was nothing mysterious in his expression of joy. He pulled me that last step into his arms and hugged me.

  “I know this wasn’t how you planned it,” I said.

  “To hell with my plans,” he said. “We’re going to have a baby.”

  I know that I’d been in pain, but how had I forgotten that moment and Gray’s utter joy at the thought of having a child? I pressed my hands to my flat stomach and felt an ache. An ache that would never truly be healed. The memory was sweet and poignant and it made me wonder how I ever thought I could give him the papers in my other hand.

  We had spent the rest of that night talking about our baby and dreaming about what sort of life he or she would have. I saw the memory in a rosy glow. It was a moment of true and utter happiness for both Gray and me.

  I didn’t share this particular memory with Harriet. I didn’t talk about our son with anyone. Neither did Gray.

  Maybe we should have. And not just talked to each other, but friends. I knew that JoAnn would have listened, but I didn’t know what to say, so in the end, I said nothing.

  Harriet and I both threw out our salads and walked back to the waiting room.

  “Mrs. Grayson?” the nurse said. “You can go up now.”

  I nodded. “Thank you,” I told Harriet. “I hope your daughter is okay.”

  “I hope the same for your husband.”

  We took each other’s hand and squeezed it.

  I might never see her again, but, like Maude and James, I would remember her. She’d given me back the gift of that memory. That one beautiful moment of utter contentment and joy.

  As I walked out of the waiting room, that one memory helped me bear the weight of the waiting.

  Chapter Seven

  I left the operating waiting room and tried to retrace my path to the elevators. I took one wrong turn, then saw the signs for the elevator and followed them.

  I passed two open doors I hadn’t noticed before.

  It was a chapel. I peeked in. There were a few rows of chairs, and at the front was more of a long table than an altar, behind which hung long drapes.

  There were two people sitting in the room: a woman who was leaning against a man’s shoulder. I wondered if they were family or friends, or, like Harriet, James, and Maude, were simply two people sharing a horrible moment together.

  Delving into my memories had eased my anxiety, at least for a minute. I hoped that revisiting a Piggly Wiggly, or remembering Anne’s E, or the joy of loving a child had softened the pain of Maude, James, and Harriet’s waiting as well.

  I continued down the hall to the bank of elevators and rode one to the fourth floor. I followed the signs down the hall. A nurse greeted me. “Can I help you?”

  “I’m here to see . . . Graham Grayson.” I hesitated over his name. Referring to him as Graham was difficult.

  “This way, ma’am,” a nurse with a harried look about her said as she ushered me toward what was more of an opening than a proper door.

  Gray’s room was little more than a cubby. It held a small window, a bed, a chair, and machines.

  Gray had always seemed so s
olid and strong. He’d fearlessly taken on the world.

  Now a tube snaked obscenely from his throat to a machine that I knew was breathing for him. Wires dangled from his chest and led to monitors. Another tube ran from an IV bag to his hand.

  I could hardly see Gray underneath it all.

  “It is a shock to see someone you love like this,” the nurse said kindly. “But it helps to remember that all this equipment is helping him.”

  For months, we’d lived apart. I’d gone days, even weeks, without seeing him or talking to him. Now, I’d give anything if he’d open his eyes and say my name. Just Addie. For a man who didn’t articulate much, he had a way of infusing just my name with so much . . . well, love. But more than that. When he said my name I felt his belief in me. I remembered so many moments when that one word had told me so much.

  “Ma’am?” the nurse said.

  I realized that I’d been ready to dive into a memory again. I forced myself to concentrate on the present. “The doctor said he could be like this for a while?”

  “Yes. Probably days. The doctors want to make sure his blood pressure is down and under control before they let him wake up.”

  “Because of the tear and the stent?” In the here and now, I felt as if I were trying to wade through mud. I felt as if I couldn’t hold on to the information they were telling me.

  But I slipped into the past with ease and reveled in the moments I shared with Gray. Moments I’d almost forgotten about in the pain of the last year were suddenly crystal clear.

  For months, there was one moment with Gray that stood in the forefront of my mind. It was the straw that broke our marriage’s back. I’d come to think of it as my straw moment. I thought about it a lot and I hadn’t been able to get past it enough to look back at some of our better moments.

  Until today.

  Until it could be too late.

  “Your husband,” she said, as if she could sense my thoughts and wanted to remind me Gray was still my husband, “will be sedated until he’s stronger and more stable. The longer he goes on, the better his odds.”

  She didn’t say goes on what. I knew she meant the longer he continued breathing—went on living—the better his odds were of surviving.