The Empty Jar

by M. Leighton

  Lena

  I’m resting my head against the curved neck pillow Nate bought me when the familiar tune of one of my favorite songs begins to play, quite loudly, from the house speakers. I raise my head and open my eyes just in time to see my crazy husband slide by the doorway in his sock feet. He’s a blur of black leather pants, a ripped shirt and a dirty blond wig. And he’s holding his old steel guitar.

  My smile is wide and immediate. His “look” coupled with the music perfectly conveys who he’s supposed to be.

  Jon Bon Jovi.

  Pushing myself into a sitting position, I watch the door for my Bon Jovi to reappear. When he does, he’s pretending to pluck the strings of his guitar to the beat of the song. His face is screwed up in a rocker-intense way and I nearly laugh out loud at his antics.

  Finally Nate makes his way into the room. And when the lyrics started, he begins to lip sync to Bad Medicine.

  He pretend-serenades me with words of his addiction to my love, curling his upper lip in just the right way and banging his head when the music demands it. As I take in my husband’s “mighty fine ass,” stretching out the black leather to perfection, his still-chiseled abs, highlighted by the tears in his shirt, and his always-handsome face, I think to myself that this concert has to be even better than the real thing.

  Nate is my real thing. He has been from the moment I met him. From out first kiss, standing outside the apartment I was renting right after I finished school. The night was cool and the air was damp, and Nate was my fire. I knew then that I was lost. That I would always feel lost without him.

  And now I know that if I were able to live another hundred years, I would always feel the same way. He completes me. He’s my other half. My soulmate. The other piece to the puzzle of my heart.

  When the song ends, I throw back the blanket, intending to use what little is left of my daily energy supply to show my husband just how much I love him. But before I can haul my awkward body into a standing position, the notes to another song begin to play.

  I recognize it immediately. My heart goes from racing with the thrill of my husband’s performance to a painful thump, beating along with the tune of a bittersweet love song.

  I settle back against the cushions to wait for what promises to be an unforgettably heartbreaking performance.

  Nate crosses the room to me, tugging the wig from his head and kneeling in front of me. When the lyrics of Always should’ve begun, I don’t hear Bon Jovi. I hear only the deep, scratchy voice of my husband as he sings each verse for me.

  It’s all for me.

  The pledge each word is meant to be takes on a whole new meaning as I stare into Nate’s green, green eyes. They shine with a love unlike anything I’ve ever known. Surely he must see the same thing when he looks at me. Surely he can see it. Surely he can see my heart in my eyes. It’s there. It beats only for him. And it will until it beats no more.

  As the music begins to crescendo, Nate’s eyes fill with tears, tears I know mirror my own. As he sings to me of what he’d do for me, of the price he’d willingly pay, I take his face in my hands and I kiss him, silencing his pain the only way I know how—by taking it with my own.

  I devour his words, swallowing them whole and making them a part of my soul. I ravage his mouth, memorizing the curve of his lips and the texture of his tongue. I consume his love, feeding on it like fuel to a starving engine.

  Gently, but with an urgency neither of us deny and neither of us wants to, Nate pulls me to the floor and tears my clothes from my, bearing me, body and soul, to his hungry eyes and hungrier hands. We make love in that way that people who don’t have time or might get caught do—with utter desperation.

  And when we lay spent in each other’s arms, Nate sings the rest of the song to me as my tears pepper the skin of his chest.

  ********

  I wake with a start, confused for a moment by my surroundings. I recognize the entertainment center, but it’s sideways and why am I on the living room floor?

  Then it all comes back to me in a rush and I smile, turning until I can see the face of my husband, who rests quietly behind me, probably listening to me breathe.

  “I would say we should’ve taped that, but…” I laugh lightly, thinking of our ravenous lovemaking. That’s not something our daughter will ever be old enough to see, nor will she want to.

  “Uh, I did tape it.”

  I sit up and swivel to face him fully. He’s wearing a lazy grin that makes me want to start all over again with taking his clothes off, piece by piece. “What do you mean you did tape it?”

  “You had your eyes closed, but I came in and set my phone up on the table so I could watch your reaction later.”

  “Well, you’ll get to see more than my reaction.”

  Of course, I’m not worried. There might have been a time when I’d have balked or been concerned with who might be able to hack in and see something like that, but those days are over. The few things I let take up valuable space in my life nowadays are either horrific worries or love.

  There is no room for anything else.

  Eighteen

  Let’s Make It Baby

  Lena

  Spring comes early, something that both Nate and I embrace with unusual appreciation. It feels as though the heavens have bestowed yet another gift upon us, the weather clearing and warming so much so that I’m able to go outside and sit on our screened porch for a few hours each day.

  Although the nausea and bloating haven’t increased, for which we are both exceedingly grateful, my energy has become nearly nonexistent. The signs of my disease still aren’t overly apparent in any other way, but in this manner, I know. I know what’s happening to me. This is more than just pregnancy-related fatigue. This is my body constantly fighting an invading foe.

  And losing.

  Still, when I wake each day, I’m glad I’m carrying my baby yet another step toward the goal. Bringing Helena Grace, a name which Nate insisted upon, into the world is the driving force in my life. Everything I eat, every step I take, every exhausting trip to the obstetrician, the oncologist, the herbalist, the internist, the chiropractor, it’s all done with one singular objective in mind—keeping the baby healthy.

  I force myself to cram as many tasteless yet nutritious foods into my mouth as I can tolerate without throwing them back up. I walk when I don’t feel like it, drink water when I’m not thirsty, and get acupuncture once a week for pain I don’t feel.

  Yet.

  And it’s all working. The baby is growing and thriving, all my labs are (mostly) normal, and I’ve not only convinced myself, but Nate as well that I can do this. Everything is going along smoothly, as I hoped it would, and my faith is restored a little more each day.

  Until one sunny afternoon in late March when a contraction hits. Nate and I are concluding our daily walk when the spasm takes hold. It steals my breath and causes my heart to pound with fear.

  “It’s just Braxton-Hicks, I’m sure,” I tell my husband, fighting off a sense of panic as I try to convince myself of the same thing.

  Slowly, we make our way back to the house where Nate escorts me to the bedroom. “You need to rest. You’re done for the day, young lady.” He’s attempting light and breezy, but I can see the terror in his eyes.

  “Let me use the bathroom first, and then I’ll lie down.”

  It’s in the bathroom that I see the blood.

  That’s when I realize that I might be in trouble.

  I’m only twenty-six weeks along. It’s too early to have the baby. I want to, no I need to make it to twenty-eight weeks. At least the baby will have a fighting chance then.

  Please God, please God, please God, I pray as I right my clothes and shuffle back out to the bed.

  “Nate, I don’t want you to worry, but I’m spotting. I’m going to call Dr. Stephens and see what she wants me to do,” I inform him calmly, taking my phone from my pocket and initiating the call. I will my hand to stop trembling. Nate needs my peac
e, not my panic.

  Considering my overall condition, Dr. Stephens doesn’t bother with having me monitor my contractions and my bleeding; as soon as she hears “bleeding,” she orders me to go immediately to the Labor and Delivery department of the hospital. I’m not surprised. It’s what I would do for someone in this position.

  As tranquilly as I can, I ask Nate, “Would you grab my overnight bag from the closet? The one that has all my hospital stuff in it?”

  I planned ahead for an emergency trip to the hospital, of course. My circumstances are too shaky not to. I knew, right from the beginning, the likelihood that I’d get through this pregnancy, while battling cancer, without at least one unexpected trip to the hospital was extremely low. And so here I am, making my first trip.

  I pray that I’ll be home soon, still carrying our child.

  Although he makes no comment, I can tell by his jerky, abrupt movements that Nate is in a state of alarm. But still, he does as I ask and takes the bag from the closet. “I’ll run this to the car. Be right back.”

  I can’t see him, but I assume he actually does run my bag to the car. I’d wager that the instant he was out of my sight, Nate flew through the house to the kitchen, snatched his keys from the dish on the counter, and bolted out the door and practically threw the bag in the back seat. The little mental video clip makes me smile despite my heavy, wary heart. I knew he would return to me all calm and cool and composed. No doubt he expended just enough of his excess energy and fright in that mad dash to the car to keep me from seeing it.

  But I know.

  As with so many other things in our life, I just know.

  Moments later, winded no doubt from his speeding pulse from his quick jaunt to the car, Nate reenters the bedroom and walks purposefully toward me. He bends to hook one arm through mine and the other behind my back so he can help me to my feet. I let him, partly because I know that helping me gives him a sense of control in a situation where he has none, but also because it’s needed and appreciated. The scare of the bleeding has sapped what little vigor I had left.

  Knees wobble and abdominals shake as I stand. I feel the power of Nate’s hold increase ever so slightly. Not enough to hurt or bruise me, but enough that I sense the added support.

  “It’ll be okay,” I tell him on a pant, smiling serenely. I don’t feel serene, but I’m determined to be the strength that my husband needs, just as he is constantly being the strength that I need.

  Nate holds me in place when I would’ve taken a step forward. I glance quizzically up into his face.

  “I love you. No matter what.” My stomach draws into a knot that he feels the need to tell me this now, as though he’s expecting the worst.

  “I know, baby. It’ll be okay,” I repeat, drinking down the emotion that fizzes at the back of my throat, trying desperately to take comfort from my own reassurances.

  The ride to the hospital is a blur. I try to pretend that I’m not bracing myself for another contraction or for blood to gush from between my legs and terrify us both. Neither of those things has happened by the time we reach the hospital, however, which is a good sign.

  Nate parks under the awning in the drop-off lane and runs inside to get a wheelchair, for which I’m immensely grateful. Back at the car, he helps me from the passenger seat into the wheelchair, and then ferries me inside to check in. Then I’m very kindly ushered to a room where a nurse is waiting by the bed, gown in hand.

  “Hi, Lena! I’m Tiffany. Let’s get you changed,” she says politely. I nod, ambling to the bed. “Sir, if you’ll go back out to the front desk, they have some paperwork for you to fill out.”

  Nate frowns. I can tell that my husband isn’t too keen on the idea of leaving me for more than twenty seconds at a time. He goes along, however, but not before he crosses the room and kisses me, promising to return in just a few minutes.

  “First time daddy?” Tiffany asks when Nate is out of earshot.

  “Yes. How can you tell?”

  “They all have that overprotective streak the first time. Our second, third, and fourth timers usually wait in the lounge.”

  I smile, but say nothing. No matter how many children we might’ve had, I can’t picture my Nate being comfortable in the lounge while I’m in a room experiencing God knows what.

  Expertly, Tiffany helps me out of my clothes and into a gown, then into bed. She hooks me up to the baby monitor that straps across my belly and then to a blood pressure cuff as well. Once both monitors are tracking as they should, the nurse begins her questioning. Although I know Dr. Stephens called ahead to give orders, I also know that this is an unavoidable part of the process. Paperwork, paperwork, paperwork.

  How many weeks are you? Any previous miscarriages? When did the bleeding start? How heavy has it been? Have you had contractions? How long and how far apart? Any complications with the pregnancy? Any underlying medical conditions we should know about? Are you allergic to any medications? Do you have a list of current medications?

  It’s like the prenatal Spanish Inquisition. I know the doctor called ahead, but a good nurse wants the information herself. And being a nurse myself, I know the reason behind every question. That doesn’t help to ease my mind, though. Nothing short of the doctor checking me and assuring me that everything is fine with the baby will do that.

  Within an hour, just as Nate is stepping out to get some water, Dr. Stephens arrives. Rather than going on to the cafeteria, he merely adjusts his trajectory and moves to a corner of the room where he’s out of the way.

  I smile. He’s settling in to stay. My husband won’t let anything or anyone keep him from me.

  The doctor asks a few of the same questions I already answered once, but I’m happy to do so again. All I’d pretty much gotten out on the phone was that I was bleeding. Besides, I want her to have the full picture and from me, not the secondhand word of the nurse.

  “Since you haven’t bled very much, let me go ahead and check your cervix and then we’ll get an ultrasound, okay?”

  I nod, scoot down on the bed, and brace myself for the exam. Although Dr. Stephens is a woman with small hands, she isn’t very gentle when she performs a cervical check. I’ve been on the receiving end of them too many times over the last weeks to believe that it will be any different today.

  But I’m wrong.

  Maybe it’s because I was already bleeding and a cervical examination could actually cause bleeding, or maybe it’s because she feels the need to be more delicate so as not to rock an already partially unstable boat. Or maybe it’s neither of those things. Whatever Dr. Stephens’s rationale, I’m appreciative.

  I exhale in relief when the doctor finishes.

  “You’re not dilated,” she announces, peeling off her slightly bloody glove, “and you’re not bleeding very much. Blood pressure is good. The baby’s heart rate is good. When was the last time you had sex?”

  Despite my training as a nurse, it’s still a question that causes me to blush, especially considering that my husband is less than three feet away, propped in the corner, watching me. “Two nights ago.”

  Dr. Stephens nods as she digests the information. “Okay, let’s see what the ultrasound shows.” With that, she leaves the room. Only then do I relax against the pillow.

  Nate crosses the room to my side, brushing hair from my cheek with the backs of his fingers. “Did I hurt you?” he asks, guilt in his voice and worry on his face.

  “You absolutely did not hurt me, Nate. This has nothing to do with you.”

  “Then why did she ask about sex?”

  “The cervix bleeds very easily during pregnancy. It doesn’t take much to cause spotting. I always spot after she examines me and that’s just with a couple of fingers.”

  The concern doesn’t disappear from his handsome face, but he tries to pretend otherwise. “And we both know I’m packing more than a couple of fingers’ worth.”

  His grin is lopsided and cocky and full of all the mischief I fell in love with nin
eteen years ago.

  “Yeah, you are, baby,” I purr supportively, teasingly.

  “More like a damn weapon.”

  Nate’s lopsided grin inspires an answering one of my own.

  God, how I love him!

  I love how solid he is, how hard he tries to protect me, even from his own doubts and fears. I love how he can always find a bright side, even in the darkest times. And I love how his sense of humor has never failed us, just like it didn’t today.

  “I hope you’re not going to try to get it registered.”

  His eyebrows shoot up. “You think I could?” Before I can retort, he begins nodding, chasing that silly thought. “Maybe they’d take pictures. Send them to Guinness and declare me ‘The Most Dangerous Penis Alive.’”

  “No, that sounds like you’re calling yourself a penis. Do you want people to start calling you ‘dick’?”

  After giving it a few seconds thought, Nate’s smile widens. “Not unless they call me Mr. Dick. You know, out of respect for The Most Dangerous Penis Alive.”

  Of course he isn’t serious, but I go along with him anyway. “I think the last thing that you and every other man alive need is to revere your penises any more than you already do.”

  “Oh, come on. Admit it. You love my penis.” When I roll my eyes, Nate tickles the underside of my chin with his fingertip. “Commme onnn. You can say it. ‘I adore your penis, Nate. It’s the prettiest penis in the whole wide world, Nate. Thank you for loving me with The Most Dangerous Penis Alive, Nate.’” A thump near the door has both of us stopping to listen.

  I gasp.

  Nate’s eyes widen guiltily.

  I’m sure he’s hoping as much as I am that no one was listening to our odd conversation.

  After thirty seconds have passed and we are still very much alone, Nate finally whispers, “Maybe we should keep The Most Dangerous Penis Alive between us. The world might not be ready for it yet.”

  “I think that’s best,” I reply, my words hushed and conspiratorial, too. “I’m not sure I’m ready for it yet.”