The Empty Jar

by M. Leighton

  I find myself watching her videos more and more often, turning inward, withering a little more each day. I know it isn’t a good path to be on, but I’m helpless to stop it.

  I just can’t let go.

  I sit alone in my bedroom floor most nights, watching Lena’s beautiful face, listening to her beautiful voice, and remembering our beautiful life. The balmier the nights become, the closer I get to the anniversary of her death, the deeper I fall into depression. Grace brings me joy, of course, but even my bright, beautiful, intelligent daughter can’t thaw what’s frozen within me.

  But as she did in life, my Lena is determined to save me, even in her death.

  It’s a Sunday in late May when I feel her for the first time.

  Grace and I’d gone to church this morning, something I found an easy and soothing habit to adopt, and it had left me thinking even more about Lena. It’s yet another instance I wish my wife could be with me. I know without a doubt that if Lena had had the benefit of holding a miracle in her arms, having something tangible to join her to her God, she wouldn’t have struggled with Him the way she did.

  Lena found her peace eventually. But it came at quite a price.

  Grace and I decided to spend the rest of the afternoon at the park and then go out for dinner. Nissa and Mark had invited us over, but I politely declined. I didn’t feel like being social. I never did, actually. Not anymore.

  So as usual, I throw myself into my daughter, into her world. It’s a soothing escape into love and away from memories.

  It’s later in the night when Grace totters through the house and wants to go into the pantry. I assume she wants to pick a different after-dinner treat.

  But that’s not the case.

  “What do you want, little girl?” I ask when Grace putters around aimlessly from shelf to shelf. She grunts once, that petulant sound that I love and try not to smile at because I know I shouldn’t encourage it. “What?”

  Patiently, I let my daughter make her way through the small room. Suddenly, as though she just remembered what she wanted from the shelves, Grace turns. I watch with wide, curious eyes as she walks to the back corner of the pantry, leans against the wall, and points straight up.

  My eyes travel up, up, up to the only thing above my child’s head.

  “Mines,” she says, tilting her head back to look at me, to make sure I’m paying attention to her.

  Slowly, I reach up onto the nearly-empty corner shelf. With curiously numb fingers, I take down the only thing that is anywhere near where my daughter is pointing.

  It’s an old empty Mason jar.

  With holes poked in the lid.

  In my chest, I feel an ache so sharp and painful that I have to reach out and steady myself on the shelving as I struggle to suck air into my throbbing lungs.

  The last time I saw this jar was when it was full of lightning bugs and sitting on the nightstand. My wife was curled up against me, reciting an old rhyme to our baby. I don’t remember freeing the lightning bugs, although I must’ve. But it had to have been Patricia or Nissa who washed it and stowed it away because I honestly can’t remember putting it there. Or even seeing it for that matter.

  Yet here it is.

  Finally, I exhale one shaky puff of air and look down to where my baby bounces at my feet. What would bring her here? How could she possibly have known this jar was here?

  I wrap my stiff fingers around the cool glass and take it off the shelf. I stare into the empty jar. I see my own face reflected on the shiny surface, but more than that, I see that it’s not empty at all. Among the four slightly rounded walls of this container rests one of my life’s most precious memories. Inside this jar there is love and family and a beautiful legacy that my wife wanted to share with our child. This moment, this moment where my child brought me here, will be added to it, as will all the laughs and squeals and yawns that we put in it from here on.

  And it will never be too full. It will never overflow.

  And it will never be empty.

  My eyes sting as I squat down in front of Grace and hold out the old jar. “Is this what you want?”

  Light brown eyes, so like her mother’s, light up, and she reaches for the container. I let her take it from me as I hold her still and steady. As she studies the jar, I drop my forehead onto the side of her head, and I breathe.

  More deeply than I have in months, I breathe.

  I inhale the soft baby scent of her. It soothes my insides even as I conjure up a crystal-clear image of my beautiful Lena. She’s laughing, holding Grace close to her chest as Patricia and I chase lightning bugs around the backyard to put into this very jar.

  I remember it like it was yesterday.

  I’ve watched the video of it so many times. I know every word, every step, every expression by heart.

  I grab Grace, securing the jar with one of my much bigger hands, and carry her from the pantry. I waste no time in heading for the patio. Although I haven’t seen a single firefly yet this year, something in my gut tells me what I’ll find.

  I yank back the curtain, fling open the door, and there, filling my backyard with their cheerfully winking bellies, is a sea of lightning bugs.

  Grace squeals a shrill, happy delightful sound, and I stop. Stop right in my tracks and just stare out at the display.

  There are hundreds of them. Maybe thousands. I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many in one place. But they’re here, in my backyard, on an early spring night, and I know it’s no coincidence.

  As I stand taking it all in, a single luminescent insect floats gracefully onto the patio. Instantly, it catches my eye. I watch as it, almost purposefully, drifts in a lazy pattern that leads it directly to me, and then lights on the back of my hand.

  Tears pool in my eyes as I watch the soft flash of the bug’s underbelly. It sits perfectly still, as do I, as though something as mysterious as the night is passing between us.

  And it is.

  It’s mysterious and healing and awe-inspiring.

  In a strangled voice, backed only by the sound of my daughter’s gleeful squeak, I whisper to the little bug, “Hi, baby. I’ve missed you so much.”

  Twenty-eight

  Pictures of You

  Nate

  Twenty-three years later

  I pat the last piece of tape across the twelfth box and set it aside. It still makes me feel a little tight in the chest to think of my baby girl moving out, getting married.

  Growing up.

  I realize this is something I’ve dreaded for a long time now.

  It’s time to let her go.

  Since my beautiful Lena died, Grace has been the center of my universe. Over the past twenty-three years, every star in the vast sky of my life is a moment, an event, a milestone involving Grace.

  Crawling, walking, reading, writing. Her first words, her first tooth, her first day of school. Her first slumber party, her first boyfriend, her first broken heart—there are literally thousands of bright spots in my existence since Lena died and at the nucleus of every single one is Grace.

  Her life, her love, her laughter, keeping her safe and helping her find her way were the only objectives in my life. Everything else came in at a very distant second. Or maybe even third.

  In the beginning, I didn’t think I would ever be able to recover from losing my wife. It was touch and go for a while, but the night of the lightning bugs…well, that seemed to start me on the right path. Just like I’m sure Lena knew it would.

  After that, healing began. Slowly. Too damned slowly, but still, it began. I remember Lena telling me one time that if you put away a memory long enough, it will eventually fade. That’s how she protected herself from her mother’s abandonment after her father died. She tried to put the memories away so they’d fade and cease to be painful.

  Maybe that’s why I worked so hard to never put my memories of her away, to keep them as fresh as I possibly could. I never wanted them to fade. But the truth of the matter is, whether you put t
hem away or not, they fade. Time and age make sure of that.

  And so, while I still remember many things about Lena and our marriage like they were yesterday, a portion of the pain finally faded.

  Finally.

  Over the years, it’s gotten easier to breathe and laugh and live. But that’s as far as I ever wanted to move on. Lena was the love of my life. My one and only. Grace was my life after her, my whole world, and now, at sixty-five years old, I’m not sure how I’m going to fill the remainder of my days when she’s gone.

  When she’s gone…

  I pant, suddenly short of breath. Sometimes, just the thought of letting her go…

  Of losing the only other love in my life…

  A stab of pain pierces me between the ribs and strikes me right in the heart. Closing my eyes tightly, I grit my teeth and force myself to take deep breaths despite the ache as I massage my sternum with the heel of my hand. I wait until it passes.

  Any other man my age might fear he’s having a heart attack, but not me. I’ve suffered pains in my chest from around the time Lena died until now. It literally hurts me to think of her, but I enjoy it in a perverse way. It never fails to take me back to the place where I felt closest to her right before she died. It’s like reliving a lesser version of her death all over again, but in doing that, it seems as though I just saw her a few days ago.

  That alone is worth the pain.

  It also makes me anxious for the day when I’ll see her again, for real. I can almost picture her if I concentrate hard enough.

  So I do.

  It’s that thought, that image, the one where I can see Lena’s face reflected on the backs of my eyes, as clear as it was when she was still alive, that makes the pain go away. It’s as if God Himself is promising me that one day it won’t hurt anymore.

  One day, I’ll really get to see her again.

  Until then, hopefully Grace will give me a grandchild or two, but not for a while. I’m not selfish enough to pray for one right away. I want her to get settled in her life, in her marriage before she dives into adding so much more responsibility to it.

  I smile as I imagine my sweet, intelligent, funny daughter bloated with pregnancy. She’ll look even more like her mother than she already does.

  And that’s a lot!

  When the ache subsides, I resume my task and stack the last few boxes beside the door, turning to look back at the room that Grace has occupied almost every night of her life. All except for her college years.

  Those were tough as hell!

  I hadn’t been away from her for more than a few hours since the day she was born. Even when she’d slept over at her friends’ houses growing up, she’d always wanted me to pick her up early. Like sunrise early. So I always did. I’d take her for breakfast, and she’d tell me all the gossip she’d learned through the course of the evening.

  I’ve been fortunate in that we’ve always had such a good relationship. I can’t imagine how hard it would’ve been if we hadn’t been close. Without Lena…it would’ve been a catastrophe!

  But we have been. And still are. Even after she started spreading her wings and became her own woman, we’ve remained close.

  Pride bubbles up in me. I used to sit in the rocking chair in Grace’s room when she was tiny and listen to her breathe. I’d try to picture her as a teenager and as a young woman. I’d try to imagine what kind of man she’d marry, where she would want to live, what she’d choose to do with her life. I should’ve known, being her mother’s daughter, that she’d be drawn into service for others. She’s every bit as caring and nurturing as Lena, and she’s grown up hearing stories about her mother from everyone who knew her. I suppose it was a no-brainer that she’d end up being a nurse, like her mom. She even got her first job in an oncology unit and loves it.

  Just like her mom.

  If I remember correctly, her exact words were, “It fits me like a non-latex glove, Daddy.”

  I smile.

  My Grace…

  My saving grace, as I call her.

  And she is. Still. After all these years. I can’t fathom what my life would’ve been like after Lena without my little girl. I’m glad I didn’t have to. And I have one person to thank for that.

  Lena. My beautiful, beautiful Lena.

  “Daddy?”

  Grace startles me from my musing.

  “In here,” I call in answer.

  My throat lumps up for a second. She even sounds like her mother since she’s matured.

  Seconds later, Grace appears in the doorway. Her smile is wide and bright and full of sunshine. My heart swells with love and pride. “Wha’cha doing?”

  “Packing up the last of your things.”

  “Daddy!” she chastises good-naturedly. “I told you Robbie and I would do that tonight.”

  Dusting off my throbbing hands, I shrug my stiff shoulders. “No big deal, honey. I wanted you two to be able to relax. This is your last night before all the wedding craziness starts.”

  “People get married every day, Dad.”

  “That’s a fact. But how many of them do it in Rome?”

  “Probably a lot of Italians.”

  I can’t help grinning. “Smart ass.”

  She sticks out her tongue pluckily and, for about twenty seconds, I consider kidnapping her and running away, anything to keep her my little girl forever. But I know that time is past.

  Gone.

  Over.

  I have to let her go. It’s as much a part of life as death is, and that is something I’ve become intimately familiar with.

  Grace’s eyes cloud with concern. “Are you sure this won’t be…too much for you?”

  “I’m positive. I wouldn’t miss this for the world. And the seats are surprisingly comfortable.”

  “I don’t mean just the flight. I mean the whole trip. Rome… All the memories.”

  I cross the room and lay my hands gently on my daughter’s shoulders. “Gracie,” I begin, using one of my pet names for her, “I couldn’t ask for more. Your mother…” The lump in my throat inflates like a hot air balloon. I have to clear it before I can continue, but even then, I can hear the emotion straining through my vocal cords. “Your mother would be thrilled. And I can’t think of any place I’d rather be than a city where I spent so many wonderful days with her. I’m looking forward to it. I promise.”

  Her smile returns tentatively. “Okay. If you’re sure.”

  “I’m sure.”

  She pops up on her tiptoes and kisses me on the cheek. I want to take her in my arms and hold on to her, hold on tight and never let go. But I can’t. I can’t risk her getting a glimpse of my true feelings on all of this. I don’t want her to know how hard this has been, and will be, for me. But I’ll get through it. For her. For my daughter.

  Much like my wife, I would do anything for Grace.

  “Where’s the little chick?” comes a second female from somewhere in the vicinity of the kitchen.

  “Back here!” Grace says in a louder voice.

  Within half a minute, Nissa appears in the hall. She walks up to Grace, slings an arm over her shoulders, and hauls her in for a smacking kiss on the cheek.

  “You packed yet, kiddo?” she asks.

  “Daddy just finished, even though I expressly forbid him to touch any of this.”

  Both Nissa and Grace both turn their disapproving gazes toward me, but in Nissa’s I see the laughing tolerance she’s always had for the way I indulge and spoil my little girl. “Thick-headed as always, I see,” Nissa says, shaking her head. Then she looks back to Grace. “No, I meant for your trip. You know the honeymoon.” She wiggles her eyebrows, and a sly grin plays with the corners of her mouth. I can remember finding her wearing just such an expression as she sat with my wife, having coffee early in the mornings. I woke to find them that way countless times.

  I push that thought out of my head in favor of what’s happening right now. “Oh no!” I say firmly, holding my hands up to stop what might be
a disaster.

  “Oh no, what?” Nissa asks, her features arranged in her most innocuous fashion.

  “You are not helping her pack for her honeymoon!”

  “And why not?” Nissa’s hands go to her hips. I know what that means. Grace does, too. If the finger comes out…

  “If you recall, I got to see firsthand what kind of sh— stuff you pack for Europe.”

  A mixture of happiness and deep melancholy swirl through me.

  Europe.

  Lena.

  Lingerie.

  Kisses in London, Paris, Rome, and several more countries than I ever thought I’d kiss my wife in.

  “Nathaniel Grant, you ought to be ashamed! Do you seriously think I’d pack things like that for my little Gracie-Lou?”

  I say nothing, just eye her suspiciously. I don’t think. I know.

  Finally, she concedes. “Fine,” she huffs, muttering under her breath. “Spoilsport.”

  I smother a grin.

  As she has for years, Grace sweeps in to mediate. “I have everything I’ll need, Aunt Nissa. It’s fine. Really.”

  “Are you sure? Because after Mark and I split and I married Thad, he let me take his credit card for a spin and, girl, let me tell you. I bought some pretty nice stuff. You sure you don’t want to come take a look?”

  “Aren’t you needed at home?” I ask, pushing through the door to take Nissa by the shoulders and aim her toward her own house, which she kept in the divorce and then remodeled for her new husband. She was adamant they live in that house, in this neighborhood. She wanted to be close to Grace, something I’ll never be able to adequately thank her for.

  “As a matter of fact, I do need to get supper on.”

  “Then by all means,” I say, giving her a nudge, smiling in spite of myself.

  Nissa blows Grace a kiss over her shoulder and reminds her, “See you at the airport, kiddo. Call if you need me.”

  And then she’s gone, the back door slamming shut, leaving me once again alone with my daughter.

  “That woman… She’s a bad influence,” I murmur halfheartedly.

  Grace knows me too well to believe that, though. “You love her just as much as I do,” she teases, smiling up at me.