Counting Stars

by Michele Paige Holmes

  Chagrined at how bad he’d let things get, Paul set his glass down and went to the trash. He tied up the bag, pulled it out of the can and took all three bags out to the garbage. When he returned, he looked under the sink for another liner. That there were none did not surprise him. Over the past seven weeks, he’d been slowly running out of everything. Sooner or later he’d have to make a list and do some real shopping, but for now he grabbed a paper grocery bag from the stack beneath the sink and stuffed it down into the plastic can. He’d just make do—as he did with every other aspect of his life.

  Feeling queasy, Paul sat down at the kitchen table. He was tired again, and as much as he suddenly wanted to clean the kitchen, he knew he didn’t have the energy to stand at the sink and wash so much as one dish.

  But he had to do something. Paul looked at the calendar on the wall and saw that it was still on July—the date of Tami’s baby shower marked with a teddy-bear sticker. He got up and flipped it to September, where the twins’ due date was circled and starred. It seemed just yesterday that he and Tami had sat at this table, counting the days until their babies would be born. Now he started counting days until his lease was up. Unless he did something soon, he was going to be homeless. As he considered this, Paul looked around the crowded room, his eyes again straying to the now-empty garbage. Seeing the paper grocery bag, he formed a plan.

  Grabbing a marker from the cup on the table, he took three more paper bags from beneath the sink. He looked at the bags a moment, then wrote one word on each of them. The first said “keep,” the second “charity,” and the third “trash.” He remembered watching Tami do this when she moved from her apartment to his just before they were married. Paul gathered the bags up and returned to his room. Deciding to start small, he sat down on Tami’s side of the bed. He’d clean out her nightstand today and pat himself on the back if he made it through.

  Paul pulled open the drawer and reached inside. The first item was easy. Her reading glasses would go to charity. Because of Tami, someone in need would be able to read a book, like the one he put in the bag next to the glasses. Two more paperbacks followed.

  The next item stopped him cold.

  A baby pacifier lay untouched in a small gold box. Paul picked it up as another poignant memory came to him.

  Valentine’s Day—their second. Their last, he thought sadly as he stared at the pacifier and remembered.

  “You said no presents until tonight,” Paul protested, handing the small box back to Tami. “That’s cheating.”

  “I don’t care. I can’t wait that long.” She dropped the package back in his lap and sat, cross-legged, on the bed beside him. “Open it.”

  “Women,” Paul grumbled. “Always changing the rules.” He picked up the present and shook it. “Did you get me that titanium golf ball I saw at—?”

  “Open it. Now.”

  “All right, all right. Take all the fun out of it.” He untied the ribbon. “You’ve spoiled the whole romantic thing, you know. We’re supposed to be at dinner, all dressed up . . . I haven’t even shaved.”

  “It doesn’t matter.” She scooted closer on the bed.

  Paul tore the paper away and took the lid off the box.

  A baby pacifier lay nestled on a bed of cotton. He looked at it a moment, then looked up at Tami.

  Her eyes were shining.

  “You’re sure?” he asked, his own eyes suddenly moist.

  “Positive.” Reaching over, she pulled a pregnancy test from her nightstand drawer. “See the pink line?”

  Paul looked at it and nodded, swallowing the lump in his throat. Thank you, God. The Christmas before last they’d talked about starting a family, and his present to Tami had been the deed to the property where they were going to build their dream home. But instead of spending the year building that home, they’d been through a nightmare just trying to keep him alive.

  It was July before the doctors had finally found the right combination of chemo drugs to shrink his tumors. He’d started getting better, but by then he hadn’t worked in six months, and the medical bills were piling up. So he and Tami had made the agonizing decision to take a loan against his life insurance so they could get out of debt. Then—in an even bigger risk—they’d spent not ten, but twenty thousand dollars of that precious money on two tries at artificial insemination. He looked at how happy Tami was and suddenly felt very grateful they’d spent the money.

  Paul wrapped his arms around her, pulling them both to the pillows. His face mere inches from hers, he whispered, “I love you.”

  Tears in his eyes again, Paul searched the drawer for the box lid, ribbon, and pregnancy test. He found all three and carefully placed them in the “keep” bag. Someday, he thought, his children should know their parents had wanted them very much.

  * * *

  Twenty minutes later, Tami’s nightstand stood empty, but instead of feeling good that he’d accomplished something, Paul simply felt drained. The bag for charity was nearly full. The trash bag was completely empty. The bag of things he wanted to keep for Mark and Madison had spilled over onto a pile on the floor. Paul never would have thought of himself as sentimental, but he’d been unable to part with things like Tami’s marked-up copy of What to Expect When You’re Expecting, or the half-finished baby booties she’d been working on. They were her first attempt at crocheting, and Paul couldn’t help but smile as he remembered the nights she’d worked on them, or the times she’d flung them across the room in frustration.

  He picked up his empty juice glass and stood, wincing when he felt the familiar stab of pain. Not a good sign, buddy. He’d have to call Dr. Kline and schedule another MRI. Somehow he just knew this new combination of drugs was not doing what it was supposed to. What was surprising was that the thought of the cancer spreading didn’t terrify him as it used to. It was an inevitable fact that it was going to get him, and so long as he had arrangements made for his children before it happened, then it really didn’t matter. After facing Tami’s death, his own no longer seemed so terrible.

  Paul walked down the hall to the spare bedroom—also his home office. He looked around the crowded room, searching for the thick folder that held all of his medical information. He supposed he ought to have Dr. Kline’s number memorized now, and a dozen times he’d told himself to put the hospital on speed dial, but he always forgot to get around to it. His memory wasn’t what it used to be. Paul rubbed the top of his head absently, knowing the chemo had robbed him of much more than his hair.

  He found the folder on top of the dresser, but he continued to scan the room, thinking of what would have to be packed and eventually moved. Two unassembled cribs were stacked against the far wall. Another corner held a double stroller. On top of the dresser and next to the bed were bags and boxes he’d yet to look into. A couple of days after the accident they’d been returned to him—the gifts from Tamara’s baby shower. He couldn’t bring himself to look at them. He’d never have to now. He’d just have the Meyers—or whichever couple took the twins—take it all away.

  That would only leave him the furniture and his files and blueprints to go through. And a garbage can would take care of most of that. He hadn’t worked in months, nor was he likely to again, he thought, looking fondly at his drafting table. That could go too, he realized. There was no point in keeping anything except . . . His eyes were again drawn to the plans piled on the bed. Well, maybe there was one set he ought to keep. It would be nice for Mark and Madison to know their parents had hoped for a future together.

  Paul carried the file into the living room, purposely avoiding looking at his wedding picture on the wall. He hadn’t taken any painkillers since the middle of the night, but he still didn’t trust himself to see things clearly. If Tami was mad at him—and somehow haunting him—well he just couldn’t handle that and everything else right now.

  He was doing the best he could without help from anyone else.

  Jane wanted to help you.

  Paul pushed the thoug
ht away and went to retrieve the newspaper. He placed it on the counter and poured himself a bowl of cereal. A picture on the front of the paper showed a group of reservists sleeping in the shade of their armored vehicles, and the headline read “Life in Iraq.”

  It’s a sign.

  “No it isn’t,” Paul grumbled. Great. Now he was talking to himself. He poured milk in his cereal, then sat at his desk and switched on the computer. He would prove it wasn’t a sign. Pete hadn’t responded to his email in the last nine days, and he wouldn’t respond now.

  Paul logged on the Internet and waited for his inbox to open. There was one new message.

  Paul nearly knocked his cereal off the desk as he read the sender—petesdragon2.

  “You always were full of hot air,” Paul mumbled, but he felt his heart pounding as he opened the email. His eyes quickly scanned the message.

  I’m here for you, brother.

  Pete

  Told you so.

  “I know, I know,” Paul said as he leaned forward, head in his hands. So he was back to where he’d been a few weeks ago—imagined conversations with Tami. The hospital counselor had told him to worry if he got stuck in any one stage; the counselor hadn’t said what to do if he started to regress. Maybe it was time to look at the phone numbers on that grief pamphlet. Maybe he should see someone about it on a regular basis. Maybe . . .

  Out of the corner of his eye, Paul saw the red light flashing on his answering machine. His head snapped up and his finger pushed the play button as fear for Mark and Madison flooded him. But instead of the hospital, he heard Jane’s worried voice.

  Paul listened to the entire message, but it was her last words on the tape and from the parking garage yesterday that stuck in his mind.

  Holding Madison was the best thing I’ve done in a long time . . . In the space of an hour, I fell totally, completely in love with your daughter . . . How dare you assume I’d care more about my house than a baby . . .

  Paul looked back at the computer screen.

  I’m here for you, brother.

  He glanced at the crumpled paper that held Tami’s last words.

  Find our babies a mother. You know who their father should be.

  Pushing his cereal aside, Paul looked at the open phone book, the name of the adoption agency circled in red. He’d chosen that agency—The Children’s Hearts—based on the picture in their ad. It took up half a page and showed a family—mom, dad, boy, and girl running in a circle and holding hands as if playing ring-around-the-rosy. It was a nice picture. One he could imagine he and Tami, Mark and Madison in. Or if not he and Tami, then at least Mark and Madison.

  Still, he acknowledged, a picture wasn’t much basis for the most critical decision he’d ever make. Yet he’d felt good about it—sort of.

  How could anyone ever feel entirely good about giving their children away?

  But what choice did he have?

  Pete wasn’t really here. He was in Iraq—for who knew how long. Before that he’d been in Afghanistan, and after Iraq he’d probably feel compelled to go fly his helicopter in some other dangerous, foreign place.

  There was no way he could do that and be a father here. Pete, of all people, would understand that.

  Pete will understand.

  Of course. The thought stunned Paul. Why hadn’t he realized that before? Pete knew what it was to grow up without a father, and he would never let his children suffer the same fate he had. Nor would he let his brother’s children suffer that way. Paul leaned back in his chair, his worry suddenly alleviated at such an obvious conclusion. He moved the cursor to reply, anxious to share his burden with his brother. But his fingers hesitated on the keyboard, and after a moment Paul opened the drawer and removed a piece of paper. An email was certainly more efficient, but this letter he needed to write.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Dear Peter,

  It is with much sorrow I share with you the news that Tami was killed in a car accident . . .

  * * *

  Jane was on the phone going over listings with a prospective client when a potted, miniature yellow rosebush was delivered to her desk.

  Tara arrived two seconds later.

  “Who’s it from?” she demanded.

  Jane shrugged and pointed to the phone, swiveling back to face her computer screen.

  Tara helped herself to the white envelope tied to the pot. Jane reached her free hand around to try to snatch it from her, but Tara had already moved down the row of cubicles, sashaying away with her treasure.

  Jane sighed to herself, then continued her phone conversation for another five minutes. Finally free, she spun her chair around, got up, and marched toward Tara’s desk.

  She could have walked there blindfolded. The heavy scent of perfume grew stronger the closer she got, until her nostrils were burning.

  Tara was waiting for her.

  “Any man who begins with an apology . . . might actually be okay,” she said, grinning.

  Jane held out her hand. “Give it to me.”

  Tara obliged. “I thought you said your date with Paul was a disaster. Now he’s sending you roses. So what gives? And who’s Madison?”

  “Thank you,” Jane said sharply and walked back to her cubicle, reading the note as she went.

  Once there, she bent over to inhale the sweet smell of the roses—and to clear her head of Tara’s perfume. She stuck the card in her purse and went back to work, but her eyes kept straying to the clock on her desk all morning.

  * * *

  Jane paced in front of the nursery window, trying to ward off the sick feeling in her stomach. Paul was fifteen minutes late. She hadn’t misunderstood his note, had she? Was she a fool for even being here? Who cares? she thought. The chance to hold Madison again was worth the risk. After the other day, it didn’t really matter what Paul thought.

  But Jane cared about his daughter. That was why she’d come.

  She wasn’t certain, but Paul’s brief note implied that he might have changed his mind about adoption. She pulled the paper out of her pocket, rereading it just to make certain she hadn’t imagined the whole thing.

  I was wrong. Forgive me?

  Madison is hoping you’ll come this week. She needs you. I’ll be at the hospital at one.

  Paul

  Madison needed her father too, so where was he? Jane decided to ask the nurses if they knew anything. She pressed the buzzer next to the door and waited until Amy made her way over.

  “Hi Jane. You all washed?”

  Jane nodded.

  “Come in then,” Amy said. “We’ve been expecting you.”

  “You have?” Jane asked. “I thought I was supposed to meet Paul outside—”

  “He’s already here.” Amy walked past Jane and held the door open to the critical side of the Newborn Intensive Care Unit. “It’s been a good day,” Amy whispered as she motioned Jane into the room.

  Unsure what to expect, Jane walked through the double doors that had previously been off limits to her. This was the side of the NICU where the most critical infants were kept, where the sounds of the machines keeping those infants alive replaced the sickly cries heard on the other side.

  Paul was standing by an isolette. He smiled and beckoned to her.

  “I’d like you to meet my son,” he said proudly when Jane was closer. “Mark is breathing on his own right now, and he’s doing great.”

  Jane looked down at the baby, smaller than his sister but just as adorable. She noticed he wore the blue hat and matching booties she’d purchased.

  “I have to wait on the sleeper,” Paul explained. “Mark’s had open-heart surgery, and there’s still quite a bit of equipment he needs.” Paul pointed to the monitors and wires connected to his son’s tiny chest.

  “What’s wrong with his heart?” Jane asked.

  “A lot, unfortunately,” Paul said. “The technical name is Hypoplastic Left Heart Syndrome—basically the left side of his heart is underdeveloped and can’t pump
enough oxygenated blood to the rest of the body. It’s a pretty serious thing but fixable.” He pointed to the scar on Mark’s chest.

  “Poor little guy,” Jane murmured.

  “There are a series of three surgeries,” Paul said. “One down—two to go.”

  “Two more?” Jane asked, appalled. “He seems so fragile . . .”

  “He is. But he would have died a few days after birth if they hadn’t operated. And he has been getting better since the surgery.”

  Jane looked at Mark and felt overwhelmed with worry for him. “Wow,” she said, looking at Paul with new appreciation. “You’re amazing, you know that?”

  He shook his head. “Actually, I think I’m kind of dense sometimes.”

  “No.” Jane looked away, her face coloring as she recalled the harsh words she’d said to him. “May I?” she asked, holding her finger above Mark’s arm.

  Paul nodded. “It’s good for him to be touched.”

  Jane lightly placed her finger on Mark’s soft skin. “I’m sorry for the things I said to you the other day. I have no idea what it must be like to—”

  “You don’t need to apologize.”

  “Well then,” Jane said, looking up at Paul. “Thank you for the roses. It was very thoughtful.”

  “Thank you for pointing out a couple of very important things.”

  “Like what?” Jane asked, confused.

  “Like the fact that I’m still here with my children, and I don’t need to put them up for adoption when I’ve found someone who is willing to help me care for them.” His eyes locked on hers. “Am I right?”

  “Yes,” she said, relief and happiness flooding through her. “You’re absolutely right.”

  * * *

  On Tuesday, Mark had another good day. Off the ventilator and responsive to their voices and touch, he also got to see his sister for the first time since his surgery.