When I Found You

by Hyde, Catherine Ryan

  She looked so much older, but in a good way. Less like a girl, and more like a grown woman. Had he grown up that much, too? It didn’t feel like it from the inside of him.

  “When did he call you?”

  “Just now. I left work and came right over.”

  “So he didn’t tell you he was having surgery, either.”

  “No.”

  Thank God, Nat thought. That would have been just about the final insult in all of this. If everyone had known except him.

  Unable to add the whole Carol issue to the weight he already carried, he simply walked around her and tried to be gone.

  “I have to call a cab,” he said over his shoulder. “Nathan wants to go home.”

  “I could drive you,” she said.

  Nat stopped. He did not immediately answer. He closed his eyes, as if he could transport himself to someplace easier. But when he opened them again, he was still in the hospital. And Carol was still standing in the hall staring at him.

  “You have a car, now?”

  “Yes. I do. I got my license. And I got a better job and I bought a second-hand Toyota.”

  “You know … a cab’ll be fine. He asked me to call a cab.”

  “You want me to go ask him? If he’d rather have a ride?”

  Nat inwardly sighed, and gave it all up for lost. Sometimes it’s easier to fall deeply into the worst day imaginable. At least save yourself the trouble of trying to fight.

  “I guess it should be up to Nathan,” he said. “I’ll go with whatever Nathan says.”

  • • •

  “Where’s Carol?” Nathan asked. “Did she go home?”

  “No. She’s in the kitchen making dinner.”

  Nat sat on one of the straight-backed wooden chairs by Nathan’s bed. Sitting on his hands, quite literally. Leaning forward and watching Nathan as if he might be about to blow away. He’d never spent any time in Nathan’s bedroom, and it felt awkward to be here now.

  Nathan did not reply. And the silence made Nat nervous.

  So he said, “Scrambled eggs, most likely.”

  “Oh, I doubt it,” Nathan said. “Carol is a wonderful cook.” Nat cocked an eyebrow but said nothing. “She had me over to dinner just before the holidays.”

  “I thought she only knew how to make scrambled eggs.”

  “That was a long time ago, Nat.”

  “Thanks for reminding me.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it the way it came out.”

  Nat rocked back and forth slightly on his hands. Not knowing what to say. Or what to feel. Or where to be. This didn’t feel like the place to be, but he was oddly sure that moving wouldn’t fix it.

  “Tell me,” Nathan said, startling him. “Are you sitting there out of complete devotion to me, and utter shock that it’s come time for me to get my affairs in order? Or are you hiding out here to avoid seeing Carol?”

  “Yes,” Nat said.

  They both smiled, which Nat suspected came as a surprise to both of them. It certainly surprised Nat.

  “Why don’t you go out and help her with dinner?”

  “Because it scares the crap out of me.”

  “Fear of cooking?”

  “Very funny. Talking to her. Looking at her. Being in the same room with her. It all scares the crap out of me.”

  “What would you say to her if she didn’t scare the … crap out of you?”

  “Nathan. You said crap!” Nat announced this almost proudly.

  “I’m definitely feeling a lifting of the rules. But you’re ducking the question.”

  “Oh. Right. I guess I would say I was an idiot. And that I’m really, seriously sorry. Even though sorry probably doesn’t help at all.”

  “Sounds like a good start.”

  “You want me to start with that?”

  “What if you never see her again? You might not have much time.”

  Nat sighed. Rose, and pushed the chair back into the corner.

  “OK. Wish me luck. I’m going in.”

  • • •

  “Nathan thinks I should help you with dinner.”

  Nat stood with his shoulder leaned against the kitchen door jamb. As if crossing the threshold might prove too dangerous.

  “I don’t really need help, actually. It’s all under control. But thank you.” A split second before Nat could slink away in utter defeat, she said, “You can keep me company while I cook, if you like.”

  So he didn’t slink away. But neither did he cross the dangerous threshold.

  Say it, he thought. Just open your mouth and say it.

  “Carol,” he said, because he thought after saying that much he’d be obligated to finish.

  “Yes, Nat?”

  She turned away from the stove and stood facing him. Put down her wooden spoon on the Coney Island spoon-rest on the stove, and pushed back a wisp of hair that had come down from its barrette. She looked right into his face, freezing everything. Even time.

  “Thanks for making dinner,” he said.

  “It’s no problem. I want to do something for Nathan. I can’t believe this. Oh, that’s a stupid thing to say, I guess. I mean, he’s almost seventy-nine. I don’t see why I should be shocked. But I guess I still am. Are you going to take care of him all by yourself? Or are you going to have a nurse or a hospice person come in?”

  Nat tried to force his brain into some kind of action, but he still felt as though she’d asked him to solve a complex algebra equation.

  “I don’t know. We haven’t really worked out a plan. I’ll have to see what Nathan wants to do.”

  “Would you like me to stay?”

  A shocked silence, one that was probably fairly short, but felt endless and impenetrable to Nat. He offered no response. Because he had none. He had nothing.

  “I’d have to go to work on the weekdays. But I could make breakfast and dinner. And run errands in my car. And maybe just help out if you got tired and needed a rest. I could sleep in the den. Or on the couch.”

  “No, you can sleep in the bed. I’m going to sleep in Nathan’s room. On the floor, or whatever. In case he needs anything in the night.”

  “It’s all set, then. Will you tell him I’ll bring his dinner in twenty minutes?”

  Say it, he thought. Say something. Say anything. Open your mouth and speak.

  “Carol?”

  “Yes, Nat?”

  “Thanks.”

  • • •

  “I think I’ll have to start someplace easier. Oh, and dinner’s coming in twenty minutes.”

  Nathan set down the book he had been reading. The biography of one of those old political guys from colonial times, but Nat couldn’t read the name from across the room and didn’t recognize the picture. Nathan took off his reading glasses. Sighed. Shook his head.

  “You might have just forfeited your last chance to apologize.”

  “I doubt it,” Nat said. “She’s staying.”

  4 January 1990

  Exceptions

  “All of this is such a shock to me,” Nat said. “I just can’t seem to get my head around it all.”

  He lay on a rollaway cot in Nathan’s room, wondering what time it was. Not dawn. That’s all he knew for sure. That and the fact that Nathan was also awake.

  “I’m going to be seventy-nine years old, Nat. If I make it until the fourth of next month, that is. I was born in 1911. People born in 1911 have average lifespans of less than seventy-nine years.”

  “Yeah, all right. But I’m not talking about stuff like that, anyway. I’m talking about shock. Shock doesn’t live in the part of your brain that does math. You know?”

  Nat noticed that they spoke more easily in the dark. Maybe he should try this with everybody. Maybe he should turn out the lights and tell Carol he was an idiot and he was sorry.

  “You must have known I’d have to die someday.”

  “Not really, no.” Then he realized how stupid it must have sounded. “I’m not saying I thought you never
would. Just that I never thought about it. No. You know what? That’s not really the truth. The truth is, I really thought you never would. I mean, not literally, but … I know everybody dies. I just think there was this weird little part of me that sort of … not literally, but … I thought you’d be the exception to the rule.”

  “I’m sorry I can’t be immortal for you.”

  “That makes two of us,” Nat said.

  15 January 1990

  Cake

  “Carol had to leave for work early this morning, Nathan.” Nat sat on the edge of his little cot, pulling off his pajama top and pulling on a sweatshirt. He reflexively turned his back to Nathan because he was ashamed of his chest. Its lack of any noticeable development. “So I’ll be making breakfast. What would you like?”

  “I know Carol prides herself on always doing something fancy. But lately I’ve had a taste for Cream of Wheat.”

  “Good. Because fancy is not my department. And Cream of Wheat has directions on the box.” Nat stood, and pulled sweatpants on over his boxer shorts. “Do you need me to bring you the bed pan before I go?”

  “No, thank you. After breakfast will be fine.”

  “OK. One Cream of Wheat. Coming up.”

  “With a little butter, please. And some milk.”

  “Check.”

  Just as Nat was leaving the room, Nathan said, “Nat?” Nat turned back and leaned in the open doorway, waiting. “Make that a lot of butter. And cream. It just suddenly hit me. I can stop watching my weight now.”

  “I’ll go along with that,” Nat said. Trying to sound bright. Trying to cover the mood crash that hit him every time he had to be reminded. “Oh. I’ve been meaning to ask you. What’s your favorite kind of cake, Nathan?”

  “For breakfast?”

  “In general.”

  “Hmm.” He gingerly sat up a little more in bed, propping an extra feather pillow behind his back. “I’d say lemon cake.”

  “Really? Lemon?”

  “What’s wrong with lemon?”

  “I don’t know. Nothing, I guess. But I’d never have thought lemon. If it were me I’d have gone with something like chocolate with chocolate frosting. Or even German chocolate.”

  “We’re all different. That’s the beauty of diversity. Why are you asking me about cake?”

  “Carol wants to make you a cake for your birthday.”

  “Tell her not to buy the ingredients just yet.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t say things like that, Nathan. It’s only, like, three weeks from now.”

  “You’re right. I apologize.”

  “I’ll go make some Cream of Wheat.”

  19 January 1990

  Stories

  “I need another sponge bath,” Nathan said.

  “No problem.”

  “If you have a hard time with things like this, we could get a nurse to come in for a few hours a week.”

  “Stop it, Nathan. I said I’d take care of you. And I’m taking care of you.”

  “I’m just thinking it might get harder. In certain ways. When things like this come up.”

  “I’m taking care of you, Nathan.”

  “Let me know if you change your mind.”

  “I won’t change my mind.”

  Nat ran the water in Nathan’s bathroom until it was good and hot. Not burning hot, but hot enough to stay comfortable for the whole bath. He gathered up three big bath sheets. A clean washcloth. A bar of soap.

  He helped Nathan turn on to his side, and laid out a towel for him to roll back on to, careful not to leave any creases that would make him uncomfortable. Then he helped him roll to the other side and did the same again.

  “I’ll have to wash your back,” Nat said.

  “All right.”

  He unbuttoned Nathan’s pajama top and helped him sit up so he could take it off. He dipped the washcloth into the hot water and squeezed it out. Then he sat down at the very head of the bed, behind Nathan. It always shocked Nat to see the surgery scar. He’d had no idea such a huge piece of Nathan’s back had been sliced open. Just so some surgeon could give up trying.

  “Is it OK to wash over this now?” he asked, touching the raised scar lightly.

  “Yes. It’s healed enough.”

  Nat began to gently work with the cloth, seeing and feeling every knob of Nathan’s curved spine.

  “Does that hurt?”

  “No, it’s fine.”

  “Is the water too hot?”

  “No, it feels good.”

  He rinsed the back carefully, and gently blotted it with the clean towel. Then he helped Nathan lie back down again.

  “I’m going to pull this part of the sheet over the middle of you,” Nat said. “And then we’ll pull the pajamas off from underneath. That way you’ll have your privacy.”

  Nat put a hand under Nathan’s waist and helped him raise up. It was hard, because Nat’s left arm was his weakest limb. But together they managed. He pulled at the thin flannel pajamas with his right, and Nathan held the sheet to keep it from being pulled away at the same time. Then he eased Nathan down again, and pulled the pajamas off by the bottom of their legs. Nathan lay naked on his bed with a sheet over his privates, and Nat tried to keep his glance averted. But even in his peripheral vision, Nat was surprised by the increased swelling of Nathan’s stomach. Does cancer do that to a person? he wondered.

  It shocked him enough that he looked directly. For just a split second, he took Nathan in. Just as he was now. Then he quickly looked away again.

  A long silence while Nat moved the cloth and the basin to a safe spot where Nathan could reach them. He set the soap on a towel on Nathan’s nightstand, moving aside the dozen bottles of prescription pain medication.

  “Penny for your thoughts,” Nathan said. “Even though I know I won’t like them.”

  “I was just thinking …” Nat realized he really was about to say what he was thinking. Which surprised him. “I was thinking … how the way we come into the world, and the way we go out of it are sort of the same. How helpless we are. You know. At both ends of things. And how … sort of … fragile.”

  “Yes,” Nathan said. “I still remember your coming in very clearly. Fragile is the word.”

  “I’ll be over here by the window,” Nat said. “If you need me for anything.”

  He walked to Nathan’s bedroom window. The blinds had been left up, because it only looked out on to the private back yard, anyway. It was snowing. Hard. He worried briefly about Carol, driving home from work. Hoped the roads would be plowed by then.

  “I’ll have to shovel the driveway,” Nat said. “So Carol can get back in.”

  “I have a snowblower now.”

  “Ah. Good to know.” He watched the big, wet flakes swirl for a bit. Heard the sound of water pouring back into the basin each time Nathan wrung out the cloth. Then he said, “Nathan? Will you tell me the story of the day you found me in the woods?”

  “Of course I will. I’d be happy to. I wish I’d had more chances to tell it in my life. Everybody wanted to talk about it, but nobody really wanted to hear my experience with it. They just jumped right off into how a thing like that could happen, and why, and then immediately they would begin to relate it to their own children, trying to imagine someone they loved in such a position. And it became about their own shock and horror, then. So, yes. I’ll tell you.

  “It was the same hour of morning as the two times we went hunting. So not even quite light yet. I was walking to the lake by flashlight, with my shotgun up over my shoulder—”

  “The one your grandfather gave you?”

  “Yes. All of a sudden, I realized Sadie wasn’t with me. And that had never happened before. Sadie was a bred and trained hunting dog, and there was no distracting her on the way to a hunt. So I knew already that something was very wrong. I called her name. Three times. But she didn’t respond. I think at the time I was cross with her, which seems strange in retrospect, because I should have known she had a m
onumental reason. I held still and listened, and I could hear her scratching in the leaves. So I shone the flashlight on her. There was something in her face. In her eyes. She was begging me to come see what she saw. Asking in the only way a dog is able to ask. So I went to her. And I shone the light on the pile of leaves. And what do you think I saw? Which part of you do you think I saw first?”

  Swirling snow. Coming faster. Piling up more deeply in Nathan’s yard. Nat stood with his hands clasped behind his back. “The little knit cap?”

  “No. It was your foot.”

  “Which one?”

  “Your left. I picked you up. And I just held you like that for a long time. I was wondering how a thing like that could happen. Who would do it. I didn’t jump up and rush you to the hospital because I had no idea you were alive. It never occurred to me that you could be. Your eyes were closed. You weren’t moving. Your skin felt cold.”

  “How did you finally figure it out?”

  “I set you back down and shone the flashlight on you. And you moved. Just your mouth. Just a little. A very sluggish little bit of movement. This is the moment I remember the most clearly, but it’s probably the hardest one to describe. I was so certain I had found a tiny corpse of a baby. I was so sure that was what you were. And then you moved. And it changed everything, so suddenly and so drastically. I was truly shocked. I don’t know how to describe it any better than that.”

  “So then you rushed me to the hospital.”

  “Yes. I left the shotgun right where it was—”

  “Your good shotgun?”

  “I couldn’t hold both. I had to support your head. And the gun was less important. I ran all the way back to the car. And it was still just barely dawn. Hardly light. I was so afraid I’d trip and go flying. I had no idea how I would protect you if I fell. But I didn’t fall. Thank God I knew that trail so well.”

  “Where was I while you were driving? On the seat?”

  “Oh, no. I didn’t dare leave you on the seat. What if I’d had to stop suddenly? No, you rode on my lap. But even on my lap, I was afraid you’d fly forward if I had to slam on the brakes. I was driving awfully fast. So I held you with your bottom half resting on my lap, but with your head and shoulders in the crook of my left arm. And I drove with my right. Fortunately the transmission was an automatic. I never had a child but I know it’s important to support a baby’s head. You know what’s odd? I never thought about it until just now, as I’m telling the story. But even at first, when I thought you were dead … when I thought I was holding only the remains of a newborn … I still supported your head. And I’m not even sure why.