And not just tonight.
Some part of me knows that our window is closing and that I’m helpless to stop it. I can sense that Lena knows it, too. I suspect that’s why she didn’t want Dr. Taffer to run tests while she was in the hospital. She didn’t want to know she only has days or weeks left. And I can understand that. I’m not sure I want to know either.
Slouching down enough that Lena can rest better against me and Grace against her, I try to put my haunting thoughts away and just enjoy the feel of my wife in my arms. I take a deep breath and let my eyes close. I focus on how soft her skin is under my fingertips, how her hair smells of flowers and cinnamon, and how the slight weight of her feels on my chest.
As I drift off, I’m only barely aware of the single tear that slips from between my lashes and slides slowly down my cheek.
Twenty-three
Hush
Nate
The first streaks of dawn coming through the window wake me. My wife is still in my arms, and Grace is fast asleep in hers.
Even in her unconscious state, Lena holds our baby closely yet carefully. There’s a tenderness in her secure grip that I think comes with becoming a mother, as if the instinct to protect and nurture changes even her muscle memory. That thought causes a convoy of other thoughts to file through my head, like ducks swimming in a straight row across an empty pond. That succession of thought is why, as much as I hate to move her, I shift and slide out from under my wife and little girl.
The first place I go is to the kitchen. I walk to the window to look out across the yard, toward the neighbor’s house.
I’m glad to see Nissa’s light on. I hate for anyone to suffer from insomnia, but I’ve always been secretly grateful that Nissa does. She’s provided Lena with company and comfort in ways I never thought to. And she’s awake now, which is fortuitous on a day such as this. I have plans, and I need Nissa’s help.
Quickly, I shoot out the back door and bound across the yard to the next house over. I knock quietly, glancing back through the windows of my own house to make sure I don’t see signs of movement.
Nissa opens the door and is visibly surprised to see me on her stoop rather than my wife. “I don’t have long. Got a second?”
“Of course,” she says, opening the door wider.
“Nah, I’ll just stay here, thanks. I want to keep an eye on Lena and the baby.”
“Okay.” She crosses her arms over her chest, pulling her robe tighter around her against the slight chill in the early morning June air. “What’s up?”
“I need to run out for a while today. Think you could come over and keep an eye on Lena until I get back?”
“Sure.”
I work out the details with our neighbor and then race back over to my house. Carefully, I open and close the door then tiptoe silently through the kitchen to the living room. The two loves of my life are still fast asleep, one of them snoring softly. I stand in the doorway watching them for several long, bittersweet minutes. It’s yet another scene I want to burn into my memory, knowing that one day it will be all I have left.
I snap a picture before I finally pull myself away from the sight, moving back toward the kitchen to start a pot of coffee and make more concrete plans for the day.
********
Lena
I know that something isn’t right. I’ve been a nurse for almost two decades. I’ve worked in several specialties, mostly because in the beginning I didn’t have a clue what my niche would be. But then I landed a full-time job at the cancer center. I loved it right off the bat and decided to make my work home there and take on some part-time critical care work to keep my clinical skills sharp.
I’ve seen a lot in my years, especially with cancer patients. It doesn’t take me long to put the puzzle pieces together. When I’m awake and aware and notice that there are enormous chunks of time missing, then I add it together with the pain (which is thankfully under control) and some things Dr. Taffer said…I know.
I know.
My liver is failing. The cancer has spread to the point that it is dramatically affecting my hepatic function. I’ve seen it enough with my patients to know that progression to this point is beyond anything except palliative measures. I know the smart thing would be to call hospice. They can take care of things that will make the whole process easier, especially for Nate.
Nate.
A stinging knot forms behind my tonsils.
God, how I hate to leave him!
The thought of it, the idea of it feels suffocating.
Overwhelming.
Devastating.
I hate to go at all, but I hate even more that he’ll be left with such awful memories of me.
Pain and sickness.
Disease and death.
Periods of time when I neither look like nor act like myself. Those will be what Nate remembers most for a while.
And it breaks my heart.
There’s nothing I can do about that, though, short of taking my own life. And I’m not going to do that. Living with my suicide would be an even worse pain for Nate and Grace to bear.