Again she nods, this time following quietly along behind us, as though she’s afraid to move too fast.
Content that my mother is being included, that she isn’t going to demand that Nate take her back to the institution right away, I will my tired legs to move forward.
Steadily, I make my way across the yard, over the patio and through the house, cradling my daughter tightly against my chest. I’m determined not to let her go, not to give this last bit of care over to my husband. I need this.
One last time.
When I bypass Grace’s room, Nate asks, “Where are we going?”
“I want to hold her so we can watch the lightning bugs together. All three of us,” I answer simply, my voice breathy with my exertion.
Once in our room, I hear Nate close the door. I walk to the bed and sit on its edge until my husband comes around to hold Grace while I situate myself on my side. When I’m comfortable, I hold out one arm, and Nate lays our daughter next to my chest. I curl around Grace, enveloping her with a mother’s love and warmth.
I watch as Nate sets the glowing jar onto the nightstand and then positions the phone where he can record us all in the bed. When he’s finished, he climbs in behind us and pulls me and Grace into the curve of his body.
“Take her to church, Nate. Promise me you’ll take her to church. Don’t let her be bitter like I was.”
There is no hesitation in his response. “I promise.”
“I want you both to be able to understand.”
“Understand what?”
“This kind of love,” I explain. “It changes everything. It’s why my father prayed like he did. It was for love, for me. I understood it the moment I knew I was pregnant with Grace. Instantly, I knew the kind of love my father had for our family and for me. That’s what’s in the jar. Not bugs or light, but tradition. Family. Love. My father wasn’t just playing with me or keeping up a summer ritual. He was filling my jar with his love.” I pause, sighing in relief, basking in the very love of which I speak, the magnitude of it. “That kind of love…it’s the kind that sends people in search of a God they stopped believing in. It’s the kind of love that keeps us going, makes us pray, gives us hope. The kind of love that saves us. You’ve given me that, Nate. You and Grace. You saved me. My jar was empty after my father died. Until I met you. You filled it up again. And I need to know that you’ll let Grace fill yours. I need to know that you’ll be okay when I’m gone.”
When I’m gone.
“Lena, I…” Nate’s voice is low and hoarse, like his throat is as bloody and inflamed as his heart.
I wait wordlessly for him to finish. I can almost hear the battle taking place. He wants to argue that this isn’t the end, but he knows he can’t. He can’t argue the truth. This is the end. And we both know it. It’s in the air. In the calm. In the acceptance.
What he chooses to say instead makes me smile.
“You’re my peanut butter and waffles.”
“Your what?”
He nuzzles the back of my neck as he repeats his words. “My peanut butter and waffles. Only the most delicious breakfast creation since French toast. But I didn’t know that until I tried them. I had no idea what I was missing. But then, after that first bite, I didn’t know how I’d ever lived so long without them. Or how I could possibly live without them again. You’re the peanut butter and waffles of my life. I don’t know how I ever lived without you. Or how…” His words trail off as though he can’t get them out, as though some part of him still can’t bear to speak the words aloud.
“Shhh, Nate. It’ll be okay. I promise.”
Nate wraps his arms around me and squeezes. I wonder if he thinks that if he holds me tightly enough he can somehow keep death from stealing me away from him.
But I know better. I know, and I believe that he does, too. Deep down.
We enjoy one another for several minutes, reveling in the feel of what it’s like to be in each other’s arms, warm and safe and alive. A family. A whole family.
Then, in the quiet sanctuary of the room we’ve shared for so much of our life together, I share with my family the end of a ritual that my father had started with me a lifetime ago.
I feel in many ways that I’ve come full circle.
Tracing a finger over my daughter’s sleeping profile, I whisper, “Goodnight, stars. Goodnight, moon. Goodnight, lightning bugs. Come again soon.”
Holding fast to one another, the Grant family rests. In the silence that creeps in to fill the room, I hear the comforting familiarity of my husband’s voice. “I love you, Helena Grant. More than I’ve ever loved anything or anyone.” Although I hear the timber of his words shift and waver, crackling with emotion, I feel my lips curve in tranquil happiness.
“As I have loved you, Nate,” I reply. “As I will always love you.”
The soft flicker of firefly bellies, the joyous bundle in my arms, and the warm presence at my back lull me away from reality and into the fluid recesses of my mind. Past and present mingle in a confusing cocktail of memories.
I feel the vitality seep from my body, forced out by a fatigue I can no longer fight.