“Everything alright?” Emily asked. That was the first question she asked. Didn’t matter , whichever doctor it just visited: oncologist, neurologist, specialist, on and on. In fact, every time I return from an errand, I think. I lose track, to be honest.
She was in the nursery, getting it all ready. ‘Nesting’ they call it. She’s puttering around making sure we have enough diapers for a small village. So many wipes. So many things to keep a person alive. I can relate.
“I take it we are eating out tonight? Ordering in?” I ask. I was hoping she was going to cook the shepherd’s pie we talked about. I got everything yesterday.
“Jamie and Ralph are bringing over—”
“Don’t. Don’t say it.” I put my hands up like I was warding off the devil.
“Meatloaf.” she said with a resignation-filled shrug. “It’s how they show they care.”
“Well, Bundy had a way of showing how he cared.”
“JIM!” she yelled and threw a tiny bib at me. I caught it and brought it up to my face. It smelled like talcum powder. I ran my finger over the little bear on it. I thought about so many things at once. It’s weird what all the chemicals do to your brain—sometimes I can three separate images of him, wearing the bib, running in a park holding a kite and walking across a graduation stage with one of us watching.
“Earth to JIm!” My head snapped up like I woke from a tiny dream.
“Sorry—it’s a long day and I’m tired.” I said with a worn down attempt at a smile.
“Well, perk up buttercup, they are going to be here in fifteen minutes.”
“Can’t we cancel?”
She paused from her maniacal folding of soft things and said, “In the twelve years we’ve been married, you’ve never wanted to cancel plans.” She then looked at me with that stare I couldn’t get away from, a stare that had its own gravity that I couldn’t escape from. It held me in rapt attention with concern, shock and compassion, one that said everything was going to be different and she knew it.
It was one she gave me at the dumb drama party our freshmen year at university. The one when I told her I got the job and we were moving across the country away from her friends and family. The one that dark night, that so very dark night. I thought the last one would be when she told me she was pregnant.
“We can’t cancel, baby. They have been driving over an hour to see us. I can’t ask them to turn around especially since they cooked.” She put ‘cooked’ in air quotes. “Somehow, you are going to have to make it. But is everything alright? Did the doctors say something? Has something changed?”
Oh my sweet love, it has all changed. The calendar you and I have shared is running out of pages. My sweet little boy will learn about me through story and song, through myth and retelling—stories told at birthday parties, family reunions, and over accursed meatloaf. I’m white knuckling my existence here so I can give him a proper hello and you a proper goodbye. So no, nothing is alright.
I walk to her, hold her in my arms and we both weep. And when we hear the knock at the door, we wipe our eyes.
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