“And what’s with the tree? She’s showing me a special tree. In a pot near the window.”
Her dogwood tree. Ben’s eyes were comically wide now, though his face was the same.
“She says that tree is linked to her somehow, and she—”
“Stop! Stop. I—I—I . . . Please stop,” Josh said.
Gertie looked at him, her turtle eyes kind. “I’m sorry, darlin’. Am I going too fast for you?”
“I don’t . . . I never . . . really believed in this,” he said. “It’s . . . a lot.” Ben reached across the table and squeezed his hand.
“Aw, of course it is, hon,” Gertie said. “It can be very overwhelming, especially if you don’t believe.”
The horse in his chest was bucking and rearing. Josh mopped his face and wadded up the tissue.
Gertie’s head tilted again. “She has more to say. Her presence is very strong. Do you want to hear it?”
Of course he wanted to hear it. How could he not? “Yes.”
Gertie tilted her head to the side. “She’s showing me that you work with . . . little things. Little things you build. You . . .” She tapped her fingertips together. “You make them? You . . . you make things on a computer, but she’s showing me a hospital, too.”
“He’s a medical device engineer,” Ben blurted. Josh didn’t even care that he told. Gertie was close enough.
“That’s it! That’s her way of making sure you know she’s really here. She’s proud of you, Josh. Very proud. You two were wicked happy.”
“Yes. Yes,” he said, his breath coming hard. “Look. I know she loved me and her sister and the kids, and I know what I do for a living. But . . .” His voice broke. “Does she have anything to say to me?” He rubbed his forehead hard and tried not to look at Ben, for fear he’d start sobbing. “Something for now?”
Gertie stared at the floor again. “She wants you to know she’s not alone. Her grandfather? No, her father? Did her father pass? Yeah? They’re together. She’s a beautiful soul, your wife. She laughs a lot. She’s happy.”
Good. Good. He only ever wanted her to be happy.
His heart cracked just the same.
“Okay . . . yep. Yep. She says you’ll get married again. She’s pointing to her ring fingah, then showing me the number two. Your second wife. You already know her, but you don’t . . . you’re not aware that she’s gonna be important in your life.” Gertie laughed. “She’s showing me a penny and droppin’ it. Like, the coin hasn’t dropped for you yet regardin’ this woman.”
“Sarah, maybe?” Ben murmured. Josh heard the words, but they didn’t register.
Gertie tilted her head again. “You blame yourself, she says. But you were wonderful! She’s showing me over and over again how good you were, how you took care of her. She wants you to stop feeling guilty. You couldn’t have done any more. She’s tellin’ me you were perfect. Drop the guilt.”
That was a message mediums often gave their clients, Josh had read. It also happened to be completely appropriate to his case.
He took a tissue and wiped his eyes. Gertie smiled at the floor. “So much love between you two,” she said.
The pain in his chest was crushing. Please come back, he couldn’t help thinking. Please come back.
“She gives you signs, Josh. You aren’t seeing them. She wants you to see the signs.”
He nodded.
Then Gertie turned to Ben. “You’re not his father, but she says you’re like one, and she thanks you for bein’ there for Josh.”
Ben’s stoicism crumpled, and he put his hand over his eyes. Gertie patted his arm. “She’s showing me a paper airplane? You’re throwing it? Did you make paper airplanes together, you and Josh?”
Ben nodded, his shoulders shaking.
“And there’s another woman she’s showing me. Like a sister, but not. Purple sparkly dresses . . . did they take dance class together? Something with dancing. She wants you to tell her she’s with her. She’s strugglin’, too, the not-sister. Best friend, that’s it. Her best friend.”
Sarah. He’d have to call Sarah. This would mean the world to her.
Gertie nodded. “Okay, she’s stepping back. She wants you to be at ease, to be happy, to know you’ll be together again in the next life.” She was quiet for a minute, then blew out the candle and looked at the two men. “Hoo! That was a good one, I think! Don’t you?”
Josh wrote her a check for $500. She hugged him hard, and then hugged Ben, and they left, not speaking. He drove to the end of the road to turn around; it was a dead end, facing the water. But he just sat there a minute, his hands shaking.
“You okay, son?” Ben asked.
He looked out at the bay, the water sparkling in slices of blue and silver under a sky heavy with creamy cumulus clouds.
“It was shocking,” he said.
“Yeah. Very specific.”
His hands were choking the steering wheel. “The thing is,” he continued, “does it make any difference? She’s still gone. What good does this do? Does it change anything? Do I go back every week?”
“I think . . . I think it’s just nice to believe she’s not a hundred percent gone.”
“She’s gone enough. I don’t want signs. I want her.” His throat was killing him, and he dashed his hand across his eyes. “Sumi said you have a church thing tonight. I’ll get you back.”
“Josh, if you want to talk more, son . . .”
“No. I’m fine.”
They drove back to Providence in silence. A thunderstorm rolled in, and when they pulled up onto his old street, Ben asked if he wanted to come in. Josh refused, thanked Ben, gave him a quick hug and then called Sarah. “Can I come over?” he asked, even though he was already headed her way.
She said yes.
She opened the door a few minutes later, wearing a David Bowie T-shirt and running shorts. Her apartment was somewhat untidy and unremarkable—piles of papers on her desk, a few coffee cups scattered about, mail on the counter.
“Hey, Josh,” she said. “To what do I owe the honor?”
“I saw a psychic today,” he said without preamble. “She said Lauren showed her a person who wasn’t a sister but like a sister. Purple sparkly dresses at a dance recital or something.”
The color drained from Sarah’s face. “Jesus, Josh. A little warning next time?” Then she turned away. When she spoke next, it was a whisper. “It was the eighth-grade talent show. We wore purple sparkly dresses and danced to Soulja Boy. ‘Crank That.’ We were awesome.” She took a shaky breath. “The psychic knew that?”
“Apparently. She said to tell you Lauren is still . . . with you.”
Sarah put both hands over her face and started to sob.
Hug her.
He did. She hugged him back. He felt something loosen inside him and, after a few seconds, became aware of the fact that he was crying, too.
It wasn’t horrible.
In fact, it felt kind of great, just to cry with someone who had loved Lauren, too, and not worry, just for a second, if he should be doing something different. No. Hugging was . . . it was okay.
“Oh, Josh,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry for the two of us.”
The thunderclap took them by surprise, and they jumped apart. Josh straightened, wiped his eyes on his sleeve. Sarah got a tissue and blew her nose.
“You want to see a movie?” she suggested, and for some reason, that sounded perfect to him.
“Something violent,” he said.
“A war movie.”
“Horror,” he countered.
“Whatever you want, pal. You just talked with your dead wife. You get popcorn and soda.” She smiled at him, and he felt himself smiling back.
“Thanks, Sarah,” he said. “You’re a good friend.”
Almost to his surprise, he realized
it was true.
The psychic had mentioned a woman in his life who would be his second wife. Someone he already knew.
He wasn’t ready to think about that, though. Not today. Maybe not for a long, long time.
But it was there just the same.
22
Lauren
Twenty-five months left
January
Dear Daddy,
Help me. Oh, Daddy, please help me. Please don’t let this be true. I’m so scared. Please help me, Dad. Please let this be wrong.
Lauren had had three appointments with Dr. Bennett, the pulmonologist. Three appointments in three months, with a few reschedulings because of snow and the holidays and the thrill of making new traditions. They had had the Kims and Stephanie over for Pepero Day, a sweet Korean holiday that seemed to exist solely to celebrate friendship. Then there was Thanksgiving—the big meal at Jen’s, including Stephanie, then dessert at the Kims’, because all four of their kids had been home and had wanted to see Josh and meet her. They had a brunch that weekend with all their local friends, and Lauren had felt so happy and grown up, cooking and cleaning for her former classmates and colleagues, showing them their beautiful home.
Then it was Christmastime, and they had their first major fight over Josh not going to her office party. They made up, of course, went on the holiday stroll and celebrated Jen’s birthday. On New Year’s Eve, they hosted a party—Sarah and her date (who passed out on the couch before nine p.m.), Louise, Santino, Bruce and Tom, Mara, Asmaa and her honey, Jen and Darius. Even with the drunk guy, it had been a blast, and they’d gone up to the rooftop to watch the fireworks. The Kims had had them over for lunar New Year, another big celebration, and had invited Lauren’s mom, too, which was awfully nice.
In other words, it had been easy to forget that she was a little out of breath for no apparent reason.
But now the holidays were over, and Lauren had no more excuses. She kept telling herself not to be nervous. They’d already said it wasn’t cancer. No sign of a tumor on her chest X-ray, thank God. But they wanted an MRI now, too.
She was fine, she reminded herself. Young. Healthy. Blissfully happy. Sex at least three times a week, usually more. Yoga classes and the gym on the first floor. Did she get out of breath? Of course! That was the point.
She was just . . . tired. She had asthma, and maybe chronic bronchitis. If she felt weary and heavy sometimes, wasn’t that just because she worked out? It was a good sign, damn it.
It was that intern in the ER who’d first given her that tremor of fear. That pause. No one wants a doctor to pause before reassuring you.
But she’d been tested for a lung infection. A virus, though she tested negative for everything they could test for. Low-grade pneumonia on top of asthma? Chronic sinus infection with postnasal drip and acid reflux?
They couldn’t quite pin it down.
“Just a few more tests,” Dr. Bennett said, and Lauren felt a flare of fear and anger. Diagnose me or tell me I’m healthy, for God’s sake, she thought, her face reddening. “This is a tricky case,” the doctor continued. “I want to be sure we get it right.”
Not super reassuring. “I’m really fine,” Lauren replied. I could like you. Give me a clean bill of health, and we’ll be great friends, I promise.
“Outpatient Testing will call to schedule you in the next day or so,” Dr. Bennett said. “If you feel worse, call me right away.”
“I’m fine. I feel great.”
“We’ll talk soon.”
Shit. No martinis with Dr. B., then.
And then there was Josh, hovering, glancing at her when she coughed. “Honey, I’m fine,” she snapped one night. “Can you please not bury me yet?” He didn’t answer. She huffed and went to bed, and he came in a half hour later and took her in his arms and said he loved her. It was impossible to stay mad.
Two more X-rays, two CAT scans, one high-resolution CAT scan, a pulmonary function test, a second pulmonary function test, one bronchoscopy (even with sedation, that was nasty). The questions were endless and irritatingly repetitive: Was she a smoker? History of asthma? Pneumonia? Tell us again how your father died. When did you go to Hawaii? Where did you stay? Swim? Eat? Were you exposed to asbestos, silicone dust, heavy metals, contaminated air-conditioning systems, moldy foliage, pigeon droppings?
“Of course I’ve been exposed to pigeon poop!” Lauren yelled the umpteenth time she was asked. “And moldy leaves! Hasn’t everyone? Just give me some damn cough medicine that actually works!”
So when Dr. Bennett called her and asked her to come in “with your husband,” Lauren was almost relieved. Finally, they’d figured it out. Some weird pneumonia she’d caught on the plane to Hawaii, probably.
“Have a seat,” Dr. Bennett said when they arrived at her office. “And please, call me Kwana.”
A good sign or a bad sign, to be on a first-name basis with your doctor? Lauren felt cold, suddenly.
“Hi, Kwana!” she said, as if being cheery would make everything okay. “I love your hair.” Over the holidays, Dr. Bennett had gone from shiny, straight hair to multiple braids twisted into a bun. And hey. If she wanted to be called Kwana, that was fine. They’d get out of this appointment, Kwana would apologize for being so aggressive, when gosh, it was just this one thing, here was the cure, and absolutely, she’d love to come out for drinks one night!
Except Lauren’s heart was beating too hard. She took a slow, deliberate breath. All good. No cough, not right now, see?
“Does it take forever, those braids?” she asked. Talking about hair was much, much better than anything Lauren could think of at this moment.
“It takes a while, yes.” Kwana seemed to be very still. Josh took Lauren’s hand. His was sweaty.
“Okay,” said Kwana. “We’ve done every test we can, and we did a couple twice. It looks like idiopathic pulmonary fibrosis.” Lots of syllables in that one. “We had a tough time diagnosing it because we wanted to be sure. It’s not a common disease in someone so young.”
“Okay,” Lauren said. So they had a name for it, and she’d take medicine and it would clear up.
She looked at Josh. His face was gray. Nope. Gonna ignore your face, babe. “What’s the plan, then?”
There was a pause. Another fucking pause, and suddenly, Lauren was shaking. She couldn’t look at Josh, because . . . because . . .
“Now, don’t panic,” Dr. Bennett said. “What happens with this disease”—disease? That sounded horrible!—“is that your lungs create a fibrous tissue. Scarring. We don’t know why. Some people who work with asbestos or fine particulates get it. Yours is called idiopathic, because we don’t know why you have it.” She paused, looking at both of them in turn to make sure they were following. My husband is a genius, lady, Lauren wanted to say. You don’t need to slow down for him.
On the other hand, Lauren was having some trouble hearing. There was a persistent, high-pitched buzz in her ears. Defense mechanism, probably, to block out—
“The problem is, the scarring takes up room in your lungs. That’s why you’ve had problems breathing.”
“I really haven’t! I mean, just a little. Once in a while.”
Kwana nodded. “Right. And it’s great that we caught it early. There are some very good medications that can slow this thing down.”
“Great!”
“And oxygen to help you when you’re short of breath.”
“Wait. What? I don’t need to be on oxygen? I mean, I fainted one time! Twice! But one time after a long hike and not enough hydration, and the other time, because . . . because . . .” Her voice had the hint of hysteria in it, and she let it trail off.
“Well,” Kwana said gently, “there will probably be times down the road when you will need it, and it’ll make you feel significantly better. A lot less tired.”
“But I’m fine. I mea
n, I really feel quite . . . quite good.” She looked at Josh. He didn’t look at her. He wasn’t blinking. Just staring at Dr. Bennett.
Oh . . . shit. He shut down like this when big things happened. He just got really, really quiet. Like when his favorite professor had died a few months before they got married. He didn’t talk, he didn’t cry, he just went into this . . . nothingness. When she’d called his mom to ask if he was okay, she said he’d done the same thing when her father had died when Josh was twenty.
But they had died. She wasn’t about to do that. Whatever was wrong with her, she’d handle. Joshua Park would not have a sick wife. She wouldn’t put him in that position.
“Okay,” she said, sounding more like herself. Good. Good. “So the meds, maybe oxygen in the future . . . anything else?”
There was another pause. “We’ll get into respiratory therapy to maximize your lung function.”
“Got it. Sure. And how long does this last?” No answer. “I mean, when will I be back to my old self?”
Kwana—Dr. Bennett—didn’t answer for a second.
“What is the cure, Kwana?” Lauren asked loudly.
Josh turned to look at her, finally. Finally. “There is no cure,” he said quietly.
The words took a few seconds to land.
“What?” Lauren shouted. Then, freakishly, she laughed. “Well, that’s not helpful.” She looked at both her doctor and her husband, then swallowed. “Seriously?”
“There’s no cure at the moment, no,” Dr. Bennett said. Lauren didn’t want to call her Kwana anymore. Nope! They weren’t going to be friends.
So if there was no cure, then that meant . . . well, it meant she’d have to deal with this the rest of her life.
Huh.
“I don’t want you to panic,” Dr. Bennett said. “This is a serious illness, but you’re only twenty-six, Lauren. We honestly have no prediction for how well you’ll do. Okay? You’re very healthy otherwise. Let’s not envision the worst just yet. I’m starting you on a medication called Ofev, which is very effective in slowing the fibers and scar tissue. A lot of patients swear by a combination of Chinese herbs, so I want you to try that as well. I’ve got all the information here.”
Pack Up the Moon Page 23