Come Back to Me

by Carolyn Astfalk

  Alan headed toward the kitchen, breathing deeply and glancing at his watch as he walked. When had he left the bar? And how many drinks was it altogether? Shoulders back and chin up, he walked a straight line with relative ease. He felt sober enough. Mostly. But this wasn’t the kind of thing he wanted to take a chance on.

  Only a few paces behind him, Rebecca reached the kitchen, steadying herself against the countertop.

  He handed her the hot mug, hoping he looked more confident than he felt. “Here you go.”

  Her hand trembled as she took it, but she gave him a slight smile. “I’m so sorry about this, Alan. Chris should never have gone. We just didn’t think—”

  He held a hand up. “Whoa. Whoa. Did you just apologize for going into labor? Like you had any control over it?”

  Rebecca bit her lower lip and glanced down. “I just mean . . . this is really uncomfortable for you, and you’re stuck with me—”

  “Hey. Forget it. I’m glad I’m here.” But he wasn’t. Not really. Sure, he wanted to help out, and he was glad she wasn’t alone. But, man, did he wish it were someone else. Nevertheless, he’d do right by her, somehow. And never let Chris forget it.

  The tea had cooled enough to sip. It burned his tongue on the way down, but he swallowed and worked up the nerve for what he had to tell her. She might change her mind about being thankful for his “help.”

  “I don’t know if you noticed, but I didn’t come home in my car tonight. I got a ride with a friend.” He didn’t have to mention Megan by name, did he? “On purpose. Because I wanted to have a few drinks and not worry.”

  Her brow wrinkled. “How much?”

  He shrugged. “Maybe four beers. A couple of whiskey sours.”

  “Are you telling me you can’t drive?” Her lip quivered and her voice cracked. “I don’t want to . . .” The sobs broke through. “I don’t want to have my baby alone in a dirty cab.”

  Okay. Now she was just becoming hysterical. Not that he could blame her. He was only two cars back on the crazy train.

  “Who said anything about having the baby in a cab?” Did cabs even run out here? And besides, the point of the cab was to get to the hospital. Would she settle for Uber?

  “Relax, Rebecca. We’re not calling a cab.” True enough, but who were they calling? Chris was AWOL. Abby was in quarantine. She’d nixed Mom. The list of people he could call for a ride in the middle of the night was pretty short.

  Maybe if he hadn’t just rejected Megan, he could ask her, but she never cared for Rebecca anyway. There was just one person. His heart ached at the thought.

  Jamie.

  Despite their differences, she loved Rebecca and wouldn’t refuse her at a time like this. And he wanted to talk to her. Needed to, really. But after all this time, he hadn’t anticipated their next meeting going like this. What would she think when he had to admit he only needed her help because he’d had too much to drink?

  Rebecca sniffed and wiped her eyes, then toyed with her wedding band again.

  He’d just suck it up and make the call. “I’m getting us a ride. It’ll only take a few minutes.”

  She nodded and resumed pacing.

  The phone rang for the third time as he stepped back into the hall.

  “Hello?” Jamie’s voice sounded groggy from sleep.

  His heart lurched in his throat. The sound of her voice about did him in. The sudden realization of how deeply he’d missed her cleaved his heart with a thunderous ache. He swallowed both the pain and his pride in one monumental gulp. “Hey, it’s me.”

  “Alan? Is something wrong?” Her voice morphed to awake and alert.

  “Not exactly. I’m with Rebecca, and she’s in labor. Chris is out of town, and we can’t get a hold of him. I need to get her to the hospital, but . . .”

  “But what?”

  His brain scrambled for a last-minute reprieve. Was there something else he could say? The shame weighed heavily on his chest. “I was out and I, uh, I had too much to drink. Probably shouldn’t drive her—”

  “You need me to take her to the hospital? Is that why you’re calling?” Her voice scratched with urgency but not the irritation he’d anticipated.

  Even so, he cringed and braced for it. “Yeah. Yeah, she—we—need a ride.”

  He waited for her to lambast him.

  But, she didn’t.

  “Let me throw on some clothes. I’ll be there in fifteen.”

  He let out a breath. “Thanks, Jamie.” She was coming. Rebecca would be delivered safely to the hospital in minutes. And maybe a tête-à-tête with his wife had been delivered right into his lap.

  “Tell her not to worry, okay? I’ll be right there.”

  18

  Lie in Our Graves

  Her heart heavy, weighing her steps, Megan trudged through damp grass, stopping occasionally to stoop and aim her cell phone flashlight on a marker. A clouded sky prevented any moonlight from aiding her search. An owl hooted from somewhere in the distance. Tack this to the top of the list of creepiest things she’d ever done: wandering the cemetery alone at night.

  She walked south another row, sure her brother’s grave lay nearby. There. A small American flag stood motionless in the still air. That had to be it.

  Megan brushed away a leaf and pushed the encroaching grass to the sides. How long since someone from the family had visited?

  Randall Pettrey. Beneath his name, she touched the two dates. The space between them, the span of his life, pinched too narrow. Where there should’ve been summer luaus, hand-cut Christmas trees, hideous Father’s Day neckties, and sandcastles at the beach, there lay only a couple inches of marble.

  “I miss you.”

  Memories of the ways she’d tried to bury her grief burdened her heart and riddled her conscience, but she couldn’t form the words or string together sentences. She felt ugly. Bone-deep ugly. Her cool reception of Tim’s engagement. Her meanness toward Holly. The jealousy of their relationship. The emptiness and shame of her own life. Too many nights with men who meant nothing to her. Too many drinks that did nothing but delay the inevitable hollow ache where her soul used to be. The bitterness over Chris and her near-hatred of Rebecca. Even her previous indifference to Jamie’s problems. For a half second after dropping Alan off, she’d considered driving straight into oncoming traffic.

  Her sympathy for Alan had twisted into something else while they’d sat in that parking lot. His despondency and vulnerability had tempted her to use him as a temporary escape with barely a thought of her friend, his wife.

  Warm tears rolled down her cheeks as she settled herself cross-legged in the damp grass. Wetness soaked through her jeans, but she didn’t care. The tears came and then ebbed. Maybe Tim was right. Maybe she needed a change. Not rehab, but a fresh start. A new way of living and looking at the world. Her perspective had been skewed ever since Randy left them. She looked at the world through filmy lenses that distorted her perceptions and darkened her moods, leaving her a shrewish shadow of her former self.

  Megan wasn’t the first person to lose someone she loved tragically or unexpectedly. But nothing in her life had equipped her for such a loss. No faith. No consolation. No peace.

  She and Tim had barely grieved their brother when the second loss struck: their parents’ marriage. Neither of them had recovered from the divorce, which had left them feeling perpetually homeless. Well, maybe that wasn’t true anymore. To her annoyance, Tim seemed almost whole lately, like he had it all together.

  Scattered drops of rain pattered against the headstone, and Megan studied a droplet as it traced the “U” in U.S. Army, puddling in the bottom of the letter before dribbling into the soil below.

  Eleanor, Randy’s fiancée. She’d had it all together too. So much so that Megan used to love hanging out with her. How had she coped? Megan had lost touch with her a month or two after the funeral, when the phone calls had grown too painful. She’d even stopped checking the memorial website Eleanor had created. Did she keep
it updated? It’d been more than a year since Megan had visited it.

  She brought up the website on her phone. Pulling her sleeve over her palm, she wiped the dampness from the screen. Her jaw clenched at the sight of Randy in uniform and the collage of photos of him and Eleanor. She clicked under the blog, surprised to find an entry so recent—last month, the anniversary of their engagement.

  She skimmed the first couple of paragraphs in which Eleanor recalled Randy’s proposal, scrolled down to an image of a hand-written letter and enlarged it. Apparently, Eleanor put it all out there. All the grief, the love, the personal stuff. It felt like an invasion of privacy to Megan, but it must’ve comforted Eleanor. Had Megan stymied her own healing by keeping it all bottled up?

  The image was a snippet of the letter with only the midsection visible. Megan smiled at the familiar ink strokes, printed capital letters with t-bars slanting down.

  “If my service means anything, it means there are things worth fighting and dying for. That this life is worth it. That if someday I come home in a box, it won’t be the end of all things. Grieve me for a time. Then take courage and live this beautiful life you’ve been given. Love again. Live without regrets. Trust in God as you always have.”

  As the rain droplets grew in size and frequency, Megan glossed over the final paragraphs in the entry, Eleanor’s words. It sounded like she was grappling with the possibility of a new relationship while trying to honor Randy’s memory and his wishes. She re-read Randy’s mention of God. Had he had a come-to-Jesus moment in Afghanistan? She recalled Eleanor always wearing a cross necklace and bowing her head before meals, but they’d never discussed her faith. Maybe they should’ve.

  Raindrops pattered onto the grass, the marker, and Megan’s head, first gently, then harder, building to a downpour within a minute. Goosebumps rose on her neck as a cold trail of rainwater slithered beneath her collar and down her back, causing her to shiver. Megan stood and raised her chin, blinking into the murky darkness. Let the rain wash it all away. The loss, the ugliness, every regret.

  When the sun rose, so would she, her heart a smidge lighter than it’d been when she’d wandered into the graveyard. She had amends to make. With her parents. With Tim and Holly. With Jamie and Alan and Chris and Rebecca. Maybe even with God. Who knew?

  And Eleanor. She’d reach out to Eleanor.

  19

  Time Bomb

  With few cars on the road, they’d get to the hospital in fifteen minutes, barring red lights or—God forbid—an accident. Alan rode shotgun, his gaze aimed out the window at the passing orchards, cornfields, and city streets. He clenched and unclenched the hand pressed against his restless leg.

  Rebecca shifted in the back seat, then leaned back, a little moan escaping her. Next second, she sucked in a deep breath and blew it out her mouth.

  Jamie glanced in the rearview mirror. “Rain’s supposed to stop by morning and the next few days will be warm and sunny. Perfect for bringing home a baby, right?

  Alan couldn’t think past the impending birth let alone carry on a conversation, so Jamie’s gentle reassurances and efforts to distract Rebecca with small talk impressed him. Cool as a cucumber; the kind of person you could count on in a crisis.

  He found himself sucking in another breath with Rebecca, realized it, and shaking his head, blew it out, forcing several strands of hair into the air. Get a grip, man.

  The car rolled up in front of the giant, glass hospital doors. Amid the dark night and quiet streets, the bright lights seemed out of place. A large fleur-de-lis illuminated on the side of the main building hovered over the words Trinity Hospital.

  Alan popped open the door and helped Rebecca out of the back seat. Maybe it was the angle she used to hoist her herself up, but if he didn’t know better, he’d swear she’d shoved a basketball—or two—up her shirt. The kid couldn’t possibly have grown in the last half hour—could it?

  The glass doors slid open, and he took Rebecca’s bag and led her with a hand to her back. He motioned her toward the empty lobby and ducked back out. Did Jamie intend to stay or go? He really wished she’d stay, both for his sake and Rebecca’s.

  The passenger side window glided down, and he rested his hands on the door, leaning down so they could speak face to face. “Are you gonna stay? I think Rebecca needs a—”

  “I’ll stay.” She held his gaze for a moment, somber. Was she disappointed in his behavior again? They hadn’t had a moment alone for him to explain. Not that he had a good excuse.

  She rummaged through the cup holders and shifted in her seat, searching the car floor. “Shoot. I left without my phone.” Sighing, she shifted the car into drive. “I’ll park the car.”

  He lifted his hands and stepped back as the car pulled away.

  “Alan?”

  Chiding himself for ignoring Rebecca’s needs, he spun and rushed through the doors. “C’mon. Let’s get you up to maternity.”

  Adrenalin pumped through his system as he escorted her down the hall. This was it. She was going to have this baby, and Chris was still MIA.

  He shuffled Rebecca past a bulletin board filled with newborn photos. Babies in metal buckets, terra cotta pots, and wicker baskets. Babies’ bare bottoms, wrinkly fingers, and long-lashed eyes.

  The décor on this floor resembled a hotel more than a hospital. Photos of families hung from the walls of the carpeted hall and the wooden handrail made the floor seem warmer, less sterile. It helped put him at ease. At least a little.

  Rebecca checked in, and a nurse escorted them to a room.

  He hung back at the doorway, not sure whether to enter or wait in the hall. Did she need privacy? Did she want to be alone? Or did she need him there for moral support? Because that’s about all he could offer. He hadn’t even witnessed a litter of puppies being born let alone a human being. If he happened on one of those reality shows about labor and delivery, he zipped on by, either to sports or cable shows a smidge shy of being porn. The stuff Mom wouldn’t approve of him watching.

  The creeping shame reminded him he was not his brother. Though he was older, he wasn’t half the man Chris had turned out to be. He had no business being here witnessing a birth. Chris was responsible, respectable, and faithful. He’d make a great father. As good as their own.

  Maybe it was a blessing in disguise, Jamie not wanting children. Seriously. Neither one of them were model parent material. But they could change that, couldn’t they?

  “Mr. Reynolds?”

  Hearing his name, his attention returned to the room. Rebecca had disappeared behind the privacy curtain, so he stepped forward. “Uh, yeah?”

  “My name’s Crystal. I’ll be here for”—she glanced at the wall clock—“the next four hours.” Her short dark hair highlighted a round, open face. Alan put her age around late 30s. “Your sister-in-law explained that you’re here in your brother’s place. Is that correct?”

  “Yeah. Yeah, but he’ll be here soon, I’m sure.” He would, right? His hand slid to the phone in his pocket. Maybe he ought to call again.

  “Okay.” She glanced at the curtain then padded toward him, keeping her voice low. “I get the sense she could use the support. Your job is to be encouraging.” Her instructions were plain and the hands to her hips communicated her authority. “She’ll take care of the rest. And we’ll help her.”

  He nodded. Supportive and encouraging. He could do that.

  “Rebecca’s in active labor, but she’s probably got a while to go. I’m going to help her into the tub, see how she does there. You might as well make yourself at home.” She gestured toward the wooden set of drawers, boxy chair, and closet area.

  “Thank you.”

  Not knowing what else to do, he sunk into the chair. Where was Jamie? Would she come to the room or wait in the family area?

  Low voices and the sound of rushing water came from the adjoining bath. A splash and then a groan, and a minute later Crystal returned, her smile affirming that the situation was under control.<
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  “She’s good for now. Buzz if you need anything.” She grabbed a couple papers and sterile wrappers from the bedside tray and slipped out the door.

  He sighed and let his head roll back in the seat. He had a thing or two to say to this kid once it arrived. Coming in the middle of the night when Dad’s missing and Uncle Alan’s drunk? Not a good move.

  His phone buzzed in his pocket, and he hurried to pull it out. Please let it be Chris. He glanced at the caller ID. Yes.

  “Dude, where have you been?” He stood and ran a hand through his hair.

  “What’s going on?” Worry sounded in his voice. “I’ve got like six messages between you and Rebecca, and she’s not picking up. Is she okay? Is the baby all right?”

  “We’re at the hospital. She’s in labor.”

  “What?”

  Alan jerked the phone away from his ear a second too late.

  “You’re kidding me.” He swore. “I’m on my way now.”

  “When you gonna be here? Cause her water broke about an hour ago, and my experience with delivery is limited to Chinese food and pizza.”

  “Uh . . . an hour and a half? I don’t know. It’s raining hard. It’s dark.”

  “Where have you been? Not a great idea to go off the grid when your wife is nine months pregnant.”

  “Joyriding through the Pennsylvania countryside, what do you think?” Chris’s irritation barely masked his worry. “By the time I got out of there it was almost eleven o’clock. The car blew a tire, damaged the rim, and I had to get a tow—which took forever. Can’t get a rental car in the middle of the night there, so the guy helped me with the rim. Then I couldn’t find the car charger for my phone. It was a total screw-up. I just got a charge now.”

  “Yeah, well, explain it to your wife.” Alan plopped back in the chair, relieved Chris was on his way and in communication, even if he was an hour or more away.