by C. G. Cooper
Just like that, they decided to live, together.
Chapter Seventy-One
Once again, Elmore shocked the hospital staff. He went home in half the time. It might’ve been a stretch, but he knew that home was where he needed to be. Besides, he owed Sam and Sgt. Franks a fancy dinner, and that was impossible sitting in a hospital bed in a gown that didn’t even cover his rear end.
Home they went. Sam moved into her old room and Elmore settled into the bed he’d shared with Eve since moving into the house. It felt different now, emptier, like the last vestiges of his wife’s spirit had finally flown away. To heaven no doubt. There was no other place for a woman like Eve.
He smiled as he smoothed out the bedspread she’d brought home from Italy. She’d spent hours picking out just the right one. She liked bright colors that had no descriptive equal. Some might call it gaudy, but Eve loved it, and now so did Elmore.
That’s when he realized it. He took a turn, then another, gazed all about the modest room. The tray that held her wedding ring on the bedside table had been a purchase in Taiwan. It was a delicate thing, accented with jade. There was the picture frame they’d bought in Paris. It was a little too fancy for Elmore’s taste, but now that he thought about it, it perfectly encapsulated their visit.
Everything. Every little detail. They were all memories. Reminders of their little adventures together.
Elmore looked up at the ceiling and sky beyond.
“Thank you, sweetie.”
And the tears came, along with the thought that it was time to add to these memories. His wife was gone, but life wasn’t.
They had dinner at a steak house that catered to the rich and famous. It took a few phone calls, but one of their number, a Marine who’d spent time in the state legislature, got on the phone with the governor, another grunt, who arranged his private table for the dining trio.
And grand it was. No less than four waiters treated them like kings. Homemade rolls that were as delicate as May flowers segued into an array of appetizers that made home cooking look like slop. And the main course, a delicately smoked, buttery filet the size of a football, and two delectable sides, expertly-crafted, was enough to send them to heaven.
By the time dessert came, Sam declared that she might never have to eat again.
They ate dessert nonetheless.
The entire meal went by without talking about death and dying. Instead, they talked of the future, of what they might do together, Elmore and Sam. Sgt. Franks had a life to get back to, but he said he’d consider their offer of coming along for the ride.
“I’m no spring chicken, you know.”
“Have you seen me?” Elmore said. The two old Marines had a good laugh at that. It felt good to laugh, like he hadn’t done it in a century or more. He promised himself that he’d do it more often. He’d take it all in, the good and the bad, and make it better. Life was what it was. It was all how you processed it. He had Sam to thank for that. She never ceased to amaze him, with her honesty, with her firm belief that life would go on.
Elmore raised his glass. “To great friends. May we cherish each other and never forget that it was here that time stood still.”
“To life,” they all said in unison, Sam giggling.
It felt good to be alive. It felt good to be home.
Chapter Seventy-Two
The next two weeks ebbed and flowed with the tide of their new life together. Elmore drove to and from treatment, Sam always in tow. She knew each and every nurse’s name by then. They loved her. They asked how she was doing and whether her grandfather was behaving.
Elmore loved the treatment for one very strange reason. Here, in a room filled with patients young and old, he felt like he was in the trenches again. They were in this fight together. More than in the past, he was careful to show his strength even though some days he’d rather just lie down on the floor and sleep away the nausea. He smiled where before he might’ve avoided someone’s gaze.
There was something to it, something Franks had mentioned: “Life is a whole lot fuller when you stop thinking about yourself and start serving others.”
And he was right.
There was the day the woman next to Elmore almost fell to the floor. She’d fallen asleep, and her frail body slipped before anyone else noticed. Thankfully he did. He pulled out his IV and hopped up from his chair.
When the woman woke up in his arms, they both laughed, even though blood squirted in tiny spews from where the IV had been – a gruesome scene with dark humor and strange camaraderie.
From that day on, she called him her hero. Funny. There it was again. Four letters of little consequence smashed together to make a word that felt earth shattering: hero.
He was no hero. He knew that. Sgt. Franks had known that. They were just ordinary people doing the occasional extraordinary thing because they had no choice but to do it. But that made Elmore think. An “extraordinary thing” was nothing more than something just outside the norm – something that made people feel needed and cared for.
So he focused more now. He learned the names of his ill comrades, talked to them and their families. They suffered together, but they took solace in the fact they weren’t alone. They might one day be covered by a linen sheet, but this day, this twenty-four hours, they were part of something, no matter how small.
“They like you,” Sam said one day.
He’d just said goodbye to another new friend, a young man in his twenties who’d come in looking like the Grinch but who now had the air of a man set on the right path.
“Who?” Elmore said, picking up a golf magazine lying on the table next to him.
“All of them.”
“Oh? You took a survey?”
“No, dummy. Haven’t you noticed?”
He had but he didn’t want to let on. Better to let Sam think that she’d seen it first. She was observant, almost as much as Elmore, but she still had that dusting of youth that colored her observations.
“Have you thought about Sunday dinner?” he said.
They’d talked about having Sgt. Franks and some of the other Marines over for a meal. Sort of a thank you. Sam said it could be a family dinner to start the week off right. Elmore had to admit to her that he’d liked the sound of that.
But why her face now? Had she changed her mind?
“What is it, Sam?”
“I… well, I don’t want you to be mad.”
Mad? How could he be mad at this lovely thing? More and more he was thinking of her as family. He’d even looked into formalizing the arrangement. Better to take those steps before social services stepped in. They’d granted him temporary custody, considering his military status and the recommendation of some highly placed friends, but that wouldn’t last forever. Eventually the system would catch up with them.
“I won’t be mad, Sam. Tell me.”
Sam fiddled with her hands, wriggled and squeezing. “I sort of made a call.”
“And?”
The words came out in a gush, and it took him a few seconds to unscramble what she’d said.
“I told your son that you were dying. He’ll be at the house on Sunday.”
Chapter Seventy-Three
Despite Sam’s surprise announcement three days before, Elmore felt a deep calm that took him through the hours of each 24. He did feel like a kid ticking down the minutes for his birthday, but he tamped down his eagerness as Sam helped plan their Sunday meal.
The first order of business had been to ask their previous guests for a rain check. They’d start family night the following weekend. It was an unspoken truth that this confrontation was between a father and his son.
Sunday came, gloomy and overcast as clouds threatened to dump on their gathering. Elmore busied himself in the kitchen. They were having one of Eve’s recipes, fried chicken and mashed potatoes. It had been Oliver’s favorite.
The time came late and yet too soon. Five o’clock on the dot. No car in the drive.
An
other ten minutes went by and still nothing.
“Maybe he got stuck in traffic,” Sam said hopefully.
“Maybe.”
But Elmore was starting to have that sinking feeling. His son wasn’t coming. How could he blame the boy? He hadn’t been a father. Not a real one. He’d played one until times got tough.
Had they really gotten tough? What was the one-sided argument about? Elmore didn’t care. He was getting better. His spirits were in reverse proportion to his spiraling health. He and the porcelain king in the bathroom had become fast friends, but he didn’t let that get him down. There was so much to do. So many people to touch. He’d started making at least one phone call each day. He chose an old friend from random and just called them. It was so out of character that the first couple of contacts had felt like an out-of-body experience.
But every call had turned out right. Not just right. Perfect. It was as simple as asking, “How have you been?”
Usually there was some hesitation. They knew him as Silent Nix, a man of few words.
What did make him smile, hell, it made him do flips inside, was when they actually started talking. And what fantastic conversations they had. They talked about their shared past. Sometimes they talked of loved ones now gone. Many talked of Eve, and what a treasure she was in their lives. Elmore felt like he was getting to know her all over again.
Now, here he was, waiting for his son. He was so full of hope, the thought that things might not go his way hadn’t even entered the realm of possibility.
And yet, here it was. Reality slapping him in the face again.
“I should call him,” Sam said.
Elmore didn’t stop her. Luckily, Sam went to another room. He heard the mumbles through the walls and then the elevated voice from the far side of the house.
Sam came back in the room, face painted in red. “Men,” she huffed.
“What happened?”
She didn’t answer, but stomped around the living room, lost in thought.
Then she stopped in mid stride. “Get your keys.”
Elmore had that sinking feeling again. Sam was already making her way to the garage like a running back taking on the opposing defensive line.
“Where are we going?”
“Elmore Thaddeus Nix, it’s time for me to make something happen.”
And the die was cast - a wonderful, bold, caring die thrown in the center of life’s ring.
Even though the fear had returned, Elmore found himself smiling, and then following Sam out to the car.
Chapter Seventy-Four
Lefts and rights they took, Sam guiding them via the GPS on her new phone. They’d gone maybe twenty miles. Elmore couldn’t tell. He never went to this side of town. There were larger homes here, yards tended to perfection. Kids played, fathers threw balls while mothers and daughters chatted on porches. It was like driving into a Norman Rockwell painting.
“That’s it,” Sam said, pointing to the rambling one-story up ahead. The place was glorious in understated simplicity. Not a blade of grass out of place.
Elmore pulled into the drive. Two cars, both high-end sedans, had recently been washed. The red wash bucket still sat on the side of the drive. The poof sponges perched on the bucket’s ledge, drying in the sun. Just like Elmore had taught his son. Always the same. Two sponges. One for each of them.
“Attack it from opposite ends before the water dries,” Elmore remembered saying. In the early days, Oliver couldn’t reach the top of the car so they had done sort of a revolving job of washing the family car.
“Are you gonna put the car in park?”
Elmore looked over at Sam. She was serious. Dead determined.
“Right.”
He put the car in park just as the same little boy from the cafe ran out the front door, chased by the girl. Both froze stock-still when they noticed the car in the drive.
“Dad! Visitors!” the little boy called over his shoulder, and then ran for the opposite side of the house, squealing, with his older sister in pursuit.
“I guess that’s our cue,” Elmore said.
“Come on.”
“Yes, General,” he said, easing out of the seat.
By the time they’d made it to the door, Oliver was standing there, perturbed to be sure.
“What are you…” was all he managed to get out before Sam played into him.
“Look, sweetheart, I don’t care what you two have against each other, but when you promise to come over for dinner, you do it. Understand? That’s the right way to treat a person.” She stood with one hand on her hip, the textbook definition of sass. Elmore couldn’t help but smile.
“I…” Oliver once again started to say. Cut off again by Sam.
“Uh uh. My dad took off when I was ten and my mom is dead. I would do anything to have dinner with either one of them.” That seemed to deflate any coming retorts from Oliver, his body deflating an inch and a half.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“That’s a start. Now, why don’t you two go inside? I’ll keep an eye on the kids.”
“They’re fine. Eve’s old enough to…”
Sam’s raised hand did the job this time. “I said go inside.”
Not much to do now except take the order and go inside. So they did, Oliver holding the door for his father, though Elmore was sure he didn’t want to.
“Let’s go in the kitchen,” his son suggested without making eye contact with Elmore.
The outside was glamorous in that old Hollywood way, when starlets frolicked with macho leading men. The inside was beautiful with a tad uptick. There were touches of New York, “gold-rimmed bric-a- brac”, as Eve would’ve put it. Little knick-knacks adorning shelves and low-lying tables.
“Beautiful house,” Elmore said, almost without realizing it.
“Jacob’s an interior designer.”
“He’s very good.”
Elmore wasn’t lying. This Jacob knew his stuff.
They made it to the kitchen without any more chatter. There was the sound of giggling children from outside.
“Have a seat,” Oliver said, taking a chair on the opposite end of the table, a long slab of wood that looked like it’d been reclaimed from a strapping redwood.
Elmore sat down, not sure what he might say. Sorry? I love you?
He needn’t have worried. Oliver barreled in.
“What are you doing here?”
“To tell you the truth, I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
Elmore pointed to the window, toward the shrieks of laughter.
“She made me come.” He immediately regretted his choice of words.
Oliver didn’t seem to notice, instead glancing toward the backyard, where the sound of playing had drifted.
“Please tell me she’s not your girlfriend.”
“Oh, no, it’s nothing like that.”
“How do you know her?”
“Met her at the grocery store.”
That made Oliver laugh. Some of the tension left him. How Elmore loved that sound. It was his son, at least for a fleeting moment.
“At the grocery store?”
“Cross my heart,” Elmore said, tracing an X over his chest.
They sat there for a while, just listening to the little boy laughing out loud, occasionally interrupted by a giddy yell from Sam.
“Did you say your daughter’s name…?”
“It’s Eve,” Oliver said, without looking at his father.
“Did your mother know?”
“No.”
“I love you, son.”
Oliver froze. Then, as if he was shaking off an anaconda around his neck, he said, “You can’t just come in here and say that.”
“But I said it. And I don’t want to go to my grave knowing that I didn’t.”
“It’s just words, Dad. Love is a verb; didn’t you ever hear that one?”
“I’m sorry.”
Oliver turned away with a huff. “St
op that.”
Elmore didn’t have to search for the words now. They just came. They’d always been there, like a dusty forgotten potion to be drunk at just the right moment.
“It’s never too late, son. I’m sorry. For everything. You have every right to hate me, and I understand if you don’t want to forgive me. But I’ve… well, I’ve changed. I have cancer and I was shot. Let’s just say I’ve had my wakeup call.”
“You got shot?” Oliver asked, a hint of that old curiosity there, or was it concern? Elmore couldn’t tell.
“I did.”
“How’d it happen?”
Elmore told him everything. About how Sam disappeared, how he’d tracked her down. About the mother and her boyfriend. Oliver just sat there, like a movie producer listening to a screenplay being read aloud, ready to pass judgement, mulling over a thumb up or down.
“I’m making quite a name for myself at the hospital.”
“I wondered why, you know, why you don’t look so hot.”
Elmore laughed. “That’s an understatement. I really do look like death on a Triscuit.”
Oliver let out a little laugh. “Mom used to say that.”
“I can’t seem to let go of those.”
Go on, son, laugh some more, Elmore thought. He realized in those last couple years, before he’d left, Oliver hadn’t done much laughing. He’d passed it off as a young man finding his way. But Elmore knew now, somehow, instinctively maybe, that there’d been more too it. There’d been an inner struggle. And then that day when he’d tried to tell them.
“I’m sorry, son.”
“You said that already.”
“I know. But I’ll say that until the day I die if I have to. The day you left, it was my fault. Don’t blame your mother. And don’t blame yourself.”
“I blamed you both.”
“I know, but it was my fault.”
And then, like someone, God maybe, reached down and sprinkled them with truth serum, Oliver said, “I was frustrated. I’d planned it all out, you know. I knew how I was going to tell you. In my head you were going to run around the table and give me a big hug. We’d go out to dinner or mom would make fried chicken and mashed potatoes.” Oliver shook his head, the sadness rising to the surface. “It was stupid. I was stupid.” His eyes snapped up. “I was just a kid. But I just thought...”