by Toni Blake
But she never expected him to say them out loud. “What if Emily hadn’t died? What if I’d gotten home ten minutes earlier? Or later? What if Dahlia hadn’t looked out for me? What if my mother had tracked down my dad to tell him she was having his kid?”
“I’m surprised,” she said gently, “that you’re playing along with me on this.”
He released another sigh, confessing, “It’s easier than I thought. Maybe it’s...a weight off my chest. That I can. That somebody else knows.”
That made her smile softly. Another thing she hadn’t seen coming. “The problem with those questions is—they don’t lead anywhere because there are such an infinite number of them. Trust me—I spent a lot of time after Cal’s death wishing I could turn back time and bar the door or tie him to a chair to keep him from taking that trip. But we can’t go back. Only forward.”
A small smile graced Zack’s stubbled face. “I’ve been thinking a lot along those lines myself lately. I mean, right after I fell I played that game, too—wishing I hadn’t headed to the store, wishing I’d seen the ice—but I figured out real fast it was useless. Only then I didn’t really know how to move forward. Now, with you, I do.”
She didn’t know if he meant with her help as a nurse or with her hand as a companion—but in that moment it didn’t even matter. Either way, it just made her happy inside.
After PT, Suzanne heated up leftover lasagna for lunch, and they turned on Zack’s talk shows. She made a shopping list and put chicken breasts and stuffing mix in the Crock-Pot for dinner. And upon realizing Dahlia hadn’t called either of them back, she sent a text in their three-way thread. Can you believe Zack made your lasagna for me? Who is this masked man, right? Anyway, it was delicious. You’d be proud.
She saw Zack look at his phone, his expression laced with amusement before refocusing on the TV.
And a moment later, Dahlia replied. That’s lovely, dear.
That was it. Nothing more. Suzanne thought one of their phones might ring then, but neither did. The room stayed quiet as she and Zack silently exchanged glances.
She still didn’t know what to make of Dahlia’s distant behavior. She only knew it kept disappointing her over and over—and it had to be worse for Zack. She tried to make light of it. “Probably just on the go. I’m sure she’ll call later.”
* * *
DAHLIA WAS TIRED and her very bones ached. She didn’t want to tell Giselle. She didn’t want to think about it herself. She lay in bed, grateful for the lulling caws of seabirds. No matter what, she still had that, the seabirds. And the sunsets.
When her phone buzzed with a text, she reached for it, expecting Suzanne or Zack. She wished she felt like talking. But no—no, it was from Pierre. Pierre Desjardins, the gallant gentleman who’d made her feel so young again this past autumn. She gasped at the very sight of his name, an unexpected rush of adrenaline pumping through her veins. Because it was more than just feeling youthful. More than she’d admitted to anyone—even herself. She’d begun to fall in love with him.
And then she’d asked him to leave.
She opened the message.
Bonjour, my fair flower. Forgive me for saying hello, but I have not been able to stop thinking of you.
Dahlia burst into tears. She’d never been much of a crier, somehow always able to rise above the urge, but now tears flowed down her cheeks, and low sobs shook her body.
“Dahlia, what’s wrong?” Through tear-blurred eyes she saw Giselle rushing toward her.
Nothing. Normally, that was what she’d say. But the world didn’t feel normal right now. So she simply held out the phone, let Giselle read the words, and said through her tears, “Maybe I was wrong. Maybe I should have let him stay. Maybe I...loved him.” The confession stopped her—stopped the crying, almost stopped her heart from beating. “But things got so complicated, you know.”
“I know,” Giselle said, rubbing her arm.
“And I wanted him to have only good memories of me. I didn’t want to hurt another man—I’ve left such a mess of them in my wake.”
Giselle’s smile was sympathetic. “I suspect none of them harbors any regrets. Sometimes things just don’t last forever, that’s all.”
The words were a balm. “This is why I love you. You get me. And you...absolve me of all of my sins.”
“It’s no sin to stop loving someone.”
“That’s just it,” Dahlia said. Her mind felt...open, in a brand-new way. Perhaps it came from the medicine she’d been taking the last few days, but it felt like...revelation. “I’m not entirely certain I ever did stop loving them—any of them. Instead, it’s more like I just...turned it off, the same as turning off a faucet. I’m not sure I fully appreciated what I had in any of them. Or in Pierre, either.”
She looked out on the beach before her. It felt far away now. Other things felt closer. She curled her hands into fists of remorse. “I’m afraid, Giselle. Afraid I’ve made very big mistakes. Afraid I’ve done everything wrong. I’ve pushed so many people away.”
“It’s not too late,” Giselle told her.
“Isn’t it?” Dahlia asked, confused by the notion.
“Not for everyone,” Giselle said.
Dahlia took that in, sorry she’d wasted so much precious time. Then she picked up the phone abandoned in the bedcovers and used tired fingers to type back to Pierre a simple truth. I miss you, too.
He replied: I would love to see you in the spring, my flower, when the ice thaws.
Something in her heart pinched, and a few more tears fell as she typed back: Yes, yes, that would be lovely. The spring.
Part 3
Excerpt from a letter to Zack:
We have so much in common, you and I. We carve our path, winding strategically around any bumps in the road, even ones that don’t really exist. But don’t make the same missteps I did. Don’t mistake love for something dangerous to steer past. When love finds you, keep it. Hold on to it. Cherish it. Because I fear in the end we will find that love is all there is, all that counts for anything.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
WHEN A FRANTIC knock came on the cottage door as Suzanne and Zack finished dinner, they looked at each other. A blizzard raged outside. Who the hell could it be?
The sound was so shocking as to freeze her in place next to the table, having just picked up her plate before reaching for Zack’s. Only when it came again—a booming thud, thud, thud—did she set the plate back down and go to the door.
She opened it to find a woman she didn’t know, probably in her forties, bundled in a red parka, strands of long brown hair spilling from the front of the hood. Wherever she’d come from, the walk had left her snow-covered, and big flakes blew past her through the open door. Suzanne went back to being frozen—she hadn’t known who it would be, but she’d at least expected someone she knew. She said nothing, gaping at the stranger.
“Suzanne,” the woman said as if they were acquainted.
Suzanne blinked, flinched. “Yes?”
“I’m Giselle.”
“Giselle,” Suzanne repeated. Because that made no sense.
“Dahlia’s Giselle.”
Suzanne shook her head. “That can’t be.”
“It is,” the woman said, “and I need you to let me in. It’s urgent.”
Suzanne felt herself blinking some more, her chest tightening with confusion—and intrusion. But the woman stepped forward over the threshold, giving her little choice. Across the room, Zack appeared equally stunned.
“Zack,” the woman said, her tone again suggesting familiarity, “I’m sorry. I apologize to you both that time is too short for me to say any of this gently. I’m not only Dahlia’s friend—I’m her nurse. And she’s not at the beach—we’ve been at her house this whole time.”
“Wh-what?” Suzanne asked, leaning forward slightly. “How can that b
e?”
Giselle went on. “Please brace yourselves. Dahlia was diagnosed with late-stage pancreatic cancer just before Christmas. She asked me to help her die on her own terms, not wanting to burden you. But now she regrets keeping the truth from you both and from Meg, and I’ve come to take you to her bedside. I called Meg on the way.” She shook her head, looking emotional for the first time. “I didn’t want to tell her by phone, but I can only do so much in these conditions. I don’t know how much time Dahlia has left, so we have to go now. I can tell you the rest as we walk.”
When they both stayed as still as two pillars of stone, Giselle repeated, “Now. We have to go. Put on your boots and coats.”
It was Suzanne who finally found her voice. “But Zack...can’t...”
“I know,” Giselle said. “So you and I will have to help him. We have to get him there.”
Suzanne could barely breathe under the shock. Dahlia was here? Dahlia was...dying? She wanted to collapse into a heap on the floor, but her nurse’s training—or some kind of robotic response—kicked in and started her moving. Stooping down, she reached for her snow boots.
“Where are Zack’s?” Giselle asked, dripping snow all over the floor.
Suzanne trembled, unable to think. Zack hadn’t left the cottage since arriving. She looked around, trying to remember where she’d put such things. “There,” she said, pointing to them in a corner.
After which things moved surreal and dream-like, fast and tense and quiet as Giselle helped Zack with his boots and the coat Suzanne handed her as she pulled on her own, zipping and tying and tightening, vaguely aware of Zack pulling a fleece hat onto his head. And then Zack was reaching for his crutches, pulling himself up, but clearly it was awkward in a heavy coat, different than what he’d grown used to. As he moved toward the door, Suzanne caught sight of wetness on his cheeks and reached up to wipe her own with one mittened hand. How can this be?
Moving out into the snowstorm felt like stepping into a cold hell. Zack couldn’t walk and struggled with his crutches in the deep snow—making progress impossible. And Dahlia was dying. Dying. Even more impossible.
But they had to get there—they had to find a way. So when it became clear that the crutches were useless in an icy storm, Zack flung them down only a few steps beyond the door and the women got on each side to help him. Every step challenged them, but together the three moved forward, fumbling and clumsy. Suzanne supported Zack’s weight as bitter wind and blowing snow stung her face. The wintry street, every storefront dark, stretched silent and long before them as she and Giselle focused on keeping Zack upright, but at times they slipped and lost their footing, too. More than once, they all fell. But they had to keep going.
When they reached Lakeview Park, it lay like a thick white blanket to their left. On the right, barren docks rimmed the northern end of Lake Michigan. The thick-falling snow blotted out the moon, but the expanses of white on all sides lit their way.
“I know you’re both in shock,” Giselle said as they walked. “I’m sorry I had to tell you this way. I begged Dahlia to tell you from the start, but she refused to burden you. She thought it would be easier for you to find out afterward.”
They trundled forward in more silence, taking that in, until Zack asked, “She didn’t even want to try treatment?”
“The survival rate is very low,” Giselle said. “And the cancer was quite advanced. I couldn’t fault that particular decision.”
“But how...” Zack began. “How did it get that bad before she even knew about it?”
Just then, a foot slid out from under him, yet the women caught him. “There were symptoms,” Giselle said. “But they came and went, and she didn’t think anything was seriously wrong. Stomach pain, fatigue.”
“Oh,” Suzanne said, struck by revelatory memories. “She complained of being tired around Christmas. I thought she was just...tired, the same way any of us get tired.” She suddenly felt thick not to have paid more attention.
Giselle went on. “By the time she saw a doctor on the mainland, it was stage four. Late diagnosis is common with pancreatic cancer.”
And then Suzanne had another, bigger revelation. She looked over at Giselle, who—nurse, friend, whatever—she suspected knew a lot about Dahlia. “Is that...why she sent Mr. Desjardins away?”
Indeed, Giselle didn’t flinch at the question. “She didn’t want to burden him, either.”
“Damn her not burdening people,” Zack said.
“And so,” Suzanne reasoned as they struggled past the park toward Dahlia’s street, “this is why she left anyway after Zack’s accident. Or pretended to leave.” She shook her head within the hood of her parka. “I can’t wrap my mind around this.”
“She thought it was a gift,” Giselle told them. “She’s only slowly come to realize she needs you with her now.”
As they started up a hilly street toward Dahlia’s cottage, Zack asked, “What about the sunsets? And the beaches? She sent us pictures.”
“You’ll understand when we get there. And prepare yourselves,” Giselle said. “She’s lost a great deal of weight. She hasn’t had much appetite for weeks. Two days ago she quit eating altogether and I had to increase her pain meds.” Stark reminders of where they were, that there was no time to adjust to this, no time to ease her toward the end.
“When?” Zack asked, clearly thinking the same thoughts as Suzanne. “How long...”
“No way to know. Could be an hour, could be a day,” Giselle said as she slipped on the incline and caught herself—Suzanne supported Zack more as Giselle regained her footing. “But in my professional opinion, she’s fading fast. That’s why the urgency.”
That silenced them. This couldn’t be real. But it was.
And this last part of the walk had grown harder, slower. Zack was doing amazingly well—using both his feet—but he slipped or lost his balance frequently, and Suzanne wasn’t sure how much longer she could keep holding him up, even with Giselle on the other side. Just keep going. Take a step. And another. And another.
“How do you know her?” Zack asked.
“I came to the island a few summers in a row,” Giselle said, “and we hit it off and kept in touch. She knew I had hospice care experience, so she asked me to help her through this. Being chosen to assist someone to the end of life is an honor I don’t take lightly.”
Neither Zack nor Suzanne replied. That big question finally had a simple but devastating answer. Giselle was a nurse helping Dahlia die.
Suzanne wanted to sink to her knees, those last words having stolen any remaining energy. Keep going. Keep going. But she struggled to move forward.
When Giselle glanced behind them, Suzanne did, too—to see Meg and Seth approaching at a much brisker pace than their own. They said nothing—what was there to say?—only turned back around and tried to push on. A moment later, though, Seth stepped up beside Suzanne, touched her shoulder, and said, “Let me help.”
She didn’t hesitate. It was rescue. An answer to an unspoken prayer. She eased out from under Zack’s arm and Seth moved smoothly in to take her place. “It’s okay, buddy,” he said to Zack. “I gotcha.”
Suzanne watched from behind as the most unlikely of trios started forward again up the snowy incline. Seth supporting Zack. Zack letting him. The world not ending. Or...was it? Just in a different way. It was the best thing she’d ever seen. For the worst possible reason.
Meg stood beside her, clearly as stunned by the sight, neither of them moving—instead just watching as the other three got farther away, silhouetted by the snow. Suzanne felt frozen in place all over again. Until Meg wordlessly grabbed her coat sleeve and tugged her forward.
* * *
ZACK’S BODY FELT NUMB—from cold, shock, exhaustion, emotion—but his brain whirred and his heart ached as the strange group finally entered Dahlia’s cottage. No one said a word as they to
ok in what they saw.
Dahlia lay, eyes closed and breathing audibly, in a single bed situated in the living room facing a big screen TV displaying simple video of a beach, the sun dipping toward the water, soft pink clouds turning more electric before their eyes. The surf shushed and a passing gull cawed. Pictures had been taken off the walls, replaced by giant posters featuring white sands, seashells, and blue water. Two Adirondack chairs from Dahlia’s front yard had been moved inside, their front legs planted in a baby pool filled with sand.
“She really did want to go to the beach,” Giselle said. “But she also wanted the comforts of home. So we compromised.”
His gaze flitted briefly to Suzanne’s in wonder. All those sunset pictures—taken of a TV or a poster. The few shots she’d sent of her or with Giselle had been orchestrated to show a beachy background. Such an elaborate lie. All not to trouble the people who loved her.
Giselle pulled a chair from the kitchen table close to Dahlia’s bed. “Here, Zack.” He’d been leaning on Seth all this time, soaking in the surreality of the room. So strange to be leaning—physically—on the guy who’d taken Meg from him. Now Seth helped him to the chair.
He peered down at his loving aunt, almost unrecognizably gaunt. And now he knew...everything. Why she hadn’t sent any new pictures of herself lately. Why she hadn’t called much the last few days. Why she’d “left” in the first place, despite his injury. He’d been so cold to her; he and Suzanne had both been so angry. Anyone would have been, but he still felt awful for it. And now a dam broke inside him and he couldn’t stop the tears from spilling out—they drenched his cheeks, and he bent his face into his hands.
“Don’t cry, my boy. Don’t cry.”
He lifted his head to find she’d opened her eyes. He could see in them that she wasn’t fully the same as she’d been before, but she wasn’t gone yet, either—she was straddling existence, holding on but letting go at the same time.