The Light We Lost

by Jill Santopolo

  I pushed open the door to your bedroom and saw, folded on the foot of your bed, the same blanket I threw at you the night you told me you were leaving. I picked it up and touched it to my cheek. It still smelled faintly of you. There was a nightstand with a copy of All the Light We Cannot See. I sat down on your bed, noticing a piece of paper that marked your place. Page 254. That’s the farthest you’ll ever read in that book. You’ll never finish it. Your life was interrupted, cut short. A film that snapped on its reel and wouldn’t get to its natural end. There is so much you left undone. So much you’ll never complete, never see, never know.

  “I’ll finish the book,” I said out loud. “I’ll read it for you, Gabe.”

  Then I looked at your bookmark. It was the receipt from our afternoon at Faces & Names. I traced the date with my fingertips. Even if I’d known that was the last time I’d ever see you, I don’t think there’s anything I would have done differently. I still would’ve pressed my body against yours in the bar. I still would’ve made love to you over and over in your hotel room. And I still would’ve told you I couldn’t come with you to Jerusalem.

  Still, I can’t help but wonder if this would have happened if I’d said yes. Would you have been more careful, if I was home, waiting for you? Would you have been more careful if you’d known there was a baby that might be ours?

  I touched my stomach. Did we conceive a child that afternoon?

  Numbly, I wandered back into your living room and then into the kitchen. The refrigerator was almost empty—mustard, a few bottles of beer. There was a bag of coffee beans and a half-empty box of chai in the cabinet, along with two bags of pretzels, one unopened, the other closed with a binder clip. I didn’t know you liked pretzels that much. Why didn’t I know that about you?

  Back in the living room I found an iPhone cord on your desk and plugged in my phone to charge. There were two cameras there and an iPad. I assumed your laptop was wherever you’d been staying in Gaza. I wondered if I’d have to figure out how to get that back. Maybe the AP could help, I thought. I should call them. I should call Kate. I should really call Darren.

  As soon as my phone had enough power to turn back on, it started dinging with text messages and voice mails. My mom, my brother, Kate, Darren, Julia, the office. I opened your desk drawer to look for paper and a pen to make a list, and instead found an envelope, the only thing in the drawer, that said Last Will and Testament of Gabriel Samson.

  I bit my lip and opened it. Your pointy handwriting filled the entire page. I have the letter here with me now.

  I, Gabriel Vincent Samson, being of sound mind and body, declare this to be my last will and testament, and revoke all former wills I have written.

  I appoint Adam Greenberg as the executor of my will. If he is unable or unwilling, I appoint Justin Kim.

  Do they know what happened? Did your boss call them too? I should call them. I should call Adam.

  I direct my executor to pay, out of my accounts, any taxes or fees associated with my death and burial, and any outstanding bills or debts I owe.

  I bequeath to Lucy Carter Maxwell the rights to all my creative work—any photographs I have taken, along with my book Defiant, and the new book I’ve been working on, which is saved on my laptop in a folder called “New Beginnings.” I grant her complete control over and ownership of my copyright.

  I was surprised when I read that part, Gabe. I wondered if it was an apology of sorts for putting those pictures of me in your gallery show in New York without asking. I realized, too, that it would tie me to you for the rest of my life. I’ll die before your copyright expires. Were you thinking about that when you wrote your will? Did you want to hold us together for as long as you could?

  The remainder of my monetary estate, after all taxes, fees, and bills are paid, should be divided equally between two charities: the National September 11 Memorial & Museum and Tuesday’s Children.

  If Lucy Carter Maxwell would like any of the physical items I own, I grant them to her. Otherwise, I would like my executor to find an appropriate place to donate those.

  I attest to all of this on the 8th of July, 2014.

  Was that the day you left for Gaza? Did you write a new will each time you left for a new conflict zone? Or was it different this time?

  There are so many conversations I want to have with you, so many questions I want to ask, I wish I had asked. And so much I wish I’d told you. I decided then, after I finished reading your will for the first time, that there was one thing I needed to tell you before you died, even if you couldn’t respond, even if I wasn’t sure you’d be able to hear me say it.

  I pulled out the card Shoshana Ben-Ami had given me, and I dialed her number.

  “How quickly,” I asked, “can the hospital run a paternity test?”

  lxxix

  I met Shoshana at the hospital the next morning. She had made me an appointment with an OB in the hospital who’d examined me and then agreed to order the test. And Dr. Mizrahi was able to order that your blood be drawn too.

  Shoshana hadn’t known how long the test results would take when we’d spoken on the phone. “I can find out for you,” she’d said. “But my best guess is that it might take a few days. The Sabbath starts tomorrow night.”

  I’d forgotten about the Sabbath. But I’d figured as long as I had the results by Sunday morning, that was good enough. The machines could breathe for you until then. I could stay with you until then.

  But the universe had other plans. Dr. Mizrahi met us at the phlebotomy lab.

  “He’s all right now, but Mr. Samson had a bit of a rough night,” she said soon after she said hello.

  “Please call him Gabriel,” I told her and Shoshana. They knew our secrets. It felt strange for them to refer to you so formally. “What happened?”

  “He spiked a bit of a fever,” she said, as I followed her inside. “The resident in charge thought he might have been developing sepsis, but they increased his antibiotics and gave him acetaminophen. The fever came down. He’s stable now.”

  “Sepsis?” I asked; hardly anything after that word had registered.

  “Unfortunately, it happens sometimes with patients on life support. It’s a serious infection. But Gabriel seems to have avoided it, at least for now.” Dr. Mizrahi had stopped walking once we entered the lab. I’d stopped next to her.

  “He could die at any time?” I asked. “From sepsis?”

  “There are many risks to being on life support,” she answered.

  I thought about asking her to lay them out for me, but instead I said, “Is there a way to get these test results today? Or tomorrow? I don’t want him to die without knowing.” I felt my throat constrict and wondered, for a moment, if that would actually be easier, to let you die of another cause instead of making the decision myself. But the idea of your body becoming septic, poisoning you from the inside out, made me shudder. I couldn’t let that happen. I couldn’t let anything like that happen.

  “I’ll see what we can do,” Dr. Mizrahi said.

  Then a man with kind eyes and a long, curly ponytail took my blood and promised to send the results as soon as they were in. And then we came here, to you.

  • • •

  SO HERE WE ARE, GABE. I did better when I walked into your room this morning. I didn’t fall apart. I’m steeling myself. I’m being strong. For you. For the baby. I’m pretending this is a job I’m responsible for that has to get done. I’m doing the best I can.

  The nurse who was in here when I arrived said that you could hear me. I know what Dr. Shamir said about your brain, but the nurse said to talk to you anyway, and so I did. I am.

  I’ve told you our story. I’ve asked you questions you’ll never be able to answer. I let you know about the baby. The baby that might be ours. Or might not.

  I don’t know what would be worse—if it is, or if it isn’t.

>   I’m holding your hand now. Can you feel my fingers on yours?

  The hospital never should have put you on these machines, but no one knew, and now you’re here and they can’t take you off them unless I say it’s okay. I’m trying so hard not to be angry at you for that. But really, Gabe, how could you have put me in this position? How could you ask me to kill you? Did you think at all about what making that choice would do to me? I’m going to have to live with this the rest of my life, Gabe. I know, already, I’ll experience this in my dreams, over and over. I’ll feel the starched sheets, I’ll hear your steady mechanical breaths.

  Do you think it’s okay if I climb in there with you? I’ll be careful. I won’t touch any of your tubes. I won’t hurt your broken arm. I just . . . I want to hold you again. My head feels so good on your chest. So right. It always has.

  You’ve shaped me. Did you know that? You; September 11th. The person I am, the choices I’ve made. They’re because of you. Because of that day.

  Is it all right if I kiss your cheek? I just want to feel you against my lips once more.

  Nothing I do will bring you back, will it?

  I have to accept that.

  lxxx

  My son,

  I don’t know when I’ll give you this letter, if I do at all—when you turn eighteen? When you graduate from college? Will I wait and leave it to you in a safe-deposit box to open after I die? Or maybe you’ll grow up knowing all of this. Maybe the secret will be too much to keep.

  I need to tell someone what happened these past two days—they’ve been the hardest days of my life so far—and I’ve been so grateful that you’ve been here with me, a part of me. I read an article once, when I was pregnant with your sister, about prenatal consciousness. It’s possible that somewhere deep inside your mind, you have your own record of this, your own memories. But in case you don’t, I’m sharing mine. Because these last days should be memorialized.

  Yesterday I found out who your father was. And this morning I killed him. I was sitting with him when it happened. His head was resting on my shoulder. My lips were pressed into his hair.

  His doctor, Dr. Mizrahi, walked in and asked me if I was ready.

  I tried to say the words. I couldn’t. I just nodded.

  “You’re doing the right thing,” she told me.

  Your father was brain-dead. He’d been in an explosion in Gaza. He would never recover. I’d talked about that with her, over and over. He had no chance of getting better.

  I nodded again. Even though I knew I was doing the right thing, it was so hard. So hard it was nearly impossible.

  She watched me for a moment; I could see the well of sympathy in her eyes. I was glad it was her doing this and not someone else—she’s been so kind to me, and to your dad. “You can hold him,” she said.

  That’s when I pulled him closer to me, when I wrapped my arms around him and rested my own head on his. “Is this okay?” I asked her.

  She nodded.

  I closed my eyes and pressed my lips to his hair. I couldn’t bring myself to watch as she detached the breathing tube. The machine next to me beeped its panic and my heart felt the same way, alarm bells going off in one long wail. I opened my eyes and watched Dr. Mizrahi silence the machine as its screen flatlined. There was one long, rattling breath, and then nothing.

  Complete silence.

  Your father was gone.

  Tears blurred my vision. I apologized to him. Over and over. I hated what I had to do. “I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

  For years your father and I talked about fate or free will, destiny or decision. I think I have an answer now. It was my choice. It’s been my choice all along. And his. We chose each other.

  Right now, you and I are in your father’s apartment. We’re surrounded by him, even though he’s gone. We can see him everywhere, in the golden light that comes in through the bedroom windows at sunrise, in the crimsons and midnight blues of the Persian rug on the floor, in the fragrant coffee beans stockpiled in his kitchen—coffee he’ll never get to drink. But we’ll drink it for him, you and I.

  If I’m gone when you’re reading this, look up your father’s name: Gabriel Samson. Look up his art. Look up the exhibit he showed at the Joseph Landis gallery in Chelsea in 2011. I hope you can see, from his photographs, how deeply he felt for the world—and how deeply he and I felt for each other. He was an artist, your father, a brilliant, sensitive, beautiful artist who tried to make the world better with every photograph he took. He wanted to share stories across borders, across boundaries, across races and religions. And he did. But he gave his life for it.

  He wasn’t perfect. You should know that. Neither am I. He was selfish sometimes, self-centered, self-important. He thought sacrifice was noble.

  He never knew you were coming. I should have told him. Maybe it would’ve changed things. I can only imagine that if he knew about you, his mind-set would have been different, he’d be less willing to jump into the fray, throw himself into the battle. I can’t imagine he would’ve been willing to sacrifice his time with you. Or maybe it wouldn’t have made a difference. Maybe it wouldn’t have changed a thing.

  You were conceived in love—I want you to know that. Whatever comes next, whatever happens after I write this letter, whatever our lives look like when you read this, whoever you grew up calling “Dad”—I need you to know how much I loved your father. It was a passion that transcended time, space, and all logic. I hope that you find a love like that—one that is all-consuming and powerful, that makes you feel like you’re going slightly mad. And if you do find that love, embrace it. Hold on to it. When you give yourself over to love like that, your heart will get bruised. It will get battered. But you will also feel invincible and infinite.

  Now that he’s gone, I don’t know if I’ll ever feel that way again. If anyone else will make me feel as special or as chosen or as desired as he did. As seen. But I count myself lucky to have experienced those feelings at all. I count myself lucky to have met him. And to have you.

  You haven’t entered the world yet, but already I love you, my son. And I know that wherever he is, your father does too.

  acknowledgments

  I wrote the first vignette that later became The Light We Lost in 2012, after a relationship ended that I’d thought would last forever. For the next four years, I worked on this novel during the extra bits of time I had between other book deadlines. And those four years turned out to be some of the most tumultuous years of my life. During that time, I thought a lot about love, loss, destiny, decision, ambition, and regret—and I was thankful, many times, to have had Lucy’s world to create when my own world began to feel overwhelming.

  I am so grateful for the friends and family who supported me in those four years, during both the celebrations and the sorrows. But while I send thank-yous to each and every wonderful person in my life, I want to call out specifically the ones who helped turn the vignettes I was writing into a novel. So: Thank you to Amy Ewing, who read the first twenty-eight pages and told me to keep going; to Marianna Baer, Anne Heltzel, Marie Rutkoski, and Eliot Schrefer, the best writing group on the planet, who read more than one iteration of this story and—as they always do—encouraged and criticized in just the right way; to Talia Benamy and Liza Kaplan Montanino, whose feedback—and multiple follow-up conversations—was invaluable; and to Sarah Fogelman and Kimberly Grant Grieco, my focus group of two, whose insightful thoughts about Lucy as a mother and a wife informed the final drafts of this book. Thank you to my sisters, Alison May and Suzie Santopolo, who offered their expertise on hospital and medical matters; to my aunt, Ellen Franklin Silver, who helped with TV producer information; to Atia and Conor Powell, who answered questions about reporting from Gaza; and to Bari Lurie Westerberg, who told me a story about Jeff’s hair being in the laundry and then agreed to let me borrow a version of it fo
r this book. And thank you a million times to Nick Schifrin, who finalized the plot with me on a cocktail napkin, who made sure Gabe’s career in journalism rang true, who fixed my Jerusalem facts, who explored Rehavia with me, and who read and talked through almost every scene in this book with me at least three times—pushing me to go deeper and suggesting lines himself when I wasn’t sure what should come next. Nick, a ticket to Hamilton doesn’t even begin to express how grateful I am for your help.

  This book would still be a manuscript on my computer, though, without two incredible women: my agent, Miriam Altshuler, and my editor, Tara Singh Carlson. Miriam, I’m so appreciative of all you do for me and for my work, and am so thankful that my path in life led me to you. And Tara, your insight and vision changed Lucy, Gabe, Darren, and their story for the better. Thank you for championing my manuscript, thank you for asking the perfect editorial questions, and thank you, Ivan Held, Sally Kim, Helen Richard, Amy Schneider, Andrea Peabbles, Kylie Byrd, Claire Sullivan, and the entire team at Putnam and Penguin—especially Leigh Butler, Tom Dussel, and Hal Fessenden—for giving me the opportunity to share The Light We Lost with the world.

  But I never would have thought I could write a book in the first place if it weren’t for two other people. The final thank-yous go to my mom, Beth Santopolo, and—even though he won’t ever see this—my dad, John Santopolo, for never once acting like my dreams were disposable and for always encouraging me to go for it, whatever “it” happened to be. I will never take that for granted.