Love, Michael: A second chance romance

by Gina A. Jones

  “Thank you,” I said. When I opened the book, there was a spot marked with a note.

  Son, when you get your wife back, make her this plum pot roast. There’s nothing a pot roast can’t fix.

  Take care.

  Love, Ruth.

  And so there I was, heading down Highway 2 in my Toyota 4Runner—no more little boy toys. I popped in my go-to-song, rolled down the windows and sang at the top of my lungs, All in with Lifehouse. Because this time, I was all in. I only hoped she would take me back.

  Now

  Each day becomes more precious. Another day Michael is alive. Sleep doesn't come, at least not for me. Michael's cancer is winning the battle, but I refuse to acknowledge the evil growth slowly taking away another life. Michael does his best to put on appearances, but I know he's in pain. He limits pain medication to only on days when it's too tolerable. These days, he has two choices—take something for the pain and sleep or pretend he doesn't hurt and carry on as all is well.

  It's February, and I'm thankful to have had a few more months with him. There is no pain medication for my heart, but only the love and unselfishness Michael gives me. He's lost so much weight, but I pretend not to notice. To me, he is and always will be the strong man who gave me his heart. He will always have mine.

  Once again, I have taken a leave from work to care for Michael. And together, we get through the day with tears, laughs, and watching our granddaughter together. I know Bindi wears him out, but he will never say so. I see the determination in his eyes, though his body is weak. Today is a good day, he tells me. I don't argue. Because, as I nurse, I know there are no good days when dying from cancer. There are only days.

  Christmas was extra special this year, and we celebrated like there was no cancer. Michael refused to let us think or talk about it. If it were that easy. The house was decorated to the gills. We all laughed when Michael flipped the switch, lighting up all the outside lights and reenacted the scene from “Christmas Family Vacation.” The neighbors all came over and stood around for the big reveal. The cancer hadn't yet taken its toll on him, and I prayed that by some miracle he would be healed. Sometimes, I wonder if it was just as bad as it is now, and Michael refused to let us see it. However, there's no hiding it now. His jeans that once hugged his perfect body now hang. He's cold most the time and wears flannels over his T-shirts. I make sure to keep the heat set higher than usual. It's so sad what cancer does. Not only does it take away your loved ones, but it degrades one’s worth as a man or woman. The broad shoulders, the bulky biceps, the square masculine profile; all bony and sunken. I tell him he looks like a burly lumberjack in his red-plaid flannel shirts and I could see the appreciation in his eyes to see him as a man.

  When he holds me, I feel bones where I once felt muscle. It's all so sad, but we refuse to let it ruin our days together. We talk of the future as if he will still be here. Who will be president when Bindi grows up? Where she'll go to college and what she'll be. Monica and Jordan will have a boy next when they decide to have more children.

  I carry a plate of Michael's favorite cookies into the living room and watch him looking out the front window. "What are you looking at?" I ask, setting down the cookies. "Chocolate chip, you're favorite."

  He turns around and gives that so supportive smile. "The snow. It's so pretty when snow first falls."

  "Says the man who cursed the snow and taught our daughter to swear."

  He laughs and comes to take me in his arms. "My job was to teach her the bad things. Your job was to teach her the good things. And…I say you'd done a pretty good job at that." After he kisses me, he reaches down and grabs a cookie. I love to see him eat and enjoy whatever he can. "Mmm, melts in my mouth. Here," he says, sharing the cookie with me. I chew and smile into his eyes. His eyes still hold that shine and love he had when first returning. I understand it all now. How much he has taught me.

  "Hey, grab your coat. We're going to make a snowman," he says.

  "But…"

  "No buts. Today is a good day. And…I want to build a snowman with my wife. Go grab Bindi and bundle her up."

  "Michael…"

  "Shh. I want this more than anything."

  I take in a heavy breath and know there's no arguing with him. And it's these things, things that are hard for him to do, which make him feel better. It's hard to watch but know I must do it if this is his wish.

  "Okay. She's finishing up her cookies in the kitchen."

  "Thank you," he says and slowly walks to the bedroom to bundle up.

  I find Bindi at her kid table, enjoying her cookie with chocolate all over face. "Looks like someone likes cookies." She looks up and shoves more cookie in her mouth with the palm of her hand. She then holds out both hands to show me the chocolate all over them. "You want Grandma to clean you up?" A big nod. Picking her up, I take her to the sink and clean her face with a warm cloth. "You even have it in your ears."

  Now clean and cookie-free, I ask if she wants to go outside. She shrills with baby happiness and wiggles to get down. "Go get your coat and boats." She pushes her little legs to the door where her bag lies. Michael grabs her up with a scoop, and she screams with more giggles.

  "Grandpa has his warm clothes on. Let's get yours," he says and bundles her up. I grab my coat and step into my boots. Opening the back door, the wind whips in and blows papers onto the floor. I look to Michael once more, but there is no stopping this. He wants us to make a snowman.

  With Bindi between us, both holding a gloved hand, we step down from the patio and take giant steps through the snow. There's at least six inches that have fallen. Bindi drops to her knees and gathers snow in her small hands, and Michael begins with snowman building 101.

  "Press it together like this, see?" He presses snow into a ball and hands it to her. "Now, let's roll it in the snow, and it will grow." This lasted about three minutes until Bindi decides the snow is more fun to eat than to roll.

  "Looks like it's up to us, Grandpa," I say and help Michael with the snow. Once the ball grows to our knees, Bindi gives it another shot and pushes the snowball around.

  "Yeah, like that. You're doing it," Michael cheers her on and as he prepares another snowball. As I watch the two of them playing in the snow, I don't see cancer and all the pain that comes with it. And this is because Michael wants us to see only this. Him and I and the life we've created. And that's how it should be. Don't give cancer a minute's thought, he always says. Today belongs to us.

  I gather pinecones and sticks for the arms and face of their snowman, now layered with three huge snowballs. "Wow, did you do this?" I say, bending down to Bindi. She nods and rubs the snowman's belly. "Wait until Mommy sees it."

  Michael picks her up, and I hand her the pinecones to push in the snow for his eyes. "Perfect," he says and kisses her big on the cheeks. "Burr, you got cold little cheeks. How about we go in, and Grandma makes us some hot chocolate? She smiles big with a nod. Wrapping his arm around me, we kiss and together carry Bindi back to the house.

  We leave our clothes in a pile to dry next to the door, and I gather the cups and cocoa mix. Michael hugs me from behind and rubs his cold nose in my neck.

  "Thank you. That meant a lot to me."

  "Me too, Michael." I know he won't like it, but I need to ask. "How are you? You need me to get a blanket?"

  "Only if you come and lay inside with me," he teases like there is no cancer.

  "You have got yourself a date because I am freezing and to curl up with this lumberjack is the only thing that can satisfy me."

  He laughs under his breath. "You bring the hot chocolate. I'll grab the blanket."

  I pour temped cocoa into Bindi's sippy cup and set her at the little table. "Here you go, little Miss Snowman Maker. She reaches for the cup, and I know she'll be down for a nap soon.

  Michael is laying on the sofa with the blanket open, waiting on me as I set two mugs on the table. I quickly snuggle down in and curl into his chest. "Mmm, I love snuggling with you,"
I say and tip my head up to kiss his chin.

  "I love you, Jill. Thank you for making me feel like a man."

  "You are a man, Michael. And an awesome snowman builder." He squeezes me in, and I feel his ribs in my back. "Are you getting warm enough?"

  "Mm-hmm."

  I find his hands, cold and boney fingers and lace them with mine, bringing them up to my lips. "I love you too, Michael." a slight squeeze of his hand lets me know he's heard me. I then cover our hands up and nestle down into him.

  I watch the snow come down outside through the gap in the curtains and think about the years I've spent looking out that window. Michael leaving and Michael coming back. Monica going for dates and walking in at night, sometimes a little late. I try and fill in the gaps from our voided years we were apart, but it feels like time has stitched together. Allowing us to have an us.

  I feel Michael’s chest move in and out and thankful for each one. Until they become smaller and farther apart. I squeeze his hand one more time. A faint squeeze back, and then…it goes limp, and his last breath lands on my neck. He's gone.

  Tears run down my face as I watch the snow come down outside, and I think how only moments ago we all built a snowman together. I silently thank him for making me forget that, for a short time, he wasn't dying.

  Bindi comes walking in with her blankie and teddy and crawls up beside us. I don't speak and pull her into me until she falls asleep. Maybe it's better this way—too young and not knowing she will never see her Grandpa after she wakes from her nap.

  When I feel she's deep in her nap, as much as I hate to, I slowly lift us up and take her to the bedroom and lay her down. I walk back to Michael, who looks so at peace. Like he's sleeping and will wake to smiles and kisses on my face. I sit down beside him and rub his chest, and see a note poking from his shirt pocket. Pulling it out, I open the worn paper and read what is written inside. It's a list with things crossed off. It's his bucket list.

  One, walk my daughter down the aisle—crossed off. Two, Jill loves me again; crossed off. Three, marry Jill—crossed off. Four, become a grandfather—crossed off. Five, live the rest of my life with Jill—crossed off. And six, die with Jill in my arms.

  Through the tears, I see Bindi's crayons spilled along the coffee table and pick up a pink crayon. I cross off the last thing on Michael's list. I fold it back up and tuck back inside his pocket and bend down to kiss him and then whisper. "Go in peace, Michael. Your list is complete."

  I stand next to Michael's coffin and prepare to speak. I don't know how I'll get through this, but somehow, I know I will. Monica and Jordan are in the front row, next to Mom and Dad, and Scott and Jenny. Ryan and the girls are behind. I don't recognize the faces in back, but many have expressed their condolences and introduced themselves as Michael's friends from the jet center. And all the other faces I remember from Monica's wedding. I think back to that day, the first time I had seen Michael in over twenty years. It seems like a lifetime ago. I dab my eyes once more, take a deep breath…and begin.

  "Michael came into my life when I was just a girl…and my life hasn't been the same since. Things weren't always easy, and at times, I thought we'd never last. And…we didn't.

  “Many of you know that Michael and I divorced twenty years ago. That was the Michael who gave me a beautiful daughter." I look to Monica, tears heavy in her eyes. Jordan holds her close, and on her lap sits Bindi. "Michael left to find himself, and I know how cliché that sounds. But I think it was meant for us. Because once we found each other again, we learned how never to take love for granted and to hold on for dear life."

  I brace myself, trying to talk over the lump in my throat and continue. "A few years ago, I lost my best friend, Tammy. She was my anchor through all the bad Michael years. And when she passed, Michael was there for me. That's the Michael I want to tell you about today."

  I glance down at the note in my hand. Michael's bucket list. "There are three things I know about Michael. One, how much he loved me. Two, that he wanted to be a grandfather. And three, he died in peace. Michael would tell me his regrets in life, but what he didn't know was that he outlived them. Even dying young, he left no regrets."

  Wiping my eyes, I look out at the people sitting and see Tammy as Marilyn sitting next to Ryan. She smiles and blows me a kiss, and with it, I feel the strength to go on.

  "Michael was the husband who would open my car door and hold my hand in public. He was the husband who surprised me with flowers for no reason and a hot bath waiting when I got home from work. He loved to care for his granddaughter, and for the first year of her life, he raised her while we all worked. He even planned her gender reveal party." I laugh and recall the day. "We were all to meet at the park here in town. Michael had tables set with food and cakes. We were all in suspense and had no idea what his plan was. There were a few things covered on the tables, of which we thought would reveal if she was having a boy or girl. Michael began talking when an officer came into the pavilion. He asked if anyone drove a white Honda Civic. Monica said it was hers. He told her that there had been an accident, that her car had been hit and she was needed to fill out a police report. We followed her out to her car when a parade of firetrucks and police cars surrounded the area. We thought there was a raid going down, when over a loudspeaker an officer said, ‘Monica and Jordan, you are having a girl.' Every police officer and firemen came out with pink roses and began singing “My Little Girl.” Not as good as Tim McGraw." The crowd laughs, and it's the air I need.

  "I think as we all get older; we realize that growing old together is the real fantasy and not the ones we daydream as young teens and adults. As young girls, we think love is a first kiss, first sex, dates, and dances, heart and flowers. But it's not. Those are things we do because we don't know what love is. Love is the crying babies, the dirty diapers, sleepless nights and having the one person hold you as you experience it together. Love is discovering what life is all about together. Being someone's anchor and light after a hard day. Love is watching someone slowly deteriorating away, but still only see them as the hot guy who kissed on his couch when you were seventeen. It's seeing the storms and sunshine together. The hills you climb to see the horizon and knowing it wasn't easy, but you did it together. Love is knowing you have moments to live and you spend it building a snowman with your wife and granddaughter."

  With tears running down my cheeks, I fold Michael's list, turn and place it in the pocket of his suit. "Love is having the best husband I could ever ask for. Thank you, Michael. I love you."

  After

  The snow is gone, replaced with fresh, green grass and the trees are bursting with leaves. It's the end of May—Memorial Day—as I drive into the cemetery. Bindi is in the back, buckled in her car seat taking a thousand pictures of me with my phone. Later, I will need to purge the stream of photos. But every once in a while, she captures one that grabs my heart. A moment in time I was unaware of.

  Michael has been gone for three months, but his beautiful spirit is alive all around us. There's not a day that goes by that I don't talk to him or talk about him. We keep lots of pictures around, and Bindi is learning to say Pappy. She will know and remember her grandpa.

  Several cars are parked here in the St Joe Cemetery, placing flowers on loved one's graves, and I pull up first to Tammy's. Before getting out, I asked Bindi if Grammy can have her phone back. She hands it over, and we then exit the car. "You want to put flowers on Tammy and Pappy's grave?"

  "Pap—py," she says.

  "Very good. You know who Pappy is, don't you?"

  A big nod, followed by, "Pap—py."

  "Oh, you're getting to be such a big girl," I tell her, carrying her to the back of the car before setting her down. I pop the trunk and take out the flats of flowers I bought at the local greens and reach for Bindi's hand. "Come on. Give Grammy your hand, and we'll play in the dirt."

  "Durt."

  "Yep. You like dirt, don't you?"

  "Durt. Pap—py," she sings songs
as we walk to Tammy's grave. I see Ryan, and the girls have already been here and planted Tammy's favorite flowers—painted daisies. I add a few more and a couple small sunflowers to their arrangement. A garden stone with the caption Mom, always loved and always missed, centers the flowers.

  "Okay, ready to plant flowers on Pappy's?"

  "Pap—py." She helps by picking up the half-empty flat, and we walk to Michael's grave. The grass has not yet grown over where he was buried, so I sit down on my knees and plow the soil with my hands to prepare to plant the flowers. Bindi wastes no time jumping in and squeezing the dirt. "Yeah, like that."

  "Durt," she says picking it up and letting it swift through her small fingers.

  "Can you hand Grammy a flower?" She toddles over and picks up one flower with both hands and brings it back. "Very good. Now, put it right here in this hole." She drops it in, and I tell her to get more while I make more holes. Soon, we have the entire plot planted with an arrangement of color annuls. "Now, let's give the flowers a drink." Gathering the empty flats and small spade, we take them back to the car, and I grab the sprinkler can that luckily hasn't tipped over. She holds my hand as we amble back to Michael's grave. "Here, you hold this side while Grammy tips the water out." It takes a bit, but soon all the water is drained, and I take a seat on the ground and hold Bindi on my lap. "Now, who is this?" I say pointing to the picture I had put on Michael's stone.

  "Pap—py."

  "That's right."

  "Jill? Jill Danforth?" I hear someone behind say.

  Twisting around, a woman stands behind me. A woman I recognize from years ago. "Yes, I'm Jill."

  "Do you remember me? It's been…"

  "Yes, You're Cami." She looks at Michael's grave and then to Bindi and me. "What are you doing here?"

  "First, let me say I'm sorry for your loss."