The Empty Jar

by M. Leighton

  I didn’t need this. Not really. Soon, I’ll be gone, floating in a void on some other plane where memories have no place. But Nate will remain. He will benefit the most from a big stash of wonderful memories, things to detract from the awful ones that we both know are coming. He’ll need a million good things to overcome the bad because they are bound to be very bad.

  So it is for Nate that I smile.

  “As long as I’m with you, I’m happy. Let’s just lounge around for a while today and see how I feel later. Maybe go get some authentic Italian food for dinner. How’s that sound?”

  The thought of greasy Italian food makes my stomach roil, but I hold my expression steady. For Nate. I’d walk through fire for him. Fighting through some nausea ought to be a walk in the park. And maybe, later, it will be. But right now… I’m miserable.

  “Yeah. Sounds good,” he consents quietly. Although he agrees with his words, I can see the uncertainty and concern in the pucker of his brow and in the dullness of his normally-sparkling emerald eyes. It makes me worry, and not for the first time, about how hard this is going to be for him.

  We’ve loved each other forever, it seems, but a wondrous love like ours leaves both of us open to heartbreak like no other. Losing a loved one is never easy. I know that from experience. But losing your soulmate? I can’t even wrap my head around that.

  Although I would never have wished such pain on Nate, I have to wonder if it’s happening this way because he can take it, and I couldn’t. I can take the sickness, but I’m not sure if I could handle losing my husband. My Nate. If the roles were reversed, I’m not sure I could be so strong. I have no idea how I’d carry the load during it all, much less carry on afterward.

  Afterward.

  As I let my lids drift shut, I’m careful to keep my lips curved into a smile, even though I don’t feel it. “Afterward” is almost as scary as the next few months. Afterward holds more questions, questions like what do I do now and how do I go on. Afterward holds more time, time to think and relive and remember. Afterward holds pain that will take months, maybe years to overcome.

  Afterward will be pure hell.

  I quell my chaotic, troublesome thoughts as Nate climbs over my legs to stretch out behind me in bed. With a gentleness that he might use to handle a robin’s egg or a delicate flower, Nate pulls me into the curve of his body, wrapping himself around me like a shield. I know he wants to protect me from this—sickness, fear, despair, death—but he can’t, and I know that’s hard for him. So hard!

  Nate has always been my hero, rushing to the rescue at the first sign of distress. His broad, broad shoulders have always been able to carry the heaviest of loads, but lately I’ve seen them sag when he thinks I’m not looking. My sickness is making my Nate sick. My illness is something he can’t fight and he can’t fix, and I see how that helplessness is making him suffer. I see it when his dazzling smile falters, and I see it when his sparkling eyes dim.

  My husband can’t take my hurt away, and it’s eating him up on the inside. A disease of a different kind.

  But no matter how deeply he’s suffering, he always takes care of me.

  Just like he is now.

  Because he’s still my hero. And he always will be.

  “Sleep, baby. When you wake up, you’ll feel better.” He kisses my temple tenderly.

  I know he injected as much conviction as he could into his words, but I know him too well. He’s probably already picturing the beginning of the end. And beyond.

  Just like I am.

  ********

  Nate

  I’ve never been a particularly spiritual person. I guess I’m more ambivalent about it than anything else. Lena, on the other hand, has had some deep-seated bitterness that she’s never worked through, not since her father died all those years ago. That’s why I’m surprised when she wakes up just before noon, sits straight up in the bed, and looks back at me with laughter shining in those beautiful light brown eyes of hers.

  “I might have to start believing in miracles,” she declares with a smile.

  “And why is that?”

  “I feel better. Like completely better. Thank you, God,” she mutters before rolling over to give me a smacking kiss then announcing that she’s headed to the shower.

  “In case you want to join me,” she adds, throwing a wink over her shoulder and wiggling that curvy little ass at me.

  Of course, I would never turn down an invitation like that. Definitely not now, now when I need to have her close to me, when I need to be close to her more than ever.

  But I also know better than to follow her right in. She’ll need a minute of private time first. Lena’s shy when it comes to things like that. And I’ve always respected her need for space.

  As the seconds tick by, I listen to her hum, wondering over her elevated mood. As she slept, I counted her every deep, even breath and tried to imagine my life without her. I’ve never, not once, not even after being given the news about her terminal condition, been able to picture what my existence would be like without her in it. Most of the time, I don’t even want to try. She is the love of my life. She always has been, and I have no doubt that she always will be.

  Till death do us part.

  Death might part our bodies, but it will never part our hearts, our souls. Our love. Love like ours doesn’t die. It will live long after Lena leaves me. I’ll never be free of it.

  And I don’t want to be.

  I keep wondering if she’s going to have “the talk” with me, the one where she tells me to find someone else, to remarry, to be as happy as I can be. I dread it. God, how I dread it! And I’ve already rehearsed my answer. I’m going to be honest with her. She deserves that much. I’m going to tell her that I have no interest in finding someone else, or even looking. I feel like it would be unfair to every other woman on the planet to be compared to Lena. And that’s what would happen. I would hold them all up against the light of her memory, and they would pale in comparison, like the paper-thin sheers Lena has hanging over the windows in the sunroom. All I would be able to see when I look at any of them would be my wife.

  There are a dozen reasons I dread “the talk” and will do everything in my power to put it off as long as possible. But on days like today, when she’s gone from feeling so bad to feeling so much better, I dread it even more. When she’s so happy and seemingly healthy, it’s like having my old Lena back. Lena B.D., the one from Before Diagnosis. Seeing her this way—bright eyes, shining smile—makes it that much harder to think about life after her. Without her. I just can’t bear to discuss it. Because I know deep in my heart that there won’t be life after her.

  No life of any consequence anyway.

  “You coming?” Lena’s muffled voice calls from within the bathroom.

  Shaking off my melancholy, I head in her direction. She will never have to ask me twice.

  ********

  Lena

  For the rest of my life, as short as it will likely be, I will think of our first real evening in Rome as one of the most romantic nights of my entire life.

  It began with a shower for two. Nate insisted that I recline against the cool marble shower wall while he shampooed my hair, shaved my legs, and washed me from head to toe. It was the washing that ended up getting out of hand. Functional became worshipful, laughs became moans, and caresses became kindling to a fire that seemed ever-ready to burn out of control.

  Nate made love to me in the warm spray of the water, kissing me for long minutes as if he was memorizing the interior of my mouth, a moist topographical map to his own personal heaven. When I rested limply in his arms, caught between his chest and the shower wall, my beautiful husband held me up as he started all over, washing me with his free hand. By the time we got out, my skin was tingly and sensitive and attractively flushed, if I do say so myself.

  Nate hasn’t stopped smiling. He said he loves that he can still affect me that way. And who am I to argue? I do, too!

  I know it wo
n’t last forever, that I won’t always feel like making love with my husband. That’s why I want to enjoy him now. As much as I can.

  From the first time Nate put his hands on me, on my naked skin, he’s had this ability to transport me to a place where nothing else exists. Just him and me and the extraordinary love we share. Even now, with so much sadness closing in on us, he can still whisk me away to that paradise. With a glance, with a kiss. With a touch.

  And I’ll let him.

  As often as he wants to, I’ll let him.

  While he’s still mine, and I’m still his.

  Once I’m dressed in a black silk tank dress and stilettos (stilettos that set us back another couple of hours when my robust husband saw them), Nate escorts me out of our hotel and down the street. We stroll leisurely along via Condotti, dipping into Cartier and Gucci, then into La Perla, where Nate stops at a breathtakingly delicate silk organza nightgown.

  “Do you like this?” he asks, fingering the material.

  “I’m a woman. I have eyes. This is La Perla. So yes, I like it.” My smile is light, my voice playful. I’m careful to keep it just so. No matter what.

  “Sos this is good stuff?”

  “Good stuff?” I snort. “Did you look at the price tag? This is exquisite stuff.”

  “You are exquisite stuff. And I’m going to buy this for you.”

  “If you want to see me in lingerie, just ask. I have all of that slutty stuff Nissa packed me.” I grin at the thought. Nissa’s tastes are…diverse. In her closet, you can find anything from a French maid costume to assless chaps and from cut-off denim to Prada.

  “I don’t want to see you in Nissa’s things. I want to see you in your things,” he explains, raising my fingers to his lips.

  His eyes drag me in, pull me under. Like drowning in liquid emeralds. They’re warm and loving and welcoming.

  I would’ve argued in virtually any other circumstance, but I know it would be pointless. Ours is the vacation of a lifetime. It will not be repeated. To Nate, that meant spare no expense.

  And he is sparing no expense.

  Besides that, the way he’s looking at me makes my stomach hot and fluttery. That alone is worth it to me—to see that look in my husband’s eyes.

  He selects the gown, and then we continue browsing. As we make our way to the register, I pause at an obscenely beautiful Maharani slip. Unfortunately, it has an equally obscene price. I move on, but Nate doesn’t.

  Without a moment’s hesitation, he grabs my size from the rack and folds it over his arm. He didn’t even glance at the price tag. I stare at him, mouth agape, for several seconds before I shake my head and follow quietly along behind him.

  I make a mental note. From this point on, I know better than to pause to look at anything I’m not prepared to leave the store with. I have no doubt he’ll purchase everything I give a second glance.

  Finally, packages in tow, we leave La Perla and make our way farther down the street. We are quiet, and Nate’s hand is at the small of my back, his warmth seeping into me and skittering up my spine. Up ahead, I can see the famed Spanish Steps. They’re a sight in and of themselves, but with the sun beginning its descent behind them, they’re positively breathtaking. I think to myself that this place, this night, with my husband by my side, the world couldn’t be more perfect.

  As though Nate can sense the direction of my thoughts, he reaches down to lace his fingers through mine, giving them a light squeeze. When I glace over at him, he winks, something he’s done for all the years we’ve been together, and the moment feels right. So, so right.

  Our destination is a restaurant at the top of the stunning stairs. Together, we take each step, one at a time, moving in a fluid ascent that feels more like floating than walking. Once, I catch my toe and lose my footing, stumbling, but Nate keeps me steady, the tips of his fingers clinging to mine until he can grip them more firmly. Even to climb some stairs, he won’t let me go.

  That’s why I know he never will.

  Not ever.

  Once we are in the elevator, I rest my head on his shoulder, and he pulls me in tight against him.

  The doors open silently to Imago, a restaurant that is, itself, a sensual experience. Mouthwatering aromas tantalize our nostrils the instant we walk inside. Then we’re led to a table that overlooks Rome from the top of the Steps, a view so magnificent it could thrill even the most cynical eye. But if that hadn’t been enough to wow me and overwhelm my senses, the delightful meal would’ve been. The food was spectacular from start to finish.

  All in all, the entire affair is an Italian masterpiece. Even the walk back to the hotel seems like something from a dream. The air, the night, the company—I can’t think of anything more perfect.

  Until we get back to our room, and Nate insists that I model my La Perla gown for him. Within thirty seconds of stepping out of the bathroom, Nate is in front of me, carefully peeling the expensive material from my naked body and carrying me swiftly to the bed. I have only a few seconds to think of the gown lying crumpled on the floor before I can think of nothing except the hands and lips and words of the man I love.

  Over an hour later, as I lie, sated, in Nate’s arms, I think back on Rome. From the moment I’d begun feeling better to this very second, the whole day has been utterly flawless. It is by far our best day in Europe so far, despite its rocky beginning.

  Unfortunately, I soon discover that every morning is destined to begin in the same way—with me so nauseated I can hardly move without vomiting. For hours each day, I lie in bed, curled on my side, sick to my stomach, wondering what new horror is taking hold in my body. Yet, every afternoon, I suddenly feel human again. Like the flip of a switch. Like magic.

  It isn’t until the fourth day that I begin to see a pattern. It’s almost miraculous the way I start to feel better, as though my body suddenly passes a finish line I can’t see. Or like a switch has flipped, from on to off.

  Like a switch.

  That’s when my mind begins to wander in a totally different direction.

  One not of death, but of life.

  Late on our fourth morning, my thoughts racing in circles around themselves, I push myself into a sitting position and turn to find Nate. He’s settled in a chair across the room, reading the news from his iPad, never far from me.

  My pulse patters wildly in my throat. Could it be?

  Could. It. Be?

  I clear my throat. “I think I might call down and see if they have any spa openings. Would that be okay with you?”

  Nate looks up from his tablet and pins me with his perceptive stare. I do my best to hide my growing suspicion behind a casual expression.

  “Of course. Anything you want to do. You know that.”

  “Great,” I say, throwing back the covers and sliding out of bed. “I thought maybe we could drive to Vatican City later, once I’m all dolled up.”

  Nate tips his head to one side and casts me a derisive look. “It doesn’t take a team of people to make you beautiful. You wake up that way.”

  “I love you for thinking so, but I figure I should look my best. I mean, we will be walking beneath some of the most gorgeous artwork known to mankind.”

  “Like it has a chance in hell of competing with you,” Nate scoffs.

  I can’t help grinning. “Wow! You’re really workin’ this flattery angle lately. Anything I should know about?”

  “Nope,” Nate denies, unfolding his big body from the chair to come and stand beside me at the closet. He wraps his arms around me and laces his fingers together at my lower back. “Is there something wrong with me telling my wife every day for the rest of her life that she’s the most beautiful woman in the world?”

  “No. Especially when her life isn’t going to be all that long.”

  I regret my flippant answer immediately. I see the sadness, the grief flood Nate’s eyes, turning them a darker, grassy green.

  “Please don’t,” he pleads simply, pain evident in the clogged sound o
f his voice.

  From that very first day when I told him that I’m dying, Nate has been strong for me, kept his bravest face in place. But sometimes at night, when I wake in the wee hours and can’t go back to sleep, I see him get up and go into the bathroom. In the quiet of our bedroom, I hear his soft sobs. They seep out from under the closed door like a fog. It thickens the air and makes it hard for me to breathe.

  That broke me, hearing those sobs. Broke me in places I wasn’t even aware I could break, to know how much this was hurting Nate. How much it would hurt him, and for how long.

  But when he faces me now, he’s the same tough Nate I met and married all those years ago. Solid. Unbreakable.

  Honestly, I can’t imagine anything in the world cracking his resolve to be rock-steady for me. As much as he can, he will hide his grief. He will bear it alone, just to spare me. No matter how much I wish it otherwise, no matter how much I try to spare him, he won’t give in. That’s simply the way he is.

  Thankfully, the spa is able to work me in for a massage and a facial. I dress quickly and rush to the elevator, hurrying down to the waiting area. I’ve only been seated for a minute or two when the attendant comes to collect me. She smiles when I stand at the call of my name.

  “What brings you to Rome, Mrs. Grant,” she asks, making polite small talk as we make our way back into the bowels of the spa. “Business or pleasure?”

  “Pleasure. I’m here with my husband.”

  “Ahhh. That must be why your skin is glowing before your facial,” she says in her heavily accented voice.

  My pace falters at the girl’s unwitting use of such a meaningful expression. It is in this moment, this very moment, that the reality of my suspicion, of my situation, hits me.

  And it rocks me to my core.

  What if…

  What if, what if, what if?

  “Are you all right, Mrs. Grant?” the young woman asks as she pauses to wait for me, concern etched on her face.