The Empty Jar

by M. Leighton

  Sniffing, I continue.

  “After a series of medical and psych evaluations, she was diagnosed with schizoaffective disorder and was sent to live in a mental institution. Until we came to Europe, I’d been to see her once a month every month since that day. I do it because she’s my mother and I feel obligated, but some part of me…” I admit, my voice breaking, “…some part of me needs her to be my mother. A mother who cares. I need her to be Momma. I just need her.”

  My emotions swirl through me, angrily whipping at my heart. My throat is thickening with my increasing desperation.

  “I…I need to tell her that I’m dying, and that I’m pregnant. I need to tell her that I’m dying and I’m pregnant, and that I might not be able to stay pregnant because I’m dying. I need to tell her that. And then, I need for her to tell me what to do, because I just don’t know anymore. I need to know how to make it through this, how to have hope. Because I’ve forgotten. I don’t know how to hope anymore.”

  I sob quietly, covering my mouth with both of my hands and squeezing my eyes shut as tightly as I can, as if in doing so, I might be able to stop the pain, the hopelessness. After half a minute or so, when my throat has threatened to close up around my air, I take a deep breath and wipe my face. I wipe it hard, swiping at my skin as though I might scrub away the weakness I feel, too. I won’t ever have my momma back, not the way I want, the way I need. The way I should. And I need to move past that harsh, cold fact. “But none of that will happen because she’s never been my mother in the ways that count. That’s why I need someone else to tell me it’ll all be okay. I need that. Desperately. Can you tell me that? Can you please tell me it’ll all be okay?” I plead. “Please help me find hope.”

  At that, I bow my head and let the tears run again, in earnest this time, without trying to staunch the flow. Maybe letting them out will exorcise some of my bitterness and anger and desolation. Maybe they’ll cleanse what ails me. Or at least some of it.

  I’ve never been so honest with a stranger. Hell, I don’t think I’ve been this honest with anyone about my reasons for not taking treatment, about my fear and my lack of hope. I’m not even sure I’ve been able to admit it to myself. I wanted to be strong, even when I felt scared and weak and alone. But I’m not sure I can be strong enough.

  Not for this.

  When I manage to collect myself somewhat, I sniffle again and tilt my head back, garnering the last of my strength and courage to finish this confession.

  I’ve confessed to the priest. I’ve confessed to myself. I’ve confessed through a throat that’s as raw and scratchy as my battered and bleeding heart.

  But I did it.

  I did it.

  “I think I declined treatment because I was afraid. I was afraid of what it would do to me to hope. I was afraid of what it would do to my husband. I didn’t want to put him through that hell for nothing, so I didn’t. I opted for no treatment so that we could live out my last days together, doing things we’ve always wanted to do. And for the first time in years, I never once considered a baby. In all this time, I haven’t been able to get pregnant, I just didn’t even think...” I pause, anger suddenly welling inside me. It bubbles up and bubbles over, pouring through me like a squall, escalating. Escalating.

  I’ve always known Fate is a cruel bitch, but I wouldn’t have guessed her capable of something like this.

  Something so…punishing.

  Turning my head, I stare into the blackness from whence the priest’s voice had come before I began my breakdown. I pin his invisible presence with furious eyes.

  Anger rolls and tumbles.

  “Why is this happening now? Why now when there is no hope for me? Why now when I need hope more than ever? What am I supposed to do? How am I supposed to get through this? How can I tell my husband that I’m carrying a baby that might die before I do? How can I tell him that I might make his loss even greater? How can I tell him that his dream finally came true and I might be the one to steal that away from him? And there’s nothing I can do about it. There’s no way I can stop it. How am I supposed to deal with that? What am I supposed to do?” I wail in desperation.

  Rage courses through me, a wildfire of crackling emotion. But like a wildfire succumbs to a heavy rain, my ire quickly succumbs to my anguish, the embers extinguished by tears that pour in watery rivulets down my cheeks.

  I’m crying again. It seems I’m unable to stop the flood once I let it flow. My confession scraped off a scab, opened both old wounds and new, exposing my injuries to the elements. Leaving me more vulnerable than ever.

  And so I cry.

  Until I can’t cry anymore, I cry.

  And the priest lets me, saying nothing for what seems like hours. He holds his words for the moment when my well finally dries up and I can speak again. I’m more broken than I’ve ever been before.

  Broken and dejected.

  “How could God do this to me? To us? How can I have hope in a God who is capable of this? He’s a monster!"

  There’s a long pause before I hear his voice, bathed in kindness and encouragement. “My child,” he begins, “our God works in mysterious ways. It is He who has brought you the gift of this baby, and it is He who will see you through to the resolution, whatever that may be. You must only believe in that, believe in Him.”

  “But how can I? He’s taken so much from me already. How can I believe in a God like that? Why should I believe in a God I have nothing in common with?”

  “Because you do have much in common with Him. Much more than you think. Our God is a God of sacrifice. It is written throughout the ages, in His Word, in our lives. He knows your suffering. He knows what it is to love so deeply that He would give up His own life for that of His children. In fact, that is precisely what He did. He came to humanity in the flesh of a man, His son Jesus, and He was crucified so that we might have life. He knows the sacrifice of pain and death. He knows what it is like to be afraid and to feel alone. You must never forget that He has been where you are, where all of man has been. He knows your torment like no one else. But you must also believe that He loves you like no one else, as well. He would never allow tragedy without purpose, never give a gift without a plan. He will guide you in it if you but ask Him. He waits for you to bring this to Him. Give Him your sickness. Give Him your child. Give Him your choices, and He will make your way straight.”

  I feel as though the priest is spinning me in circles, talking to me in a secret code that I have no way of deciphering. I don’t know what to say or what to ask, so I continue to kneel on knees that have long since gone numb, and I wait.

  His next words are what bring it all together, what hit me right in the center of my chest.

  “Take hope from here, my child. You lost it long ago, but God has brought you to this place to recover it. Maybe this is what He has been trying to give to you all along—hope. His hope. The hope that gives strength where there is only weakness. The hope that gives peace where there is only fear. The hope that offers a miracle where there is only despair. Perfect hope.”

  What he’s suggesting sounds like surrender. He wants me to surrender control and worry and fear to God. Like I didn’t surrender when my sister died. And when my father died. And when my mother all but left me. And when I was diagnosed with cancer. He’s suggesting that I surrender this time. That I give up control and let someone else take over.

  But how am I to do that?

  “How do I get it? How do I feel hope again?”

  “You accept it. Like you accept Him. It is that simple.”

  That simple.

  And that difficult.

  My phone chirps from inside my cross-body bag, causing me to jump. It reminds me that I’m not in Vatican City alone. I’m here with my husband, and Nate will probably be frantic looking for me.

  I have no idea how long I’ve been in the confessional. It feels like an eternity, but also like the blink of an eye.

  A lifetime and a heartbeat.

  W
hichever it is, I feel sure Nate is worried.

  I scramble to get to my phone. “I’m so sorry, Father, but I’m sure that’s my husband. He won’t know I’m in here. I need to go.”

  “I understand,” he says softly. In my mind, I can almost see him nodding graciously, always kind. “May God bless you and guide your way, and may you find the hope that you are searching for.”

  “Thank you,” I say, pushing out of the little cubicle inside which I’ve been kneeling. I pause, peering into the darkness, wishing I could see his piercing blue eyes, wishing I could see what’s in them. “Thank you so much.”

  “Bless you, my child,” are his only words before I feel his presence disappear.

  Ten

  Blaze of Glory

  Lena

  Ifloat on a strange calm as I walk away from the confessional. I feel as though I sliced open my heart for that priest, as though I bled out on the floor for him and left many of my doubts and fears lying in the pool of my agony. I feel it the moment I exit the tiny room.

  And evidently Nate notices it, too.

  When I look up, he’s standing at the edge of the transept, very close to where he left me, his fathomless eyes fixed on me as I approach.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t text you. I really…I wasn’t planning on that,” I assure him, hiking a thumb over my shoulder to indicate the time I spent in the sacred chamber.

  “Yeah, I was a little surprised to see you in there.”

  “You saw me?”

  “Well, when I couldn’t find you and I didn’t get a response to my text right away, I started looking. I recognized your shoes sticking out.”

  I glance down at my brightly colored Tieks and then smile back up at my husband. “I guess there’s no losing me in these.”

  Nate grins. “No.”

  “Did you… Could you hear anything?”

  He shakes his head once and repeats, “No.”

  “Oh. Okay.” I try to hide my relief. I wouldn’t want Nate to be burdened by my confession. And he would be. I know him.

  “So…confession?”

  I shrug. “Maybe it really is good for the soul.”

  “It sure looks like it. You seem…lighter.”

  I snort. “Did I lose weight in there, too? I should’ve tried it sooner.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  I search my husband’s earnest green eyes and nod. “Yeah, I know what you mean. I feel lighter, too. Like maybe it’ll all be okay.”

  Nate reaches for my fingers and brings them to his mouth. He holds them there for several long seconds, his lips pressed to my knuckles as he stares over them and into my eyes. I can’t be sure what I see in his eyes, but I know what I feel in his gesture—relief. Maybe Nate needed someone to tell him that it’s going to be okay, too.

  I step closer to him, stretching up to cup his strong jaw in the palm of my other hand. “It will you know.”

  “It will what?”

  “It’ll all be okay.”

  He nods and continues watching me as though he’s trying his hardest to believe me. Or maybe to find belief in me.

  I inhale deeply and stand tall and certain before him, hoping that just this once I can be strong for him. He has no one to help him carry the load of my illness. Maybe this time I can be the comfort he needs.

  “None of us are going to live forever, so we should live while we’re alive, right? That’s why we need to make the very most of this trip. Do it up big. Blaze of glory and all that.”

  My smile is intended to be carefree and full of life and fun, but it isn’t enough to ease Nate’s breaking heart. That much I can see.

  “Blaze of glory,” he whispers, kissing my knuckles again quickly before releasing them to pull me into his arms.

  With his lips pressed to my temple, Nate holds me close. For a long time, he sways gently back and forth, taking as well as receiving comfort. I wonder if he’s trying not to cry, but I’m not going to look and find out. Instead, I give him his privacy and don’t move until he’s ready.

  When he finally withdraws from me, his eyes are dry and his smile is back in place. “So, where is this blaze of glory taking us next. Dinner?”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  Nate slings his arm around my neck, keeping me close at his side as we walk away. I spare a quick glance over his shoulder to see if I catch a glimpse of the stranger priest, but the cordoned off area is once again empty.

  ********

  It’s well after midnight, Rome time, when I wake. The room is quiet, and Nate is snoring softly at my side. My first thought is of the life growing within me.

  Of course, my drowsiness quickly fades.

  I lie in bed for just over an hour, imagining what the future may or may not hold, before I become restless. Rather than risk waking Nate with my tossing and turning, I gently sit up and pull my legs from beneath the covers, sliding silently from the mattress until my feet hit the floor.

  Grabbing my robe from the chair as I pass, I push my arms into the sleeves and wander through to the adjoining room. It’s dark but for the silvery light filtering through the cracks in the draperies. I’m momentarily distracted by the geometric designs it makes on the floor.

  Rome is a magical place. Even the moonlight seems more beautiful here.

  I walk to the window and open the curtains. The majestic view of the Trinità dei Monti washes over me like a warm tide, as though the mere sight of it carries with it all the divinity of the church itself. Once more, I feel a sense of providence. This place, this time, these circumstances—they are all coming together precisely as they are supposed to. It’s like a celestial orchestration that’s playing out to a tune composed of moments and events and decisions.

  And right now, it sounds wonderfully harmonious.

  For me, someone accustomed to being in control of her life, it’s a peculiar relief to relinquish command and let the remainder of my existence unfold as it is meant to. The only detail I need to worry about is surviving until my child can be born. The rest I can live with.

  For however long I have left.

  I reach down and place my hand over my stomach. It’s amazing to me that something so impactful hasn’t yet become discernible to the human eye or the human sense of touch. The tiny seed sprouting within me is so incredibly powerful that it has changed everything. And yet, it’s still just a tiny seed.

  So small yet so capable, capable of the greatest joy or the cruelest devastation.

  Impulsively, I walk to my purse and remove my phone. I tiptoe across the floor and close the bedroom door, ensuring that I still hear Nate’s snore before I walk away.

  Crossing back to the window, I turn on my phone’s camera, flick it to video, and switch the perspective until my face pops up on the screen. I position it in just such a way that the breathtaking towers at my back can be seen in the shot, and then I hit record.

  There’s a long pause before I start talking. For an instant. I wonder if I should’ve taken some time to think of what I’d like to say, but rather than stopping, I simply speak from the heart, smiling directly into the camera.

  “Hello, my beautiful child. I just found out about you today. I don’t know if I’ll ever get to see you to tell you this in person, but I hope you get to see this. I want you to know that you made me so happy today. You changed everything. For the better. Already. I don’t even know if you’ll be a boy or a girl, but I feel complete today.

  “I’ve wanted you for all of my life. All of it! I’ve dreamed of feeling you kick for the first time. I’ve dreamed of holding you in my arms for the first time. I’ve dreamed of what your face might look like—your smile, your hands, your little feet. You’ll be perfect, I know. I know in my heart that you’ll be the most perfect thing in the world. The best thing I’ve ever done. And I’ll die happy if I can see you just one time before I go.” I sniff, trying to hold back the tears that sting my eyes. “I love you. Today. Tomorrow. Always.”

  I hold my waverin
g smile for a few seconds and then hit the red button to stop the recording. Covering my mouth, I sink to my knees, cupping my belly with my free hand, and I pray.

  For all I’m worth, I pray.

  ********

  Nate

  Waking to an empty bed is hard. When I roll over, the first thing I do is look for my wife, only she isn’t there. The covers have been thrown back, and the sheets are rumpled yet cold. She hasn’t been in bed for quite some time.

  My first thought is that she’s sick again, so I run to the bathroom. The door is open, and the interior is dark.

  Empty.

  At this point, I should be relieved not to have found her crouched in front of the toilet, heaving what’s left inside her stomach. But I’m not.

  Instead, I feel panic.

  For an instant, my worst fear plays out in my mind.

  What if something has happened and she’s dead?

  What if she suffered some rare complication and she woke up in the middle of the night, in distress, and died before I could help her?

  What if she’d tried to wake me and couldn’t?

  What if she got out of bed and fell to the floor then passed away, all alone?

  Jesus God!

  My pulse throbs like a prized stallion at the track as I race to the adjoining room in search of my Lena.

  Relief, bone-melting relief floods me when I spot her. My frantic gaze sweeps by the couch and stops. I see the familiar form of my wife, curled on her side, fast asleep.

  I listen to the soft swish of her breathing and count to ten, calming my erratic heart rate. I remind myself that there is no reason to think that I’ll one day wake to find her dead, unexpectedly. Cancer is, if anything, somewhat predictable when it comes to the end. At least it should be in a case like Lena’s. I’ve read the reports. I’ve heard the stories. I know it’s likely going to be slow and agonizing, and that it will end in a coma before she actually slips away.