The Empty Jar

by M. Leighton

  But still…the thought of finding her already gone…of losing her sooner rather than later…

  I squeeze my eyes shut, pushing the tightness in my chest and the worry in my head to the back of my consciousness. Ruthlessly, I cram those godforsaken skis back into the closet.

  I can’t let my emotions ruin what time we have left. I won’t do that. Not to Lena. She deserves the very best of me—the strongest, the surest, the most confident—right up until she draws her last breath, and I’m damn sure going to give that to her. I’ll put on a brave face, a happy face, for her. I’ll never let her know that nearly every one of my thoughts are centered on losing her, on the gaping emptiness that will haunt me for the rest of my days.

  I can’t let her know that.

  I can’t let her know that I already know the panic that will move in to occupy my stomach. I can’t let her know that I already know the overwhelming heartbreak I’ll feel. I can’t let her know that I already know that, one day, I’ll die still feeling devastated and lost and alone.

  Only half alive without her.

  Despite having found her, safe and breathing and still with me, I can’t shake the feeling of fear and dread that looms over me. It’s like a shadow cast over my life, over every day of my existence, only it doesn’t go away when the sun comes out.

  It lingers.

  Always lingers.

  Glancing back over my shoulder, I look at the bed. It mocks me. Haunts me. Like the emptiness on the right side is a living thing, breathing cold air down the back of my neck. A predator hunting me, gaining speed.

  Coming for me.

  Coming to take from me.

  A feeling of foreboding creeps over me, reminding me that there will soon come a day when that side of the bed will be empty forever. I have no idea how I’m going to face that I can hardly stand the thought of it now, much less the reality of it then.

  Walking quietly over to where Lena sleeps, I squat down beside her, staring at the beautiful face, all dreamy and tranquil in repose. I memorize the arch of her brows, the scoop of her nose, the way her long eyelashes make crescents on the high blades of her cheekbones. I etch into my brain the texture of her skin, the smooth line of her jaw, and the shape of her mouth.

  Those lips…

  If I close my eyes, I can feel how they soften when I kiss them, I can practically see how they spread when she smiles.

  I will never forget that. Forget her.

  Any small detail.

  My gaze moves down the graceful shoulders and the gently moving chest to the stomach she holds with one hand, even while she sleeps. As much as I wish I could, I know I’ll never be able to forget this either—her disease, her pain. What cancer is doing to the woman I love.

  I bow my head, and my tears fall in absolute silence.

  Eleven

  Gotta Have a Reason

  Nate

  Another six weeks later and I’m pushing open the door that leads from the garage into the kitchen and stepping back so that Lena can go in first. We are home.

  I notice the way she pauses on the threshold and inhales deeply, her shoulders lifting and then dropping slowly as she savors the scent. Europe was wonderful, but I know she’s glad to be back at our house, our sanctuary.

  There’s no place like home. Our home.

  She turns and gives me a grin. “Home sweet home, baby.” She stretches up on her tiptoes and kisses me, a quick peck of the lips. I’ll miss that, more than she will ever know. The casual kisses, the second-nature touches, the intimate glances—I’ll miss them all.

  I’ll miss her. Like I’d miss air if it was taken from me.

  I swallow and muster a crooked smile for her. Always for her.

  “Home is wherever you are, but I have to admit that I missed this place. The coffee isn’t as good here, but…”

  Lena laughs and elbows me in the ribs before she moves on through the door. “Take that back or I won’t be making you any coffee, good or bad.”

  “I take it back,” I supply amicably.

  I stand, still technically in the garage, and watch my wife. Her gait is a little less energetic today.

  Grief clutches my heart as I wait for her to move slowly into the living room. She flops down onto the couch and exhales loudly, letting her arms fall to the side and her head drop back.

  She’d been so full of life on almost every one of our days in Europe, it’s hard to see this. For me, the trip will always be bittersweet in more ways than I’d originally suspected. Having my old Lena back—the carefree, fun-loving, energetic one I met nineteen years ago—will make losing her, losing the woman I’ve always known her to be, that much harder. It’s like watching her die twice. Once slowly, day by day, and the other…

  I turn from the sight, my chest tight with barely controlled emotion. “I’ll get the luggage,” I mutter, hurrying back to the car. I don’t know how I’m going to make it through this next part. I just know that I will.

  For Lena, I will.

  Always for Lena.

  I would do anything for her.

  ********

  Lena

  Since I’m so tired, Nate offers to go to the grocery store to pick up some food and necessities. I’m more than happy to let him. Not only am I truly exhausted, but I also have an important phone call to make, and he can’t be around when I do.

  The instant Nate’s car turns out of the driveway, I race to my phone and pull up the contact information for my gynecologist, who is also an obstetrician. I pray Dr. Stephens will be able to work me in at some point over the next couple of days. I already have an appointment with my oncologist next week, and I thought it would be a good idea to get input from both specialists as soon as possible. They’ll have to work together, I’m sure. This will be a delicate dance if it can be pulled off. I need to have them both on board.

  But I’m skeptical. Scheduling this close to Christmas will be tight, and seeing me on short notice might be an issue. It is already December twenty-first after all.

  Although I hate to do it (and very rarely do), I pull the “I’m a nurse practitioner, and I need to speak with the doctor as soon as possible” card, and it works. I’m put on hold for three minutes, and the next person to come on the line is Dr. Stephens.

  Using vague terms like “condition” and “illness” in explaining my situation to Dr. Stephens, who is familiar with our struggles to get pregnant, she’s more than willing to work me in on December twenty-third. She might regret having done that when I tell her the details of what I’m looking at.

  When I hang up the phone, I expel a breath it feels like I’ve been holding for weeks. Soon my questions will be answered, my mind will be eased, and I will have a certain path forward. Then I can get on with living the last days of my life. And hopefully giving life to another in the process.

  Giving my life for another.

  Giving my death meaning.

  ********

  Two days later, I’m sitting in the waiting room at the obstetrician’s office, fiddling with the strap of my purse. I can hardly sit still. I had to tell something far too close to a fib to Nate in order to get this time to myself. He isn’t going to sit idly by and let me visit doctors without him anymore, so I had to work around him.

  Not that I can blame him. I’m mature enough to admit that I should never have excluded him from the appointment where I got my official diagnosis. Nate needed to be a part of that, and I’d denied him, even though unintentionally. In retrospect, I can see the symptoms of denial written all over my decisions back then. I didn’t really think I’d get bad news.

  Certainly not the worst news.

  My head snaps up when I hear my name being called. I stand, a bit unsteadily at first, take a deep breath, and plaster on a smile for the person who’s taking me back.

  “How have you been, Lena?”

  Sherry is Dr. Stephens’s primary nurse, and she’s had trouble getting pregnant herself. We have a lot in common and have gotten along w
ell from our very first meeting.

  Sherry holds out a hand and indicates for me to step up onto the scale. I do so obediently. I haven’t been back to see them since my diagnosis, so Sherry has no idea what’s going on in my life.

  She’ll undoubtedly hear soon enough.

  “I’ve had better days,” I reply vaguely, conscious of the people surrounding us.

  Sherry writes down my weight, but makes no comment of the three pounds I’ve unintentionally lost. I’m surprised by it, actually, because I thought I’d eaten well in Europe. I made a point to feed my body (and, therefore, my baby) well. Very well. Unfortunately, I can’t control the fact that I feel full quicker. That’s a result of the cancer, and yet another complication to pregnancy.

  Maybe this whole thing is a pipe dream.

  But just the idea that I might not be able to carry this child is a crushing blow to me. To my newfound hope.

  My hand trembles when I take the urine specimen cup that Sherry holds out to me.

  “Give me a specimen and leave it in the window, then I’ll meet you in room number two.”

  I nod and turn into the bathroom, closing and locking the door behind me. I sit on the edge of the chair in the corner and drop my head down between my knees, letting the blood rush to my brain in hopes of fending off this sudden dizziness that I feel. Maybe I should’ve eaten more before I came this morning.

  When I feel moderately better, I set about giving Sherry the specimen she’ll need to confirm the pregnancy for their records. It’s just a formality for the practice. I have no doubts about it at this point. I’ve missed two periods altogether, and my abdomen has begun to swell right above my pubic bone. That plus a whole slew of other symptoms assures me that I am, in fact, pregnant.

  I cup my belly through my slacks and smile, letting the knowledge, the presence of the tiny life growing inside me warm me all the way down to my soul. I can’t let fear of the unknown or doubt or probability get me down. I’m going to fight for the miracle, for this baby, even more than I’ll fight for my own life. I just need to know how best I can go about doing that.

  I slide the cup into the window built into the wall, wash my hands, and go to wait in room number two. When Dr. Stephens walks in, she’s all smiles. I can’t help but feel a bit sorry for her. As a nurse practitioner, I know how disheartening it is to find out that a patient you’ve come to know and like is suffering. Or, worse, dying. I know Dr. Stephens would be heartbroken for me when she finds out.

  “Look who finally got pregnant,” she says, setting aside her tablet and walking to the chair to hug me where I sit. “I’m so happy for you.”

  I bite back tears and a trembling lip. Yet when Dr. Stephens leans away, she still knows something is wrong.

  “What is it, Lena?”

  I gulp at the rock in my throat and make myself meet the doctor’s eyes. “I was diagnosed with stage IV stomach cancer in August.”

  “Oh God,” Dr. Stephens whispers, closing her eyes and dropping her head. There’s a long, meaningful pause before she asks, “How long?”

  “Ten months. Maybe a year. That’s without treatment, of course, which I declined. I guess it’s a good thing I did, or I wouldn’t be here right now.” I don’t have to try to inject positivity into my tone. Despite the rest of the tragedy in my life, in the situation, I’m happy. So very happy about the baby.

  At that, Dr. Stephens raises her head and pins me with her frown. “You-you’re not going to try to carry this baby, are you?”

  I inhale, straightening my spine. I expected one of two reactions. I was hoping for the other, but I understand this one more, from a medical standpoint.

  “I am.” When the doctor says nothing, my shoulders slump. “This is all I’ve wanted for as long as I can remember. This is a blessing in so many ways. And now I won’t worry so much about Nate when I’m gone. He won’t be alone. He won’t give up. And that’s a good thing, right? Please tell me this is a good thing.”

  I’m not asking for support. I’m asking for the odds to be in my favor, even in such a bad situation, because I need them to be. Badly. And I know Dr. Stephens knows that.

  The obstetrician stares at me for long, tense seconds before the edges of her lips bend upward into a small smile. “It can be, I suppose, but Lena, you know the risks. I mean, having a child at forty comes with its own set of challenges, but you’re sick. Very sick. And you’re only going to get sicker.”

  “I know, but I just have to make it to twenty-eight weeks, right? Based on my last period, that’s probably only nineteen or twenty more weeks from now. I just need to stay healthy enough to carry this baby until then and then he or she will have a real chance of survival, right? Right?” I ask again when my physician says nothing.

  Finally, she relents with a resigned sigh. “Yes, that would be the minimum, of course. Provided that the rest of the pregnancy goes smoothly. But Lena, God!” she exclaims, rubbing the space between her eyebrows with two fingers. “This is going to be so tricky, and you are making a choice now that you can’t make again later. If you decide right this minute that you want to have surgery and take treatment, you could still have a chance to live. But you have to do it now. You can’t put it off, not for this long. So if you choose to carry this baby, you’re sentencing yourself to a certain death.”

  I hold Dr. Stephens’s concerned gray eyes. I hold them, and I let her see where my priorities lie. “I know. But this is what I want. More than anything. This baby…it makes my life worth something. He or she will do beautiful things in the world. A child will be my contribution to humanity. And to Nate. He needs this. He will need it more when I’m gone.”

  “So, you’re firm? You’ve already made up your mind, it seems.”

  I nod. “Yes. I have. Unless I physically can’t carry the baby, unless I lose it naturally,” I croak, stumbling over words that feel like doom on my tongue, “then I will deliver this child, healthy and whole, before I die. I’m determined.”

  Dr. Stephens nods once and stands. “Then let’s go get you on the ultrasound, see how far along you are.”

  ********

  Two hours later, I leave the obstetrician’s office with a page full of lab orders I’m to confer with my oncologist about and an ultrasound. An ultrasound that confirms what I already knew, and confirms a gestational age I was already pretty confident of.

  I slide the glossy square picture into my coat pocket after taking one last look. My hand rests over it protectively, my fingers stroking the cool, slick paper as though I’m actually touching some part of the baby growing inside me.

  I finally have proof, proof of the existence of a dream.

  I have a picture of my nine-week-old baby.

  He or she looks to the world like a tiny baby-shaped kidney bean, but to me it’s the shape of a miracle. Everything in my life is different now, has been since I took that pregnancy test in Rome, and will be for as long as my life will last. And in another thirty or forty minutes, my husband’s life will be changed as well. Forever changed, for as long as he lives, which I hope will be a good, long time.

  I walked into that office as a woman with a little newly-recovered hope. I walked out of that office as a woman with a lifetime of hope and a reason. A reason to live and fight and be strong and push through.

  And I will do exactly that.

  I will take one more chance on a God who has let me down before, and if He comes through for me this time, I’ll gladly trust that my husband and our child will be okay in His divine hands.

  Unlocking the door and sliding behind the wheel of my car, I sit for a moment, thinking about Dr. Stephens’s last words.

  “Talk to Dr. Taffer before you make up your mind, Lena. Promise me you’ll at least pretend to listen to what she has to say.”

  I smiled and nodded, but Dr. Stephens knew there’s nothing Dr. Taffer, my oncologist, will be able to say to change my mind. It’s made up.

  Once more, I take out the shiny black and white pic
ture, the image of a future I thought had been stripped away from me, and I run my fingertips over the beginnings of a teeny profile. “I won’t give up on you,” I whisper, pressing my lips to the photo before stowing it away in my pocket again and heading home.

  The garage door rising triggers an onslaught of emotion. Knowing what’s coming, my chest tightens and my throat constricts. The conversation of a lifetime only moments away.

  It will be as good as the conversation about my diagnosis was bad.

  I’m excited.

  I’m nervous.

  And some part of me is a bit afraid of Nate’s reaction.

  Will he be upset with me for keeping this from him? Will he ever be able to understand my reasons for doing so? Will he welcome the baby as I have? Will he laugh, will he cry, will he stare numbly at me?

  I have no idea.

  So often over the last six weeks, I’ve imagined what he will do, what he will say, how he will react. I’ve pictured him ecstatic, walking with me through every day of my pregnancy, and then holding our child in his arms on the day of delivery.

  Maybe that was all wishful thinking, but knowing Nate like I do, I think that’s how it will be.

  But still, I won’t be able to rest easy—I haven’t been able to rest easy—until I know. Until he knows.

  Now that the time is at hand, I’m nearly sick with anticipation. I go straight into the house, search him out in his office, take him by the hand, and lead him to our bedroom.

  Of course, Nate’s smiling when I turn to face him, but not for the reason I was thinking he’d be smiling. This is the smile that says he’s ready for sex. This is a lazy, sensual curl of his lips that’s reflected in the smoke filling his eyes. This says he has no idea what’s coming.

  “Whatever this is about, you know I’m always your willing sex slave. Do your worst!” he teases, running his hands around my waist.

  I laugh nervously, coiling my fingers around his muscular forearms. “Nate,” I begin. I go no further when he goes completely still. His smile fades, and his features cloud with concern. He stills instantly, whether from my action or my tone.