The Empty Jar

by M. Leighton

  After several long seconds and a sip of her hot-again coffee, Nissa raises her wary blue eyes to mine. “Okay, come and sit. Talk to me.”

  I do, taking the chair across from her. I set my hands on the table and entwine my fingers. “I have something to tell you. Well, two things actually. Then I have a favor to ask. A big one.”

  “Anything,” Nissa says definitively. There is no hesitation, no reservation, no question. Because that’s the kind of friend she is.

  “You don’t even know what I’m going to ask yet.”

  “Doesn’t matter. I’ll do it. Whatever it is.”

  “You should at least wait until you know what it is.”

  “It won’t matter. I’d do anything for you. If it’s within my power, you ask and it gets done. Period.”

  It strikes me, and not for the first time, how very fortunate I am to have a friend like Nissa. She’s the thick-and-thin type, the loves-me-anyway type. She’s the until-the-bitter-end type. The type that I will need in my life now more than ever.

  And I won’t ever be able to repay the kindness. I won’t ever be able to do the same for her one day.

  That’s yet another tragedy about this situation.

  “I love you. Have I ever told you that?”

  “Not nearly enough,” she says, trying for flippant but failing miserably. The apprehension in her eyes belies the nonchalance of her words. With a sigh that can be felt more than heard, Nissa reaches across the glass mosaic table and covers my hands with her own. “Tell me.”

  I find strange comfort in the fact that my best friend knows me so well. I don’t have to tell Nissa that something is wrong; she just knows. Neither of us says as much, but her actions, her visage, her mannerism speaks as loudly as a bullhorn on a silent, starry night.

  “I have cancer,” I begin steadily. I pause only briefly, not wanting to get bogged down in the sorrow of my circumstance. I’d much rather lose myself in the hope of what’s to come. “It’s bad. Terminal. That’s why Nate took me to Europe for three months. I didn’t want to tell you before we left. That would be the suckiest best friend bomb ever.”

  Like Nissa, I attempt flippancy.

  Also like Nissa, I fail miserably.

  Not only is Nissa not laughing, but she’s retracted both of her hands and is now covering her mouth with them.

  Instantly, her eyes fill with tears. They overflow her lashes and roll in a steady stream down over her knuckles. From there, they drip noiselessly onto the table top.

  I continue before she can become any more distraught.

  “The good news is that I’m pregnant.”

  Smiling, I stop there, giving my words time to sink in. I know my sweet friend will be completely astonished by this entire conversation, but after a day or so, she’ll be the supportive person I’ve always known her to be.

  “You-you’re pregnant?” Nissa’s jaw goes slack, her mouth hanging open in the shape of a hollow oval.

  I nod.

  “But Nate… What about the other woman? I know it was probably nothing, but don’t you think you should—”

  “He was meeting with my oncologist, Nissa. That’s all it was. He told me.”

  “Oh.” After a few seconds of digesting that information, she continues baldly. “Please don’t tell me you’re going to try to carry this baby.”

  My happiness falters as noticeably as my smile. I can feel it, the tremble of trying forcibly to keep it in place. “I am.”

  “Lena, what the hell are you thinking? You need treatment! This isn’t the Middle Ages. Cancer isn’t 100% incurable. There are hundreds if not thousands of medications and immune enhancers and all sorts of shit they could give you. You’re the nurse here. I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know.”

  “No, you’re not. But Nissa, I’ve seen this before. I lived it with my sister and my father. There’s a point when it’s better to just live your life. Go for the quality rather than the quantity. Unfortunately, that’s where I am.”

  “Well, if it wasn’t, it will be now. You certainly can’t take any treatment if you’re pregnant.”

  Nissa gets up from the table and takes her coffee mug to the sink, angrily dumping the contents down the drain and rinsing the cup to stick in the dishwasher. When it is stowed away alongside the other dirty dishes, she sets her hands on either side of the sink and bends one knee, her hips shifting to one side in that way she has when she’s getting frustrated with her kids. Like she’s at her wits’ end.

  Only this time, she’s frustrated with me.

  I wonder briefly, sort of comically if Nissa is going to turn around and shake her finger at me.

  Without facing me, Nissa asks, “What does Nate say about this?”

  “He’s supportive. He wants what I want.”

  “Somehow I doubt that.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I’m betting he’d much rather have you around for the next forty years than risk your life for a child you may or may not even be able to carry.” Bitterness drenches her voice. I know she can’t say the same thing about her own husband, which breaks my heart.

  Still, I’m more than a little taken aback by Nissa’s irritation. It hurts, more than I would’ve expected, to hear the disapproval in my closest confidant’s voice, to feel the harsh slap of her condemnation when I’d expected nothing less than weepy support.

  Fighting back tears, I stand and walk to the sink, turning to lean one hip against it so I can face my friend’s pinched profile. I know her words, her actions come from a place of anguish, but that doesn’t lessen the hurt to my battered heart.

  “The odds were not in my favor, Nissa. No matter what I did. And I wasn’t planning on getting pregnant. Right in the middle of dying is not exactly the best time to be trying to nurture a healthy baby. But,” I add with extra emphasis, “this child has already given me so much happiness and it’s only been a few weeks. I feel like it has brought me back to a place I never thought I’d be. I have hope. Hope, Nissa. This cancer…it stole everything from me—my present, my future. Out in the distance, there was nothing for me but pain and sickness and death. But now, despite the pain and the sickness and the death, I could have a baby. In a child, I will be able to give my husband a tiny piece of me that he can keep for the rest of his life. And for as many days as I can make it after delivery, we will be able to be a whole family. That’s all I’ve ever wanted. For us to have our own little family. Can’t you please just be happy for me?”

  Nissa whirls to face me, her face red with fury. “Be happy for you? Be happy that you came to tell me you’re dying and that you’re fine with doing nothing about it? What kind of a monster do you think I am?”

  “I don’t think you’re a monster at all. That’s why I need a favor. That’s why I was going to ask you to help Nate. I was going to ask my best friend in the world to be present in my husband’s life because I won’t be. I can’t be. I was going to ask her to help him with the baby, answer his questions, let him vent his frustrations because he won’t have anyone else around. He’ll be grieving, and he’ll be overwhelmed, and the only thing I can do to help him is to give him the best friend I’ve ever had. I was going to lean on her if I ever had a baby. I was going to call her in the middle of the night for teething recipes and come to her door crying because I hadn’t slept in days. I was going to proudly show her how I’d learned to change a diaper in thirty seconds or less, and I was going to take her to a spa day when the men had the kids. But now…since it won’t be me, I had hoped my husband could do the same. That’s what I was going to ask, but…”

  I let my words trail off, my heart nearly exploding with sadness. Of all the reactions I might’ve anticipated from my long-time neighbor, my long-time friend, this was nowhere on the list.

  Nowhere.

  But I won’t give up on Nissa coming around. I can’t.

  So with a trembling chin, I watch my friend. In silence, in patience, I watch her, and I w
ait.

  Slowly, Nissa works through her ire. Twice she opens her mouth to speak, but ends up closing it both times, thinking better of it.

  Once she sighs. Once she shakes her head. Once she presses her fingers to the bridge of her nose like her head is hurting. But ultimately, finally, after five or six minutes, she comes out on the other side of her emotions as the pal I’ve known for the better part of two decades.

  Nissa buries her face in her hands and begins to weep. “Jesus Christ, Lena, I’m sorry.”

  I wrap my arms around my very best friend, and I hold her close, stroking Nissa’s hair as she gives in to her distress. In my many years as a nurse, I’ve seen people react to bad news in all sorts of unpredictable ways, but they were, for the most part, strangers. I thought I knew Nissa better than to be surprised by her reaction, but news like this… No one can know how someone else will respond.

  Also, I’ve never given her such horrific and wonderful news at the same time either. That might be too much for anybody to process without having a brief meltdown.

  Nissa cries in earnest for a good five minutes. I hold her through it all, only gripping her tighter when her shoulders shake with deep sobs.

  When finally Nissa pulls away, her face is puffy, her eyes are red, and her expression is one of overwhelming guilt and sadness.

  “I’m so sorry. I just…I wasn’t expecting that. Just the thought of losing you—” Her features crumple, and she starts to cry again. She’s able to collect herself a little more quickly this time, though. “You know I’d do anything for you. I meant that. And for Nate. And for th-th-the baby.” She sniffs and snorts again as she thinks of caring for my motherless child. “I’ll support you in whatever you decide, but please don’t shut me out. You’re my best friend. Please let me spend this last time with you. Please. It’s all I’ll ever have.”

  At that, she breaks down again. Patiently, I wait for my friend’s shock and grief to subside.

  Eventually, it does. It dribbles off into an odd hiccupping-snuffling that I find curiously adorable. I love everything about my best friend, even her unexpected reactions and strange noises.

  Grabbing a paper towel from the decorative wrought iron holder on the counter, Nissa blows her nose. I cringe, causing her to ask, “What, do I have a booger?”

  I laugh outright. “No, you do not have a booger. I was just thinking how sore your nose will be tomorrow if you use a paper towel to blow it again.”

  “I’ll switch to Kleenex eventually,” she sniffs. “You sure I don’t have a booger?” Nissa tips her head back for me to inspect.

  “I’m sure you don’t have a booger.”

  “It feels like I have a booger,” she explains, wiping at her nose again. “And if I do, I’d blame you. One thousand percent your fault!” she shouts loudly to the empty kitchen, pointing an accusing finger at me.

  “I’ll take that. It’s less than I deserve, I’m sure.”

  Nissa sighs audibly, one corner of her mouth curling up in a blend of humor and chagrin. “No. I deserve a kick in the boob for being such an asshole. Why did you let me act like that?”

  Good-naturedly, I shrug. “Some kids react like that. Gotta let the tantrum run its course. See what a good mother I’m going to be?”

  Nissa’s eyes mist over. “You’re going to be a phenomenal mother.”

  “For a little while anyway. I hope. I guess that could be the upside of dying when your child is still young. You don’t get as many opportunities to screw up their life.”

  After a weak attempt at another smile, Nissa only nods in agreement. I imagine that her throat is thick and shaky with emotion.

  “Also, Nate and I are making videos. All kinds of videos of anything and everything. I’d love for you to be in some of them.”

  “I’d adore that. And with me in its life, at least your baby will grow up with a good sense of style.”

  “That’s definitely something you bring to the table. As long as, if it’s a girl, you never pack your things in her suitcase for a trip. I’d like for you and Nate to be able to keep her off the pole as long as possible.”

  At that, Nissa laughs. “Are you saying I packed you stripper clothes?”

  “I’m saying stripper clothes were modest compared to a few of the things you packed for me.”

  “But did Nate like them?”

  “Of course Nate liked them! He does have eyes and a penis.”

  “Then what’re you complaining about?”

  We grin at each other, slipping easily back into the familiar comfort of our friendship. The rocky moment has passed, and now we will move on. As Nate and I have discovered, there is no place for anger now, when time is so drastically limited. We are unwilling to give it one second of such valuable space. Nissa, too, will realize that soon enough, if she hasn’t already.

  Fifteen

  I’ll be There for You

  Nate

  For two months, things feel like a happier version of normal for Lena and me. It’s easy to get lost in plans for the baby or details of the pregnancy and forget that my wife is dying and that no one knows how soon her condition will start to deteriorate. We do know, however, that once it starts to decline, there is nothing we can do to stop it.

  The doctors are limited. We have limited them. We’ve tied their hands. They will only be able to treat Lena the best they can with medicines and therapies that won’t harm the baby. She always seems okay with that, though. More than okay, actually. It’s from her, from her calm certainty, that I’ve been drawing a lot of my strength lately.

  I don’t ever feel completely convinced that we’ve made the right choice. Then again, it was never really mine to make. Not totally, anyway.

  Each day, we make at least one video for the baby, transferring them from phone to computer and then saving them to a flash drive for safekeeping. I admit that I’m almost obsessive about backing up those precious moments. Each time I download one and save it to the external drive, I watch it over and over a few times, falling more and more hopelessly in love with my wife as I do. I’m not sure how smart that is, signing up for even more pain when there’s plenty to go around already, but it’s out of my control.

  Lena is irresistible.

  Still, some small, overly-rational part of my brain thinks it might be wise to try to distance myself a little bit as time goes on, but I refuse to back away from Lena no matter how much grief it might save me in the end. I know perfectly well that loving her so much knowing that I will surely lose her will be the hardest thing I’ve ever have to deal with in my whole damn life. I also know, however, that I wouldn’t trade these last days, weeks, months with her for all the gold (or comfort and painlessness) in the world. I’m content to throw myself wholly into our life, into our love, and into the growth of our baby until the very last day.

  Until the end.

  So I continue taping and downloading, taping and downloading, watching the videos over and over and over again on nights when I can’t sleep, knowing that one day the short clips will be all that I have left of my wife besides our child and the memories I have stored away in my mind. None will be as clear as the videos, though. That’s why I protect them fiercely.

  One beautiful spring-like morning in early March, Lena and I are enjoying our morning ritual of coffee (decaf for Lena) with our breakfast of eggs and toast when the back door bursts open. I’d been reading the financial section of the paper, which I lower casually. I’m no longer surprised by Nissa’s odd and early visits. Neither is Lena. She just throws up her hand and mutters “good morning” around her toast and continues to browse the Internet looking for baby things.

  “Video up!” Nissa shouts as she comes sailing across the tile floor and plops a black, shag-cut wig on Lena’s head. “She’s Monica. I’m Rachel,” she explains to me, as if that makes her plan clear to us.

  It does not.

  I only know that when she comes in and yells “Video up!” it’s my cue to start filming. Beyond tha
t, I never have a clue what Nissa is up to.

  Obediently, I grab my phone, turn it toward my wife, and hit the record button. Nissa, also wearing a wig, hits play on her own phone, and the familiar guitar riff from the beginning of the Friends song fills the kitchen.

  She takes Lena by the hand and pulls her to her feet, and the two begin to dance. When the lyrics start, both women sing along, stopping to clap at the appropriate times and then laughing when they do. I can’t help smiling at their antics. It makes my chest tight with a bittersweet happiness to watch them.

  Speaking just loud enough that my voice can be heard over the music, I tell our baby, “I think this is your mom’s best friend’s way of saying she loves her. You’ll understand later, when I introduce you to the show Friends. When you’re older,” I add. “Much older.”

  Nostalgia warms me as I record and listen. Lena and I watched the comedy together in our early years together. After all this time, we still quote things to each another occasionally. Little insignificant bits from the show like “It’s a moo point”, “What kind of scary-ass clowns came to your birthday?”, and “How you doin’?” which never fail to bring an answering smile. It’s one of the million-and-one things we’ve shared in our life together that once seemed silly and inconsequential, but now seems painfully profound.

  When the song is complete, the two hug and laugh before Nissa yanks the wig off Lena’s head and vanishes, right back out the door she just burst through a few minutes ago. My guess is that she’ll go straight home and cry. We all deal with our grief in silence and in private, in deference to Lena.

  But we still have to do it.

  Lena is still grinning when she walks over to me and drops down onto my lap, wrapping her arms around my neck. “You’re my lobster,” she says, rubbing her cold nose against mine.

  “And you’re my everything,” I reply, my gut constricting at the trivial yet meaningful phrase. She is my lobster. She is my everything, and she always will be.