The Empty Jar

by M. Leighton

  That’s when I realize what she’s seeing—lightning bugs. In her mind, she’s a child again, chasing fireflies with her father.

  Her reality drifts further and further from mine with every passing day, it seems. I’m losing her hour by hour, millimeter by millimeter, breath by breath. I know it won’t be very long before she leaves my world and never comes back.

  Another crack in my heart widens into a gaping chasm, leaking a little more of my hope and strength and soul into the cool predawn air.

  I reposition myself and bend to scoop Lean into my arms. Her gaze remains trained on the insects I can’t see, her face bright and full of wonder. Despite her sunken cheeks and the blue-black smudges still visible beneath her eyes, she’s strikingly beautiful in her thrall. Enough to make me catch my breath.

  Still.

  Always.

  That’s why I pivot toward the lounger, the one with the cream-colored blanket thrown over the raised back, and sit. I pull Lena against my chest and reach behind me for the fuzzy cover, dragging it over both of us to ward off the slight chill. She tugs it up to her chin and nestles her head into the curve of my neck then lets out a long sigh like she couldn’t be happier. I brush my lips over blonde hair cast silver by the moonlight, and I hold my wife until she falls back to sleep.

  ********

  The following day, I drive Lena to the hospital for the placement of a nasogastric tube through which she can be fed supplemental nutrition. The oncologist suspects that her decreasing ability to swallow means that the tumor has spread up into the bottom portion of her esophagus. Dr. Taffer wants to get the NG tube in as soon as possible, before the cancer grows even more and prevents her from passing the tube beyond it.

  I’m not sure if it’s a good thing or not, but Lena is especially coherent today.

  As she rests on the stretcher, awaiting her doctor, she turns her soft brown eyes up to mine. “This will be a good thing, Nate.” Her smile says she’s trying to convince herself as much as she’s trying to convince me. “You’ll see.”

  “Anything that keeps you with me longer is a good thing.”

  Somewhere along the way, we made the silent agreement to drop the pretense of her survival. Now we speak about more time in terms of weeks and days, not months. Definitely not years.

  I figure Lena has worked it out because of her worsening symptoms. She seems to be aware of that even when she isn’t lucid for extended periods of time. I worked it out from all of the looks I’ve been getting from the doctors and nurses. On their faces, they wear sadness and a form of pity that rips through my heart like a poison-tipped arrow. They know the end is coming. It’s coming fast, faster than I think I can handle sometimes.

  “They’ll show you how to use it for when I can’t,” Lena assures me. Her words are matter of fact, but there’s a hollowness to them, an emptiness that tears at my insides.

  It’s a strange and awful thing to discuss dying this way.

  ********

  Much to my relief, having the feeding tube placed has made a noticeable difference. I’ve been diligent about feeding her exactly as prescribed. I keep the fridge overflowing with organic fruits and vegetables that I blend into highly nutritious shakes to give to her via the tube three times a day. I also give her the blue-green supplement twice a day and flush the tube with plenty of water before and after use each time. Not only is Lena livelier and wakeful, her overall appearance doesn’t seem so…sickly. Her skin has pinked up, her mind seems to focus more readily, even her eyes seem brighter. And for better or worse, the improvement gives me a small burst of hope.

  If we can just get through the delivery, maybe she can start treatment. Maybe there will be something they can do. Maybe it won’t be too late.

  “You didn’t realize this was going to be a full-time job, did you?” Lena teases me. We are smooshed together on the patio lounger, basking in the late May sunset.

  “Why do you think I left the bank? I wasn’t about to miss a single second with you, even if it does stain my shirts.” And it does. The colorant that’s used in the supplemental nutrition can be seen on every one of my lighter-hued shirts.

  I grin every time I do laundry. I can’t help thinking of all the occasions when Lena has come out from the washroom over the years, shaking her head, muttering about how messy I am. I can now see that she was right. I have no idea how I get that damn food everywhere, but I can’t deny that I do. The evidence of it is right there on my clothes. That’s why I started wearing my grilling apron when I deal with that stuff.

  “I’ll be curious to see who’s messier, you or Grace.”

  I smile down into Lena’s exquisite face, my eyes drifting over the gentle curve of her brow, the pert tip of her nose, the lush bow of her mouth. I love hearing her talk of days when the three of us will be together. I hope against hope that there will be many of those.

  My smile falters for a split second before I catch it, rescue it. I have to be even more careful these days. It’s getting harder and harder to combat the surges of sadness. They hit me when I least expect them sometimes, but I’m still as determined as ever to hide them from my perceptive wife. “I can’t wait to see you with her. You were born to be a mother.”

  Lena says nothing, only stares up into my face like I’m the sun in her sky. Finally, after a long silence, she speaks. “Nate?”

  “Yeah, baby.”

  Tracing the collar of my shirt with the tip of her finger, Lena chews her lip nervously. “Do you think we could go see my mother?”

  I tense. “Why would you want to do that?”

  I feel her shrug against me. “I’d like to see her one last time.”

  My heart! Jesus!

  It twists painfully behind my ribs, a sensation I’m becoming quite accustomed to. “I’m not sure that would be the wisest thing. I mean, you’re supposed to be on bed-rest.”

  “But I haven’t bled since I got back from the hospital.” She pauses, concern crinkling her brow. “Have I?”

  Another stab to my chest. Lena knows that she loses pieces of time. And she knows why. When she’s lucid, she becomes aware of how sometimes whole days have passed that she can’t remember. She knows what’s going on. That’s undoubtedly why she wants to see her mother. And why she had to ask if she’s been bleeding.

  “No,” I confirm softly, my voice perceptibly choked. “No, you haven’t bled any more.”

  “Then maybe we could make the trip?” Her whiskey eyes are hopeful.

  “Let’s check with both docs first.” Lena nods, but is obviously deflated, so I add, “If not, then maybe I could bring her here. I’m sure they’d let her out for the day. With me. For this.”

  “Thank you, my love.”

  “Anything for you,” I reply, caressing the silken arch of her cheekbone. And I mean it. Anything, anything at all for her.

  I’m reminded of the way she organizes and tidies things when she’s at her most confused. This effort to see her mother is probably part of her process of getting her life in order—making peace with the woman who gave up on her.

  I resolve to make the reunion happen, by hook or crook. I want my wife to have whatever makes her happy, whatever will ease her heart and mind, even if that means her spending time with her mother.

  We fall silent after that, each lost in thought as the setting sun bathes us in the golden glow of day’s end. We watch as the sky fades from bright orange to deep, royal blue.

  It’s Lena’s keen eye that catches the first glimmer of a different light.

  “Nate!” She sits up so suddenly, it startles me.

  “What? What’s wrong?” Every muscle in my body is instantly straining beneath my skin, prepared for action.

  “Go get a Mason jar! Quick!”

  For a few seconds, it’s me who is confused. But then, I notice her expression, open and excited, and follow her eyes to where she’s looking. A single firefly is blinking off and on as it makes its way into our backyard. I probably never would’ve
noticed it, but Lena spotted it right away.

  “Okay, hang on,” I tell Lena, trying to maneuver myself out from under her without unseating her. When I manage to untangle myself, I make my way quickly into the kitchen, flinging open cabinet doors, looking for a Mason jar, but having zero luck. That’s when I hear her voice waft in from the patio. “Look in the pantry,” she instructs.

  I spin on my heel and head for the pantry, flicking on the light and spotting a single empty Mason jar on the top shelf in the corner. I think I remember Nissa bringing us homemade strawberry jam in it last year.

  On my way back outside, I pause at the counter only long enough to use the tip of a steak knife to poke holes in the lid. With that done, I grab my phone from the charger and go back outside.

  Lena is sitting upright in the lounger, her pregnant belly touching the chair between her spread thighs. She reminds me of a beautiful blonde Buddha.

  Impulsively, I turn on my phone, raise it to find her on the screen, and snap a picture. I know without a doubt that I’ll go back and look at it often. Something about her face is magic. Pure magic.

  Then I look up and see our yard.

  My mouth drops open.

  There are lightning bugs everywhere. Dozens and dozens of them, flickering on and off in a haphazard display of their talent. It’s as if they’re showing off their brightly-lit bellies in a performance just for Lena.

  I approach her with the jar. My first thought is she shouldn’t be up running around the backyard in the dark. It seems that she’s thinking the same thing when she turns to me and says, “Go catch a few, and I’ll film you. I doubt I should be up darting around the yard.”

  To see this light in her eyes, on her face, and know that she can’t even fully enjoy this simple ritual feels too much like fate sticking a dagger in and twisting it. Even the little things are too much for her now.

  With a smile I hope is agreeable rather than as bittersweet as it feels, I nod, handing over my phone then uncapping the jar.

  I walk out into the yard, the grass tickling my bare feet, and I begin corralling the tiny insects into the big-mouthed jar. Lena excitedly directs me from her place on the patio. “Get that one!” she says. “No, to your left. It’s right there at your head.”

  We laugh as I spin at her guidance. I nearly lose my footing more than once as I whirl and turn, looking up into the night sky for the ones she wants me to catch.

  Once I pivot toward her, my head sort of spins at the abrupt action, and I pause to get my equilibrium back. My eyes settle on Lena first, and the sight of her expression makes my stomach flip over. From this distance, in the softening light, she looks like the vibrant young woman I married all those years ago. To me, she’s always been that woman, just growing into better versions of her as she’s aged.

  I stop to watch her, profoundly grateful that I’m getting to see her this way again. Just in case it’s the last time.

  Noticing me watching her, Lena lowers the phone. “What?”

  “It’s your turn,” I explain, walking over to hand her the jar and take the phone from her fingers. “You just sit tight. I’ll bring them to you.”

  It takes me a few minutes, but I manage to wrangle seven or eight winking bugs and sort of herd them toward my waiting wife. She sits on the end of the lounger, eyes wide, jar at the ready, and as soon as they’re within reach, she starts collecting them. As though God Himself sent a slight breeze to blow them right into her expectant hand, Lena tenderly coerces each firefly into the jar until it’s giving off enough light to illuminate a small room.

  Her smile is nothing short of dreamy as she screws the lid on tight and holds up the bright jar to gaze inside it. She considers it from several angles before she glances down at my feet and then up at the camera.

  “Look at your father’s feet how dirty,” she says, speaking to our unborn child now, to the eyes that will one day gaze adoringly at her mother’s face as it fills the screen. Obligingly, I aim the phone down and bend my leg so that the green sole of my foot is visible. I laugh and so does Lena. “That is why you need to wash your feet before you go to bed. Never go to bed with dirty feet.”

  “I guess I know what I’ll be doing next,” I say into the camera before I turn it back on my wife. She’s slumped a little now, fatigue written in the slope of her shoulders and the sag of her smile.

  “And now it’s time for bed. Goodnight, baby Grace,” she whispers, rubbing her bulging belly. “I love you. Always.”

  Always.

  The single word has a ring of finality to it, even though, by definition, it signifies no end at all. But there will be an end. I hope for longer, better. More. But in my gut…

  Just like that, something sweet and meaningful melts into something sad and heartbreaking. Everything does, it seems. It’s unavoidable. No matter how much we laugh or how many good days we have, it doesn’t change anything. Not really. The end is still coming. It’s always out there, hovering, like storm clouds on the horizon. But the storm is coming at us faster than we can outrun. Eventually, it will catch us and drown us.

  And we both know it.

  Twenty-one

  Born to Be My Baby

  Nate

  June third, Lena wakes up hurting. I hear her gasp.

  I roll over so quickly, I nearly fall out of bed. I find my wife propped up on one elbow, pressing her fingertips into her right side at the bottom edge of her ribs.

  Her liver.

  An arctic blast of torment blows through me like a cold, winter wind. She’s been hurting more frequently and more intensely lately. Maybe it’s that she seems a bit more oriented since her nutrition is better and now she’s aware enough to feel all the pain. Or maybe it’s simply that she’s having more pain.

  I don’t like to think about either option.

  Both mean that, for matters to get better, I’ll lose my wife. Whether to a state of consciousness that doesn’t involve me (via high doses of painkillers) or to death, I know I’ll lose her if she’s to be free of this pain.

  Like so many things in this whole situation, there’s no good answer, no perfect solution.

  Only sorrow and heartache or empty devastation.

  Within a few minutes, the discomfort that began in her right side, where it so often hurts, begins to radiate into her lower back. She can’t find a comfortable position, can’t get situated in bed, so I sweep her up into my arms and carry her into the living room, to her favorite chair, hoping that will help.

  It’s as I’m depositing her onto the thick cushions that I notice the wetness. I look down toward my feet and then behind me, down the hall the way we came, and see that we left a trail of droplets along our path.

  I shift my glance to my wife, ready to comment about it, when I see her eyes are already round with a combination of both alarm and excitement. “I think my water broke.”

  From that statement on, all hell breaks loose. Everything is a mad dash to move quickly, yet think of everything for all the just-in-cases that might happen.

  Lena is only four weeks from term. She’s made it to week thirty-six of a pregnancy she wasn’t sure she’d be able to carry at all.

  Now the time is at hand. The baby is finally coming, and I find that I’m struggling to keep a cool head. Fear plagues me, a fear I’ve refused to acknowledge.

  Secretly, I’m terrified that I will lose both Lena and Grace during this tricky delivery. Lena’s not exactly the picture of good health and strength, and there are literally dozens of things that could go wrong. I try to focus on the positive and hold my misgivings at bay, but damn, is it hard!

  For the millionth time, I shove all those thoughts back, back to a place where they can’t hurt anybody. Just like cramming those damn skis into the hall closet.

  Where they wait to crush me one day when I open the door.

  ********

  Lena

  I fight through the web of confusion that tangles my mind. I know I’m pregnant and I’m going into lab
or. I know I’m sick and my disease is likely progressing. But I also have the sense that other things, other times and places and people, are vying for my attention. I feel torn and find that I have to continually struggle to stay here.

  Odd moments and images trickle in, spurring thoughts that threaten to whisk me away to another place in time. I’m aware of that when it happens. At least to a degree, but I’m helpless to stop it.

  This time, it’s scarier than usual. One minute I’m in the car with Nate on the way to the hospital and the next I’m being prepped for an emergency C-section.

  Someone is getting ready to cut me open.

  Hysteria rushes in. It scratches at my consciousness like a dog digging up old bones in dry dirt. My breath comes fast and hard.

  “What’s going on?” I cry. “What’s happening? Is the baby okay?”

  A scrubbed, capped, and masked nurse anesthetist bends to look into my face. All I can see is a smooth brow and wide gray eyes. “The baby has a nuchal cord, Mrs. Grant. That means that the umbilical cord is wrapped around your daughter’s neck. You’re being prepped for a caesarean. Can you take a deep breath for me?”

  The woman’s tone is professional yet cool. It brings no more comfort to me than the plain white ceiling above my head.

  I need warmth.

  I need familiarity.

  I need answers.

  I need Nate.

  “My husband. Where’s my husband? Where’s the doctor? Why can’t I feel my legs?” Questions tumble into my mind like marbles from a felt bag—unchecked and chaotic.

  Clanking and rolling.

  Roaring.

  I pant frantically, my mouth as dry as cold air stinging my eyes. “Somebody tell me what the hell is going on!”

  My mind tilts and jerks, searching desperately for solid ground, for words or moments or images to fill in the yawning gaps.

  I find none.