The Empty Jar

by M. Leighton

  I hear her words over and over again.

  I make the determination right this minute to do it even more.

  ********

  Grace is three days old when she’s cleared for us to bring her home. She’s a good baby, sweet-natured and agreeable, and I know that Lena and I feel the same way about her.

  It’s like seeing the sun for the first time.

  Or, for me, maybe like seeing the sun for the second time. I’ve known a love like this before. But only once in my whole life. It’s the love I have for my wife. I never thought I’d ever feel anything that could compare to it. But Grace… She snuggled her way into my heart right alongside Lena within thirty seconds of meeting her.

  I’m as disappointed as Lena that she won’t be able to continue breastfeeding our daughter, but we both know that it’s for the best. Anything that can keep Lena comfortable and present for longer is, in my eyes, worth it.

  The only problem is, the medication that Lena has been given to help lower her ammonia levels hasn’t had as dramatic an effect as we were hoping. In my mind, it should’ve put Lena back to rights. Completely. Only it hasn’t worked out that way, hasn’t worked quite that well.

  The first time she was given a dose in the hospital, the nurse who brought it mentioned that it should help some, qualifications that didn’t inspire much confidence. And, as far as I could tell, it had only helped some. Lena still spends substantial quantities of time confused. She slept a lot in the hospital, but when she was awake, she was often disoriented.

  At least the spells seem to be less dramatic now. Maybe that’s how the medication is helping—maybe it lessens the length and severity of her bouts of confusion. I’d hoped for total eradication, though, and so far, I’m very disappointed.

  On the plus side, Lena seems content and more at ease at home. And I still harbor a tiny spark of optimism that the effects of the medication will be cumulative and that familiar surroundings will help things along. But only time will tell. And I’m not certain how much of that we have left.

  I try to put the dismal future out of my mind. It feels something like betrayal to dwell on it, like I’m cheating on the present if I spend one moment of it mourning what hasn’t yet transpired. But it’s hard. It’s hard not to worry, not to watch my wife, sharply and constantly, as though she might disappear like a vapor if I look away for too long.

  The mattress dips ever so slightly, and I come instantly awake. It’s the middle of the night, but it only takes a few seconds for my eyes to adjust to the silvery moonlit room. All my senses come online with surprising rapidity these days, and all seem more acute than ever.

  I listen closely for the cry of our child, but I hear nothing except for the muffled pad of my wife’s feet as she crosses the thickly carpeted floor. I hold myself perfectly still and wait for Lena to leave the room before I get up to follow her.

  I’m still not sleeping soundly. Not only am I listening for my wife, but I’m also listening for sounds of our daughter. I can’t help wondering if I missed her cry, though, and if that’s what roused Lena.

  When she sleeps, she often sleeps so deeply that she won’t even respond to the call of her name, but so far, she seems to hear even the most hushed whimpers of little Grace. A mother’s sensitivity, maybe.

  Quietly, I trail my wife down the hall to the baby’s room. I stop in the doorway and lean one shoulder against the jamb. I can see perfectly—the padded rocker in the corner, the cheerful mobile hanging over the crib, the puffy quilted letters that spell out Grace on the wall. Despite the dim glow of the nightlight, the room is still fairly bright. The pale yellow paint helps, makes the walls look like French vanilla ice cream at night, soft and velvety.

  Lena crosses slowly and silently to the white crib, bending to peer down over the padded rail. “Hi, beautiful,” she coos tenderly, reaching in for her daughter. She lifts her out, expertly tucking Grace against her chest. “What’s your name, little girl?”

  When I hear the question, I tense. I have no way of knowing if it’s just Lena’s way of chatting with the baby or if she’s so confused she can’t remember her own child’s name. Or that Grace is even hers.

  These days, I can’t assume anything. All evidence seems to be pointing in the wrong direction, to the worsening of her condition rather than the stabilizing of it. However, Lena’s occasional bouts of prolonged lucidity—sometimes up to a few hours—are always just enough to allow the thin, fibrous roots of hope to take hold in me.

  I know it’s a mistake to let my guard down. To hope. I know the risks, know the consequences of false hope will be devastating, but sometimes, I just can’t seem to help myself. It feels too good to cling to something positive, to think about a future with my wife and child.

  It just feels good to hope. Too good.

  Turning with Grace in her arms, Lena comes to an abrupt stop when she spots me lounging in the doorway. “Who is this?” she asks, tipping her chin toward the baby she cradles. “Did I forget that we are babysitting for someone?”

  “That’s Grace, baby. You had a C-section a few days ago. Isn’t your stomach still sore?”

  A faint frown pulls at the skin between Lena’s eyes, and I know she’s performing a self-assessment. I also know the instant it clicks into place. She smiles and tries to play it off. “Of course, I remember that, silly. My memory isn’t getting that bad.” She crosses the room to me and stretches up to kiss my cheek as she passes. “Go back to bed. I’ve got her.”

  “I’m already up. Why don’t I keep you company?” I don’t give her time to argue; I just fall in behind her and follow her into the den. I can’t trust that she won’t forget something vital and accidentally hurt herself or Grace.

  As I tiredly pursue my wife through the house, my gut clenches with grief. This is all Lena wanted for so long, and now she isn’t even able to really enjoy it. Such a cruel twist of fate.

  As quickly as she slips into confusion, however, Lena often slips out of it just as rapidly. It’s as she’s preparing a bottle for Grace that I notice the shift.

  “…won’t be around to do it with you later, maybe tomorrow we’ll get out the jar and catch some lightning bugs. I’ll save up all my energy for it so I can carry you around the yard and catch the ones you want me to get. And they can be your nightlight, like they were my nightlight when I was a little girl. And Daddy can film the whole thing so you can watch it when you’re older. You can see how much your momma loved you and how she caught your very first lightning bugs for you. Does that sound like fun?” Lena glances up at me and grins. “In case you didn’t hear that, she said, ‘Hell yeah!’”

  I smile, but in my heart is an unbearable ache. It happens more and more often of late. It seems the less I see of the real Lena, the more it hurts when I do see her. Those glimpses become increasingly bittersweet as time wears on. It’s as though I’m losing my soul mate over and over, degree by degree, and it’s tearing me apart.

  “You take my breath away,” I confess, my voice thick with emotion. And her answering smile does. For a few seconds, I literally can’t breathe.

  I wonder if I’ll ever really be able to breathe again.

  When Grace’s bottle is ready, Lena and I head to the sofa. I sit and Lena scoots in beside me, snuggling into the curve of my body and resting her head on my shoulder as she feeds our little girl. She hums softly, craning her neck to look up at me every couple of minutes. It seems that she, too, is aware of how precious these moments are.

  Slowly, the humming trails off, and Lena falls silent. Her relaxing hand pulls the nipple of the bottle from between sleeping Grace’s lips. I reach out and take the bottle, letting it fall quietly to the floor so that I can have both hands free to hold my wife.

  Winding my arms more tightly around Lena, I hold her to me as snugly as I can without waking her. I’m desperate to keep her close, to hold on as long as I can.

  And not just tonight.

  Some part of me knows that our window is closi
ng and that I’m helpless to stop it. I can sense that Lena knows it, too. I suspect that’s why she didn’t want Dr. Taffer to run tests while she was in the hospital. She didn’t want to know she only has days or weeks left. And I can understand that. I’m not sure I want to know either.

  Slouching down enough that Lena can rest better against me and Grace against her, I try to put my haunting thoughts away and just enjoy the feel of my wife in my arms. I take a deep breath and let my eyes close. I focus on how soft her skin is under my fingertips, how her hair smells of flowers and cinnamon, and how the slight weight of her feels on my chest.

  As I drift off, I’m only barely aware of the single tear that slips from between my lashes and slides slowly down my cheek.

  Twenty-three

  Hush

  Nate

  The first streaks of dawn coming through the window wake me. My wife is still in my arms, and Grace is fast asleep in hers.

  Even in her unconscious state, Lena holds our baby closely yet carefully. There’s a tenderness in her secure grip that I think comes with becoming a mother, as if the instinct to protect and nurture changes even her muscle memory. That thought causes a convoy of other thoughts to file through my head, like ducks swimming in a straight row across an empty pond. That succession of thought is why, as much as I hate to move her, I shift and slide out from under my wife and little girl.

  The first place I go is to the kitchen. I walk to the window to look out across the yard, toward the neighbor’s house.

  I’m glad to see Nissa’s light on. I hate for anyone to suffer from insomnia, but I’ve always been secretly grateful that Nissa does. She’s provided Lena with company and comfort in ways I never thought to. And she’s awake now, which is fortuitous on a day such as this. I have plans, and I need Nissa’s help.

  Quickly, I shoot out the back door and bound across the yard to the next house over. I knock quietly, glancing back through the windows of my own house to make sure I don’t see signs of movement.

  Nissa opens the door and is visibly surprised to see me on her stoop rather than my wife. “I don’t have long. Got a second?”

  “Of course,” she says, opening the door wider.

  “Nah, I’ll just stay here, thanks. I want to keep an eye on Lena and the baby.”

  “Okay.” She crosses her arms over her chest, pulling her robe tighter around her against the slight chill in the early morning June air. “What’s up?”

  “I need to run out for a while today. Think you could come over and keep an eye on Lena until I get back?”

  “Sure.”

  I work out the details with our neighbor and then race back over to my house. Carefully, I open and close the door then tiptoe silently through the kitchen to the living room. The two loves of my life are still fast asleep, one of them snoring softly. I stand in the doorway watching them for several long, bittersweet minutes. It’s yet another scene I want to burn into my memory, knowing that one day it will be all I have left.

  I snap a picture before I finally pull myself away from the sight, moving back toward the kitchen to start a pot of coffee and make more concrete plans for the day.

  ********

  Lena

  I know that something isn’t right. I’ve been a nurse for almost two decades. I’ve worked in several specialties, mostly because in the beginning I didn’t have a clue what my niche would be. But then I landed a full-time job at the cancer center. I loved it right off the bat and decided to make my work home there and take on some part-time critical care work to keep my clinical skills sharp.

  I’ve seen a lot in my years, especially with cancer patients. It doesn’t take me long to put the puzzle pieces together. When I’m awake and aware and notice that there are enormous chunks of time missing, then I add it together with the pain (which is thankfully under control) and some things Dr. Taffer said…I know.

  I know.

  My liver is failing. The cancer has spread to the point that it is dramatically affecting my hepatic function. I’ve seen it enough with my patients to know that progression to this point is beyond anything except palliative measures. I know the smart thing would be to call hospice. They can take care of things that will make the whole process easier, especially for Nate.

  Nate.

  A stinging knot forms behind my tonsils.

  God, how I hate to leave him!

  The thought of it, the idea of it feels suffocating.

  Overwhelming.

  Devastating.

  I hate to go at all, but I hate even more that he’ll be left with such awful memories of me.

  Pain and sickness.

  Disease and death.

  Periods of time when I neither look like nor act like myself. Those will be what Nate remembers most for a while.

  And it breaks my heart.

  There’s nothing I can do about that, though, short of taking my own life. And I’m not going to do that. Living with my suicide would be an even worse pain for Nate and Grace to bear.

  Grace.

  I smile just thinking her name.

  My child.

  My daughter.

  My baby.

  The living embodiment of the love my husband and I have for each other. I’d have given almost anything to be able to live long enough to see her grow up. Or even to see her walk and hear her first words. But I know in my gut that it isn’t going to work out that way.

  It isn’t that I have no hope. It’s that I simply have a certainty about things, about the outcome. I’ve seen it happen with dozens and dozens of terminal patients. They seem to have a supernatural sense about their death. Now I can understand it. I know I’m going to die, and there isn’t a damn thing I can do about it.

  Except face it.

  Head-on.

  Try to make it as easy for my loved ones as I possibly can. So that’s what I intend to do.

  While Grace is sleeping and Nate is gone, I go in search of my phone. I can’t remember where I had it last.

  I search the bedroom, the bathroom, the living room, and, finally, make my way into the kitchen.

  I gasp when I see Nissa sitting at the island, sipping a cup of coffee, scrolling through something on her iPad.

  “Hi,” she says brightly when she hears my gasp.

  “You scared me. I didn’t expect to see you sitting there.” I’d have to be blind and stupid to miss the look of sadness that flits across my best friend’s face. And I’m neither. I can only guess at what it means, but I guess right. “How long have you been here?”

  “A couple of hours,” Nissa answers in a strangled voice.

  “I’m guessing I’ve already seen you then?”

  Nissa’s eyes fill with tears, and she nods, silent.

  I sigh deeply and come to sit on the stool beside my long-time confidante. I drape an arm over her shoulders and rest my head against Nissa’s. I feel the tremor in my friend’s muscles, and I know that she’s holding back sobs.

  “It won’t be long now,” I tell her.

  I don’t have to explain; Nissa knows what I’m referring to. She makes no sound as she begins to weep, but I can feel it. Nissa’s upper body is shaking uncontrollably, heaving as grief gushes from her in great waves. They quake through me, too, where I sit beside her.

  Never having been one to give empty words of solace, not even to my patients, I know now is not the time to start. It won’t help anyone. Not really. I’m simply going to stay. I’m going to sit with my best friend in the world while she comes to terms with what lies ahead, while she exorcises the anguish. I only hope staying is enough.

  “I’m sorry,” Nissa finally says, sniffing loudly, her words cracked and broken.

  “Don’t be. I love you. I wish I could make this easier, but I can’t.”

  “What the hell is wrong with you?” she asks in mock anger. “I’m supposed to be the one wanting to make things easier for you.”

  “I’m sure you want to. It’s human nature to want to take away hurt fr
om those we love. And you love me. I know that because I love you just as much.”

  Nissa’s crying is renewed, so I pull her close and wait. Grieving is a process. One cry won’t get it out. For some, it takes weeks or months of crying.

  When Nissa seems to settle again, I continue. “Nate loves you, too. And Grace will. I want for you three to take care of each other. For me. Do it for me. I’ll feel much better if I know that Nate won’t be in this alone. And that my daughter will have a wonderful woman in her life. Promise me.”

  Nissa nods as she wipes at her eyes. “I promise.”

  Knowing what kind of reaction my announcement will incite, I wait for a couple of minutes before I tell Nissa my plans. And when I do, she starts to sniffle again, as I suspected she might. Hospice is a dirty word, a painful word. And they all know what it means. I don’t have to explain it.

  “I’m going to call hospice today. I want to do it before Nate gets back. It will kill him. I know it will, but it’ll help him, too. More than he realizes.”

  “It’ll help you, too,” Nissa insists.

  “It’ll help me, too, yes.” My own comfort is far down the list. I’m more worried about those I love. “Nissa, I…I…”

  I’m not quite sure how to continue.

  “What?” she prompts when I don’t finish my sentence.

  “I don’t want you to stop coming around. No matter how hard it gets to watch, don’t let Nate go through this alone. Please.”

  Tears bite sharply at my eyes, but I will myself not to cry. For me, the time for grieving is over. My fate is sealed. It’s pointless to spend my last days mourning the future. Or what it might hold.

  “I’ll be here. Every day.”

  I nod and we sit in silence for a minute more before I reach for my phone. I smile as I hold it in my palm. The kitchen. I left it in the kitchen, probably when Nissa arrived earlier, which is something I have no recollection of.

  My fingers tremble for a moment as an intense pang of regret lances through me. It’s sharp and cutting, more like a jagged piece of metal than something smooth and well-honed.