The Empty Jar

by M. Leighton

  On to heaven.

  “Get that one,” I say to Nate, tipping my chin at a lightning bug that’s close enough and low enough for him to reach. He stretches out one long arm and taps the bug, which then lights on his finger. Nate holds it out to Grace and me, the slow, steady wink of light almost hypnotic in the night.

  “Look, Gracie!” I tilt my daughter toward her father and then look back at Nissa, who isn’t far away, filming us. I smile at my friend through the lens. Nissa waves, and I see a tear slide down her cheek to pause on her trembling upper lip.

  “Say hi to Nissa, Grace. She’ll help you with all your clothes and makeup and jewelry. All the fun, girly stuff.” I take my daughter’s tiny, chubby hand and wave it at the camera. A lightning bug appears between us as if by magic, its belly flashing yellow in the dark. “Oh! Oh! Get this one, Momma!”

  Obediently, my mom grabs the little bug and places it in the palm of her opposite hand then holds it up for my inspection.

  “Perfect,” I declare, a blend of overwhelming happiness and pure agony burning the backs of my eyes.

  I watch as my mother places the tiny insect into the jar Nate holds then he closes the lid quickly so that none can escape. Pointing out which ones for my husband and mother to catch, I watch the jar fill until the glass appears to be a sparkling beacon of sun in an otherwise sunless sky.

  When the jar is becoming too full to contain the insects as they add new ones, I walk to the last low-flying lightning bug I can see, and I let it settle on the tip of my finger. I hold it to my little girl’s face and murmur, “Don’t go to bed with dirty feet or an empty jar. Say your prayers every night, and never stop chasing the lightning bugs. Never stop. I love you, Grace. Always.”

  I pull my daughter in close and kiss her forehead, her eyes, her cheeks, the tip of her perfect little nose. I inhale, smiling at the way the sweet baby scent makes even the fresh night air smell better. I know that if it were possible to carry the memory of aromas with me to heaven, I’d take this one and Nate’s. They’re the two best scents in the world.

  Just as my knees begin to feel weak and strangely numb, I feel the big hands of my husband cup my shoulders from behind. So perceptive. So caring.

  “How about we take these inside with our little one?” He bends to brush his lips over the shell of my ear and chills break out, pebbling the flesh of my arms and legs. I know there’s one more thing I want from this night—to watch my child fall asleep in the glow of the lightning bugs.

  “Yeah, I’m ready.” I let Nate turn me back toward the house. I glance at my mother who’s standing just behind me with her arms wrapped around her body. I wonder if she’s cold or if she knows, too. “You’re staying, aren’t you, Momma? For a little while longer?”

  My mother nods in that closed-off way that she has. I can’t expect my mom to be one hundred percent the person she once was; I’m just happy that I get to see this much of the woman who raised me.

  “We’ll put Grace to bed and then be back out. Why don’t you and Nissa wait in the living room?”

  Again she nods, this time following quietly along behind us, as though she’s afraid to move too fast.

  Content that my mother is being included, that she isn’t going to demand that Nate take her back to the institution right away, I will my tired legs to move forward.

  Steadily, I make my way across the yard, over the patio and through the house, cradling my daughter tightly against my chest. I’m determined not to let her go, not to give this last bit of care over to my husband. I need this.

  One last time.

  When I bypass Grace’s room, Nate asks, “Where are we going?”

  “I want to hold her so we can watch the lightning bugs together. All three of us,” I answer simply, my voice breathy with my exertion.

  Once in our room, I hear Nate close the door. I walk to the bed and sit on its edge until my husband comes around to hold Grace while I situate myself on my side. When I’m comfortable, I hold out one arm, and Nate lays our daughter next to my chest. I curl around Grace, enveloping her with a mother’s love and warmth.

  I watch as Nate sets the glowing jar onto the nightstand and then positions the phone where he can record us all in the bed. When he’s finished, he climbs in behind us and pulls me and Grace into the curve of his body.

  “Take her to church, Nate. Promise me you’ll take her to church. Don’t let her be bitter like I was.”

  There is no hesitation in his response. “I promise.”

  “I want you both to be able to understand.”

  “Understand what?”

  “This kind of love,” I explain. “It changes everything. It’s why my father prayed like he did. It was for love, for me. I understood it the moment I knew I was pregnant with Grace. Instantly, I knew the kind of love my father had for our family and for me. That’s what’s in the jar. Not bugs or light, but tradition. Family. Love. My father wasn’t just playing with me or keeping up a summer ritual. He was filling my jar with his love.” I pause, sighing in relief, basking in the very love of which I speak, the magnitude of it. “That kind of love…it’s the kind that sends people in search of a God they stopped believing in. It’s the kind of love that keeps us going, makes us pray, gives us hope. The kind of love that saves us. You’ve given me that, Nate. You and Grace. You saved me. My jar was empty after my father died. Until I met you. You filled it up again. And I need to know that you’ll let Grace fill yours. I need to know that you’ll be okay when I’m gone.”

  When I’m gone.

  “Lena, I…” Nate’s voice is low and hoarse, like his throat is as bloody and inflamed as his heart.

  I wait wordlessly for him to finish. I can almost hear the battle taking place. He wants to argue that this isn’t the end, but he knows he can’t. He can’t argue the truth. This is the end. And we both know it. It’s in the air. In the calm. In the acceptance.

  What he chooses to say instead makes me smile.

  “You’re my peanut butter and waffles.”

  “Your what?”

  He nuzzles the back of my neck as he repeats his words. “My peanut butter and waffles. Only the most delicious breakfast creation since French toast. But I didn’t know that until I tried them. I had no idea what I was missing. But then, after that first bite, I didn’t know how I’d ever lived so long without them. Or how I could possibly live without them again. You’re the peanut butter and waffles of my life. I don’t know how I ever lived without you. Or how…” His words trail off as though he can’t get them out, as though some part of him still can’t bear to speak the words aloud.

  “Shhh, Nate. It’ll be okay. I promise.”

  Nate wraps his arms around me and squeezes. I wonder if he thinks that if he holds me tightly enough he can somehow keep death from stealing me away from him.

  But I know better. I know, and I believe that he does, too. Deep down.

  We enjoy one another for several minutes, reveling in the feel of what it’s like to be in each other’s arms, warm and safe and alive. A family. A whole family.

  Then, in the quiet sanctuary of the room we’ve shared for so much of our life together, I share with my family the end of a ritual that my father had started with me a lifetime ago.

  I feel in many ways that I’ve come full circle.

  Tracing a finger over my daughter’s sleeping profile, I whisper, “Goodnight, stars. Goodnight, moon. Goodnight, lightning bugs. Come again soon.”

  Holding fast to one another, the Grant family rests. In the silence that creeps in to fill the room, I hear the comforting familiarity of my husband’s voice. “I love you, Helena Grant. More than I’ve ever loved anything or anyone.” Although I hear the timber of his words shift and waver, crackling with emotion, I feel my lips curve in tranquil happiness.

  “As I have loved you, Nate,” I reply. “As I will always love you.”

  The soft flicker of firefly bellies, the joyous bundle in my arms, and the warm presence at my back
lull me away from reality and into the fluid recesses of my mind. Past and present mingle in a confusing cocktail of memories.

  I feel the vitality seep from my body, forced out by a fatigue I can no longer fight.

  I’m done.

  Finished.

  There are no words left unsaid, no deeds left undone. Nothing that has to be seen to before I give up my battle.

  I have only peace. Deep, soothing peace, like an endless midnight ocean that beckons me to come and float, to allow the current to sweep me away.

  And so I do.

  I let my mind stretch back to days gone by, to the beginning, and to the end, and I bask in reminiscence for as long as I can hold on.

  I let my mind drift…

  Twenty-five

  You give Love a Bad Name

  Lena

  Nineteen years ago

  “It’s hard to explain. It’s like there was just this instant connection between us. Like…sparks. It was awesome!” I exclaim, half-swooning as I remember the hot guy I met at the bank. My friend and coworker, Regan, laughs and rolls her eyes. I rush to add, “I know it sounds hokey as hell, but I’m serious.”

  Regan looks skeptical. “I’m sure you are. You’re also a drama queen.”

  I slap my friend’s arm playfully. “I am not!”

  “Ummm, are, too.”

  “Am not!”

  “Are, too, but let’s get to the important stuff like what was his name? Are you going to see him again? And does he look like he’d be good in bed?”

  “God, Regan!” I know I’m blushing furiously. While as a nurse I’m very comfortable with discussions about sex with patients, I’ve never been at ease discussing my own sex life. With anyone. “You think I could let him buy me dinner first, or should I just go back to the bank and jump his bones?”

  “If you’re really asking me, then…”

  “No, I’m not. I know exactly what you’d say.”

  We both laugh. Regan is the type that does exactly what she wants, when she wants. She explains herself to no one. Although I envy her bravado, I could never be quite as…free as Regan. It just isn’t in my DNA.

  “So? Are you going to see him again?”

  I sigh. “I doubt it. I mean, it’s not like we exchanged numbers or he asked me out or anything. I was there getting pre-approved for a loan for Pete’s sake. I’m sure he has more respect for his job than to hit on a customer.” I turn sheepish eyes up to my friend. “Dammit.”

  “Well, that just means you’ll have to drop by to ask him something else then. And you can ask him out.”

  “I don’t know. What if our moment was just in my head? What if it’s just desperation or wishful thinking or a nine-month dry spell affecting my brain?”

  Regan is no longer looking at me. Her eyes are trained at a point somewhere over my head.

  “Uh, Lena, tell me again what he looked like?”

  My mouth turns up at the corners, and I stare off into the distance as I think about the loan officer, Nathaniel.

  “He was gorgeous! Short, black hair, jewel green eyes. Jaw made of steel, strong chin. Lips to die for. A smile that would melt a woman’s ovaries at ten paces.”

  “Was he pretty tall?”

  “Very. At least six three or so. Wide, wide shoulders, narrow waist. He was wearing this suit… Charcoal with a white shirt and an emerald tie that was probably the exact color of his eyes. Jesus, he was beautiful.”

  My toes tingle with the memory.

  “And what did you say his name was?”

  “Nathaniel, I hope,” comes a velvety voice from behind me.

  I whirl around so fast, I nearly topple my chair. I come to a sudden stop when I meet the laughing jewel-like eyes I’d just been describing. The sexy loan officer I met the day before is standing at check-in, not two feet away, smiling at me.

  Good Lord, that smile!

  I sit, gape-mouthed, and stare at him for several seconds, my cheeks undoubtedly beet red. I say nothing, do nothing.

  I’m at a loss. A total and complete loss.

  Finally, it’s he who breaks the humiliating silence. And with a voice, I’d forgotten, feels like satin sheets sliding over my skin.

  “Was it?” he prompts when I continue to gawk mutely at him.

  “Was it what?”

  “Was his name Nathaniel?”

  Then it clicks. He heard my every word, or at least enough to make me want to die on the spot. “Oh God!” I moan, dropping my burning face into my suddenly-damp palms.

  Within seconds, long, cool fingers wrap around my wrists and tug gently. And for the second time in twenty-four hours, I’m struck by the nearly-tangible connection between us. It’s electric.

  Lightning down my spine.

  A buzz in my head.

  Tingling in my toes.

  It’s an invisible circuit that stretches from his body to mine, and someone is cranking up the energy.

  “It-it was,” I eventually manage to eke out from between my parched lips.

  “Good. I’d hate to think I was the only one who felt this.”

  “This?” I ask, dazed.

  Nathaniel’s thumbs brush the sensitive skin on the inside of my wrists, sending tiny shock waves ricocheting through me. “Yeah, this.”

  I let out a breathy laugh. I’m relieved and embarrassed and exhilarated and…giddy, all at once. “What are you doing here?”

  In the space of three unnerving heartbeats, it occurs to me that he might’ve come by to talk with me about my application. This visit might be work-related for him.

  If that’s the case…

  Somebody should just shoot me now.

  I’ll have to move. Change my name. At the very least I’ll have to go to another bank and apply because I’ll never be able to look this guy in the face again.

  And that would be unfortunate as hell!

  With his next words, however, I know I won’t have to worry about that.

  “I came here for you.”

  I came here for you.

  For you.

  He came here for me.

  My pulse flutters wildly for a few more seconds, but then, oddly, it settles down to a steady, heavy beat within my veins. Although I might be a tad prone to dramatics as Regan suggests, I’d swear that I can feel the presence of fate. Here. With me. Physically, like a reassuring hand on my shoulder.

  And just like that I know.

  Some part of me knows.

  One minute I’m a nervous, mortified mess and the next, I’m as calm and at home as I am with friends I’ve had for years. Suddenly, I feel as though I’ve known this man for most of my life.

  Or maybe that I will know him for the rest of it.

  Like the flip of a switch, I go from awkward to confident, from frenetic to flirtatious.

  A grin plays with the corners of my mouth, and I eye him through narrowed, teasing slits. “Do you do this for all your customers?”

  “Not a single one.”

  “Did you have to look up my name again?”

  “No. I didn’t forget it.”

  “Did you get lost on the way over here?”

  “No. I used GPS.”

  “Coke or Pepsi?”

  “Coke.”

  “Favorite time of the day?”

  “Right now.”

  I can’t help the smile that breaks out across my face or the way my belly flips over at his answer. “Do you like Bon Jovi?”

  “Love them.”

  “Favorite song of theirs?”

  “‘You Give Love a Bad Name’ because, at the moment, I’m feeling particularly shot through the heart.”

  I laugh at that. “If I ask you to dinner, will I have to fill out another loan application due to conflict of interest?”

  “If you do, I’ll help you.”

  “What’s your favorite kind of food?”

  “Anything that doesn’t include raw fish.”

  “Pick me up at seven?”

  “Only if you
’re okay with goodnight kisses at the beginning of a date.”

  I beam. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  “Then I’ll see you at seven.”

  With that, Nathaniel, the hot loan officer, releases his hold on me, but even then, I doubt he’ll ever release his hold on my heart. I can feel him digging in, maybe to stay. Forever.

  I sure hope that’s the case, because I’ve never looked forward to seven o’clock so much in my life.

  Twenty-six

  Something for the Pain

  Nate

  I sit on the edge of the bed I’ve always shared with my wife, and I listen to her mumble. It sounds like she’s recounting parts of the conversation we had the day I’d gone to ask her out.

  Despite the boulder that has settled over my chest, I smile at the memory.

  I’d taken a chance that day. I’d known I could be written up if Lena had found my behavior inappropriate and decided to report me, but I was young and cocky and thought it was worth the risk. At least that’s what I told myself on the drive over to the clinic where she worked.

  And I was right.

  It had been.

  Nineteen years ago, I met the girl of my dreams. She walked right through the door of my first job and explained that she wanted to get pre-approved for a home loan. I watched her eyes sparkle as she spoke proudly of landing her first job as a nurse practitioner. I listened to the excitement in her voice as she explained that she wanted to buy a small house rather than renting an apartment. I smiled at the animated way she used her hands when she talked. And with every minute that ticked by, I wanted more and more to ask her out. She was beautiful, smart, and there was something about her that drew me like a bee to honey.

  It wasn’t only that she was gorgeous, which she was. It wasn’t only that she had brains, which she obviously did. It was something else, something I couldn’t put my finger on.

  I can now, though.

  She was the one.

  The one.

  I’d known from the moment I met her that she was it. Something in my gut told me. Something in the way I wanted to smile when she smiled. Something in the way I wanted to know everything about her. Something in the way I needed to see her again. Needed to.