by M. Leighton
“Yeah. She was a good friend to your mom. And she’s been good to both of us over the years.”
“Maybe you should take it easy on her, Daddy,” Grace advises. “I think she’s empty nesting. I’m the last of us to go off and get married, you know.”
The last of us.
Grace grew up with Nissa’s children. It was like having a ready-made family. They love each other like siblings. I know if Lena could see how it all turned out, she’d be pleased.
Thrilled, even.
I can almost see her smile…
“Daddy?”
“What? Oh, right. Yeah, I’ll take it easy on her. As long as she doesn’t send you to Rome with stripper clothes.”
Grace gives me her brightest, most Lena-like smile and tells me as she’s walking away, “I make no promises.”
I just shake my head and watch her go.
********
Rome.
Jesus, I think silently when I unlock the hotel room door and step inside. The rush of emotion hits me like a physical blow. I can practically smell Lena.
Shaken, I wonder if it was an enormous miscalculation on my part to think I could handle staying in the beautiful suite I shared with my wife all those years ago. I’d thought I might feel comforted, might feel her presence stronger, but this…
I stumble forward and drop down onto the closest chair, a Queen Anne-style one sitting at the edge of the living area. The room has been redecorated, but it’s still so much the same that when I glance up at the window, I can envision with disturbing clarity my wife standing there, looking out at the incredible view. I feel closer to her all right, but I also feel closer to the loss of her. Like it just happened, the anguish of it that poignant.
It staggers me.
Or maybe it daggers me.
Right through the heart.
An increasingly familiar pain ripples behind my breastbone, and I fist my hand in my shirt right over my heart. I squeeze my eyes shut. I wish I knew exactly how many days, weeks, months, or years it will be before I’m reunited with my wife. Maybe that would make it easier, knowing. Seeing an end in sight.
Or a beginning.
I don’t want to hurt my sweet Grace, but she’s grown up now. She’ll be busy with her own life. She doesn’t need the added worry of her old man clogging up the smooth runnings of her existence.
I’d love to see how she ends up, see her children, see her become even more like her mother, but I also miss my Lena. Still miss her so, so much.
As soon as the discomfort eases, I rise to unpack the laptop I brought. I power it on and pull up the extensive photo and video collection it holds. I find what I’m looking for quickly—the folder simply labeled LENA.
Scrolling through, I find the range of dates I’m looking for then I scan that section for the one entry in particular. When I spot it, I click to open it.
It’s a short video of my wife speaking to our daughter. At the time, I’d been asleep in the other room of this suite. Unbeknownst to me, she’d just found out she was pregnant and had already begun recording messages to the child she wasn’t sure she’d even be able to bring into the world. If she’d asked me then, on that very day, I would have told her that I had no doubt she could. And would. To this day, I’ve never met a stronger person than my Lena.
Circling the pointer over the play button for several seconds, I take two deep breaths before I click it. There’s a slight pause, and then I see my wife appear on the screen in front of me, big as life and twice as stunning. Behind her, framed by the window like an expensive painting, is the Trinità dei Monti. I know that if I walk over and pull back the curtain, I’ll see the exact same view, right down to the angle. If I’m careful enough, I could probably even stand where she stood. I won’t do that, though. I won’t risk giving that scene, that moment, her moment any other meaning.
It was Lena’s.
And Grace’s.
I realize, however, that I would’ve given anything to see her standing where she stood. Right now. Even just one more time.
Exhaling loudly, my eyes scan my beautiful wife’s face as she begins to speak. Her happiness, her pregnancy, her burgeoning hope was already showing in the faint pink of her cheeks. Although I’ve watched every millisecond of footage at least two thousand times over the years, it never stops my arms from breaking out in chills when I first hear her voice. It’s as though she’s in the room with me.
Only she isn’t.
She never will be again.
And that loss, that cold, hard realization never fails to crush me anew.
“Hello, my beautiful child,” she croons softly, smiling into the camera. “I just found out about you today. I don’t know if I’ll ever get to see you to tell you this in person, but I hope you get to see this. I want you to know that you made me so happy today. You changed everything. For the better. Already. I don’t even know if you’ll be a boy or a girl, but I feel complete today.
“I’ve wanted you for all of my life. I’ve dreamed of feeling you kick for the first time. I’ve dreamed of holding you in my arms for the first time. I’ve dreamed of what your face might look like—your smile, your hands, your little feet. You’ll be perfect, I know. I know in my heart that you’ll be the most perfect thing in the world. The best thing I’ve ever done. And I’ll die happy if I can see you just one time before I go.” I can see where Lena was trying not to cry, and my gut twists. “I love you. Today. Tomorrow. Always.”
I watch the screen long after Lena’s face has disappeared. As I always do when I replay the videos, I feel so homesick I’m nearly nauseous with it. But it doesn’t stop me from hitting play over and over and over again. It’s the best kind of homesick I can think of. And the pain, while it still hurts, it’s less sharp than it once was. Time truly does heal.
But it can’t make me forget her. And it can’t take away my desire to be with her again.
Nothing can.
Finally, some time later, I stand and kick off my shoes. Carrying the laptop, I walk into the bedroom and stretch out on the bed. Lazily, I search for one of Lena’s longer videos, and I hit play.
The last thing I see before I doze off is my wife’s striking face, her laugh ringing in my ears.
********
A more incredible wedding ceremony I can’t imagine. The flowers, the cathedral, the music, the atmosphere…it’s like one of the fairy tales I used to read to my precious baby girl when she was just a few years old.
I might be a tad biased, but I also think the bride is the most breathtaking sight I’ve ever seen. Aside from her mother, of course.
Grace and Lena… The two could’ve been twins. Or at least really similar sisters. The resemblance is uncanny. The biggest differences are Grace’s chin, which has a touch of me in it, and the shade of her hair. It’s a darker blonde than her mother’s. Otherwise, she is Lena made over.
From the beginning, I prayed that she would be. I wanted, needed to see Lena after she died. It was the one request I’d been granted. It makes it hard to look at my daughter sometimes, but impossible to look away. And today is no exception.
Pride and a bittersweet mixture of love and loneliness well in the center of me when my little girl appears in the doorway across the vestibule. She crosses slowly toward me and then stops a few inches away.
“You ready?” she asks. Her eyes are sparkling like pale chocolate diamonds, and her cheeks are flushed with the glow of pure happiness. I remember what that feels like, and I hope my only child can have the privilege of enjoying that for several decades to come.
“You look…exquisite. I can’t believe this is my baby Grace standing in front of me. You look so grown up. So much like your mother.” As much as I try not to tear up, I can’t stop the moisture that floods my eyes. I blink through the burn as I smile down at my daughter. “I wish she could be here to see you.”
“I do, too, Daddy.”
For a few seconds, the world falls quiet around us, allowing father a
nd daughter to share their pain, to remember the person missing from such a joyous occasion.
I’ve known this day would be hard. I’ve expected it. Nothing has ever been exactly perfect since Lena died. I’ve had some near-perfect moments with this child of mine, fun times with family and friends, but there is always something missing. From every room, from every event, from every sunset and sunrise, there is always something missing.
My wife.
My other half.
My Lena.
When the music on the other side of the doors changes, Grace takes a deep breath and laces her arm through mine, turning me toward the aisle. That’s our cue.
“You might be giving me away, Daddy, but I’ll never be far.” I pat my baby’s hand, love overflowing the confines of my heart. Much like Lena, Grace always manages to take care of me. Even though it’s I who’s been supposed to take care of her, our roles have been reversed in some ways, right from the start. Her laugh picks me up, her voice soothes me, her presence gives me purpose, and often, her words speak directly to my soul. It’s as though she knows what I’m thinking and feeling, and she seeks to comfort me.
Just like Lena.
The majestic double doors part slowly. The dramatic display further lends itself to the feeling of being in a living fairy tale. I want nothing less for my saving Grace.
Squaring my shoulders, I face the church that stretches out in front of me.
The ceremony is traditional and touching. I’m absolutely certain that I’ll still feel the beauty of it until the day I take my last breath.
The reception is as lively as one would expect it to be in Italy. More people show up for it than I expected, but I’m pleased for Grace’s sake. She seems to be having the time of her life. My only hope is that things will get better and better for her. Minute after minute, day after day. Year after year.
The wine flows freely, the laughter rings loudly, and happiness is the theme of the day. Conversation is easy, and my daughter is perfection flitting around in her off-white Stella McCartney wedding dress that had given me sticker shock for a month and a half. But now I can see that it was worth it.
My Grace…she is worth everything.
Just before nine, an unusual fatigue begins to plague me. No matter how tired I am, though, I refuse to excuse myself early. I wouldn’t miss throwing birdseed (Grace didn’t want the birds to choke on rice) at the newlyweds for all the hours of sleep in the world.
Hours later, as I fling my lacy pouch of pellets, I’m especially grateful that I powered through when I see Grace depart from the line of well-wishers and head straight for me. She already nearly knocked Nissa over, sending Nissa into a flurry of sniffling half-laugh, half-crying hiccups. Now it’s my turn. And I can’t be sure I won’t react the same way. Wouldn’t that give my Gracie something funny to remember?
With shimmering eyes, I watch her hurl herself toward me and throw her slight body into my arms. It’s another moment I know will be forever seared into my brain. The way she smells, the way Rome sounds, the way I wish Lena was here.
“Thank you for today, Daddy. I couldn’t have asked for a better father. You’re more than any girl could possibly deserve.”
My heart swells and pulses with adoration.
“I love you, pipsqueak,” I say gruffly, using another of my favorite nicknames for her, determined not to embarrass us both by crying.
I’ve had many pet names for her over the years. Grace loved having her dad call her different things. When she took an interest in something, it somehow ended up being part of the new name she chose for herself, like the year she discovered squirrels. We’d watched an animated movie together where the main character was a squirrel named Pipsqueak. Grace had demanded that I refer to her only as Pipsqueak for weeks. I was glad to see that phase go, and only a few of the names withstood the test of time. Pipsqueak was one of them, though. And during her teenage years, I’d enjoyed using it to tease her. It had quickly become one of my favorites. And hers again after she grew up a little more.
“Love you, Dad.”
Grace kisses my cheek, and I tug at the long blonde tresses that fall down her back. Reluctantly, I let her go when she pulls away to go and rejoin her new husband.
That might be the hardest part of the whole night—letting her go.
But I did it.
I let my baby go.
I have to, and I know it. I can’t keep her around to fend off the suffocating silence that fills the house when she isn’t there. I can’t keep her around to help distract me from the grief that still gnaws at my soul when it’s too quiet or my mood is just right. I can’t keep her around to keep me from falling apart. She needs her own life, and I want her to have it, even if it means heartache on my part.
“Grace!” I call before she ducks her head into the waiting limo. Her head pops up, and her light brown eyes meet mine. “I left something at the hotel front desk for you.”
“Daddy!” She gives me the look that says You already spent too much money!
I wave her off. “It’s not expensive. Just something I wanted you to have as you started off on your life.”
She nods and blows me a kiss. In my head, I catch it and tuck it into the space closest to my heart, right beside the place where Lena still lives.
Where she will always live.
I don’t wait for the crowd to thin before I make my hasty exit. I don’t doubt that people will stay and party, enjoying the music and the bar until the wee hours, but I’ve already paid the service to take care of everything, so I’m comfortable retiring for the night.
Stuffing my empty hands into the pockets of my tuxedo pants, I stroll slowly along the curb, back toward the hotel.
The street still teeming with people, I’m far from alone, yet I’ve never felt more isolated. More lonely.
I take in the sights.
Remember.
Think.
Mourn.
It’s such a bittersweet day, it seems that’s all I can do. Everything will change now. Again. Only Lena’s not here to save me this time. And neither is Grace.
By the time I arrive at the hotel, I’m unbearably exhausted. It’s been a busy day. Another turning point in my life.
I ride the elevator to my floor and walk to my room on rubbery legs. Once inside, I cross to the window and look out at the view, the view that frames my wife’s head on the video I watched earlier. Alone, in the void of the room and the emptiness of my life, I give in to the urge to weep. I don’t do it often, but sometimes…
I make no sound.
I make no move.
My body doesn’t shake or tremble. It simply bleeds clear drops of liquid that spew from my heart, but leak from my eyes.
I’m tired. So, so tired. I’ve done what I promised my wife I’d do—I raised our daughter. I’ve been there for her, provided for her, loved her, supported her, and now I’ve given her away. I finished my race, and now I just want my prize.
Lena.
A deep, excruciating pressure grips my chest. I gasp once, twice, and in that time, I know that this is something different. This pain…it means something else.
I feel no fear or uncertainty. I feel no sadness or regret. I feel only peace. Beautiful, blissful, warm peace.
I turn from the window and stumble to the couch. I collapse onto the soft cushions and lean my head back, closing my eyes against the pain radiating into my left arm and jaw. Moments later, when I open them again, I’m not surprised to see the most beautiful face of my sixty-five years of existence. Her face is within inches of mine. Close enough to touch.
My Lena.
I smile and reach out a hand, every molecule in my body sighing in relief. “Hi, baby. I’ve missed you so much.”
Epilogue
Grace
In the attic, one day in the future
As I cradle the old Mason jar, my eyes mist over with tears, the remains of a sadness I never quite overcame. The night of my wedding, my father had a m
assive heart attack. He died in the hotel room that he’d shared with my mother decades prior. It was fitting.
I know he loved me. More than anything on Earth, he loved me. But I also know he welcomed death. He’d always felt separated from the other part of his soul. I didn’t understand that at first—the agony he seemed to live with every day—but after I’d been married for a while, I finally came to see why he felt that way. My dad’s heartache lessened over time, but it never quite went away.
Until he died.
Then he was at peace.
I drag my bent thumb over the inscription on the bottom of the jar.
I love you, baby girl. More than I could ever tell you. Don’t go to bed with dirty feet or an empty jar. Say your prayers every night, and never stop chasing the lightning bugs.
My sweet daddy.
I recall the first time I saw it. Dad had left it for me at our hotel on the night of our wedding. It was a brand new Mason jar at the time. It had been heavily wrapped in tissue paper with a note taped to the front that said, “Although this jar is brand new, it’s not empty. You started filling it tonight, Gracie. All your wedding memories are in here. Keep filling it up. Every day, fill it up as you fill up your life—with happiness and love and family. All the beauty of yesterday and all the promises of tomorrow are kept in here. It will never be empty as long as you have love. Never. So go and start your own traditions, but never forget the old ones. Love you, baby girl. Be happy.”
Catching lightning bugs in a jar—he’d kept that one going for my mother. And I kept it going for my kids. From the beginning, Robbie and I caught fireflies with our children. Those memories are some of my most precious. Robbie and I watching our children and our grandchildren fill this jar with laughter and bugs and family tradition. The beauty, the importance of this simple glass container is something I didn’t understand until I got older. It’s about so much more than just fun summer nights. It’s about life. And priorities.
It’s about love.