Because You're the Love of My Life

by Sarah Kleck

  The kisses aren’t as wild and passionate, but they have a thousand shades. There are warm kisses waking up, mint kisses after brushing teeth, cold sticky kisses over ice cream in summer. There are “I’m late” kisses and sleepy “I made you coffee” kisses. There are “Sleep well” kisses and “You’re so sweet when you’re clumsy” kisses. There are “Because animals and children love you” kisses and “Because you helped the woman in the wheelchair get on the bus” kisses.

  You don’t post “I love you” notes everywhere in your home but instead laugh about silly inside jokes. You’re no longer on cloud nine but you create your own little world.

  Relationships are not like fairy tales. There is no happily ever after. No everlasting burn of passion. But there is the calm, steady rhythm of two hearts beating in harmony.

  It no longer feels like fireworks—but it feels like home. Shelter.

  “May I?” I asked the driver.

  When he nodded, I rolled down the window to let the spring air flow over my face. I closed my eyes and felt the wind in my hair. I had immediately booked the first flight to Boston, squeezed the essentials into my suitcase, and called the cab that was taking me to the airport now.

  “Where are you going?” the cabbie asked, grinning at my head-out-of-the-window act.

  “Home,” I answered, “just home.”

  Chapter 25

  When I woke up, I rubbed my eyes and stretched. Well, as far as my economy-class seat would allow. How long had I slept? I had lost sense of time. I absentmindedly reached for my jacket and felt in the pockets until I found my phone. It was 9:30 p.m. in Seattle, so 12:30 a.m. in Boston. That astonished me. Shouldn’t we have landed by now? I rummaged a little more around in my pockets and finally pulled out the plane ticket. Yes, time of arrival in Boston was supposed to be 11:55 p.m. We were half an hour late and, as far as I could tell, we hadn’t even started to descend. I looked around and noticed that the other passengers, if they weren’t asleep, appeared strangely anxious, even afraid. What was going on?

  My neighbor to the right, a fifty-something Brit named Linda, with whom I’d briefly chatted before the plane took off, tried to get the flight attendant’s attention with an insistent “Miss, Miss.” The attendant walked up and down the aisle with an unusually rushed step, only to disappear in the flight cabin occasionally. The boy behind me babbled excitedly with his mother; the two elderly women in front of me looking around in all directions. Somehow, everyone seemed tense.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” the pilot’s voice came through the PA system. “At this time, we cannot land in Boston, as scheduled, for safety reasons.”

  “For safety reasons? What is that supposed to mean?” Linda asked in a high-pitched tone.

  “Our alternative airport is Norwood Memorial,” the pilot continued. “Shuttle buses will be waiting for you.”

  “What does safety reasons mean?” Linda wanted to know, grabbing a passing flight attendant by the arm.

  “I . . . I unfortunately don’t have the details,” she answered though the expression in her face said something completely different. She knew exactly what was going on. And she seemed frightened. She freed herself with a sudden jerk from Linda’s grip, then turned to the other passengers.

  “Please keep calm,” she pleaded. “You will be given more information as soon as we have landed in Norwood.”

  Linda started to lose it. “What is going on? Tell us what is going on!” she screamed.

  “There is no reason to get upset,” the attendant said, though it seemed obvious that she, too, was upset. “Please remain in your seat and fasten your seat belt. We will start our descent in a few moments.”

  I felt frozen. I reached for the ends of the seat belt and buckled up. Whatever was going on, it was serious.

  “Do you think there’s a bomb on board?” the man to my left whispered while Linda began hyperventilating.

  “Please calm down,” the attendant said to her as if reciting from a script.

  “One thing is for sure,” the man said, “either we’re a danger to the airport or the airport is a danger to us.”

  “What do you mean?” I only realized how afraid I was when I heard my voice.

  “Well, either we have the problem on board,” he made air quotation marks with his fingers when he said problem, “or something is wrong down there.”

  That moment, a young woman leaped up, held her cell phone high, and shouted, “There’s been an attack!”

  “Where?” someone asked.

  “At Boston Logan International Airport.”

  My eyes felt dry. With every blink the lids scratched against my eyeballs.

  “No,” I said again and again, shaking my head. Incessantly, like a robot.

  “No. No. No.”

  “Annie,” Grace’s voice was so tender. She took my hand.

  “No!” I said decisively. My No seemed more like a command than a simple denial. Like I could give orders to fate. As if I could forbid death to take my husband. My Holden.

  “No!”

  “Annie.” Tears streamed down Grace’s beautiful face. Her grip on my hand became firmer. Even firmer. Then she tugged on my arm.

  “Annie, please. Pull yourself together,” she pleaded.

  I shook my head undeterred. “No. It cannot be. It must not be.”

  I didn’t know how long we’d been repeating this routine. Perhaps hours, perhaps days. Days in which my mind refused to believe what my soul already knew. I knew it because it felt as if someone had torn the heart from my chest and left nothing there but a bleeding, gaping wound. A deep black hole. Nothing but emptiness. Just the echo of all the feelings I’d once been capable of. “No. No. No.” I repeated the word like a mantra. As if by saying it often enough, I would undo what had happened.

  “Annie, listen to me.” Grace tugged my arm so hard, she almost tore it from its socket. She grabbed my chin with her other hand, forcing me to look at her. There were tears in her eyes.

  My vision blurred. It was almost impossible to focus.

  “Annie, pull yourself together,” Grace demanded, her long fingers digging into my jaw.

  But I turned my eyes away. “No.” I shook my head. If I stopped denying it, it would become true—and it all would be over. The love we felt for each other, the life we had built together . . . all of that would be over.

  “Wake up, Annie.” Grace brushed her fingers over my hair. She gently smiled at me. “The time has come.”

  I blinked, then stared at the ceiling.

  The time has come . . .

  Today is the day . . .

  Today would be Holden’s funeral.

  It had been four days since a group of heavily armed terrorists had stormed the Boston airport, shot off semi-automatic rifles, and ignited three bombs four and a half minutes apart. One at Security, another in Departures, and the third in Arrivals. They were dead. Every single person waiting there to pick someone up was dead. Holden was dead.

  When the realization began to enter my awareness, I closed my mind. Against truth. Against pain. Deep inside I knew the pain would crush me if I let it in. It would grind me up. I closed my eyes, didn’t want to see, hear, feel anything. I just wanted to sleep.

  “You have to get up,” Grace said decidedly and pulled me up. I let it happen. She led me to the bathroom, put me in the bathtub, and washed me like a mother would her toddler. She dried and brushed my hair, then helped me get dressed. The black dress I’d worn when Seth and I . . .

  “Not that one,” I said.

  Grace looked at me intensely. They were the first sensible words I’d said in days.

  “OK,” she quickly said, jumped up and opened the doors of my closet.

  “This one?” She held up a black wool dress.

  I nodded, and she pulled it over my head.

  The doorbell rang.

  “Back in a sec,” Grace said as she rushed out.

  In my numbness, I could do nothing but sit on my bed. I t
hought I heard my parents and Corinne’s voices. There was another voice, one I knew but couldn’t quite place.

  I heard them discuss whether to give me a sedative for the funeral. In the end, they decided against it because I was already completely out of it and was as good as unapproachable. Grace feared it would completely knock me out.

  “Best you drive ahead,” she said to my parents and Corinne. “I don’t want to burden her too much.”

  Brief murmuring and whispering followed, then the door shut, and it turned quiet.

  Grace was with me again in an instant. “Come, let’s go.”

  I didn’t really notice how many people had come to honor Holden. Known and unknown faces—they all blurred into a surreal backdrop.

  Grace had one arm on top of mine and the other was around my shoulder. I didn’t get what the minister said. Occasionally, I heard my name in association with the words the beloved wife of the deceased.

  That’s what I’d become, the beloved wife of the deceased. The damn minister didn’t have a clue. He neither knew Holden nor me. He knew nothing about our marriage, its ups and downs, the hurt we inflicted on each other, nothing about how much we’d loved each other.

  Beloved wife of the deceased. I inadvertently clenched my hands into fists. What did this dumb sermonizer think? He knew nothing! Nothing at all!

  I only noticed my knees were shaking when everything around me began to sway.

  “Is everything alright?” Grace whispered in my ear.

  Is everything alright? Was she serious?!

  My husband is dead—nothing will ever be alright!

  I would have preferred to scream at her. But my mouth had obviously forgotten how to speak. Let alone shout at anybody.

  When the coffin was lowered, the air filled with crying and moaning. That made me angrier than I’d ever been in my life.

  Who did these assholes think they were wailing about here? This was my loss. I had lost my husband. Those hypocrites would then go home, delight once more in front of the mirror over how good they looked in black, and then go on with their lives. Business as usual—as if nothing had happened. As if Holden had never existed.

  My legs gave way. Grace tried to keep me upright as well as she could but wasn’t strong enough. Someone was suddenly by my side. Strong arms pushed under my arms and held me up without effort. A cry pierced the silence. A heartbreaking, bone-chilling cry. I needed a while to understand that it was me who had cried. A hard chest pushed against my back.

  “Calm down!” a firm male voice ordered. I recognized it. Colin.

  He held me with superhuman strength, pressed my arms firmly against my body while I raged, screamed, and flailed. I managed to free my arms and dug my fingernails into my cheeks, scratching my face until it burned. I only hazily noticed the pitying looks people gave me as they walked by.

  Colin held me as I shattered into a million pieces. My breathing became faster, shallower.

  “Look at me,” Colin turned me around, his fingers like vice grips on my shoulders.

  I hyperventilated, felt as if I were suffocating.

  “Look at me, Annie! Look at me.”

  Somehow, I managed to lift my eyes. Not a bit of oxygen reached my lungs.

  “Calm down,” he said again, now sounding gentler.

  Grace reached for her phone. “Calm down,” she said, holding her phone to her ear.

  “Hello. We need an ambulance. My friend is having . . .” She looked at me, “an attack. She’s having trouble breathing, and it looks like she’s about to pass out. Yes. Copp’s Hill Cemetery. Please hurry.”

  I desperately tried again to breathe.

  “Calm down. They’ll be here in a minute.”

  Colin held my shaking body. It still felt as if my windpipe was blocked. I still couldn’t breathe. I felt my eyes roll, then it turned dark.

  The first thing I felt was the grass under my cheek. I opened my eyes. My eyelids were fluttering.

  “What?” I tried to sit up.

  “Stay right there. Don’t move,” an unfamiliar voice ordered. I needed a few seconds to bring her face into focus. Two paramedics were bent over me. One was working on my arm. I had an needle in my vein and a bag of IV fluids above me. The unmistakable sound of Velcro being torn open told me the second paramedic was taking the blood pressure sleeve off my other arm.

  “She’s going into shock,” one of the paramedics said. “We’re taking her to the hospital.”

  A warm, tingling sensation spread through my arteries.

  My breathing obeyed, and I felt oxygen in my lungs. A moment of rest followed in which I regained my breath. Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out. The only thought my brain was capable of. Again, everything turned dark around me.

  “She’s waking up!” I heard Grace’s excited voice.

  Holden is dead.

  That was my first thought. What I’d tried to deny with all my strength now hit me with its full force.

  My husband is dead.

  Waves of pain broke over me, pulled me down. Desperation welled up inside me and came out as a stream of hot tears. The salt burned on my scratched skin.

  Grace wrapped her arms around me, and as I sobbed, my tears dripped on Grace’s shoulder. She said nothing for a while. Just held me.

  “It’ll get better,” she eventually whispered. “The day will come when it won’t hurt as much as the day before.” She took a deep breath. Breathed with me. “It’ll get better. I promise.”

  Her words were comforting but she’d expressed what I feared most. Forgetting Holden. Having his memory fade. His face, the scent of his skin, the arch of his lips, the little scar over his right ear. These things would begin to disappear on the day when it didn’t hurt as much as before. Life would go on. But without Holden.

  The door opened, a strawberry-blonde woman with attentive eyes and a white coat entered.

  Grace immediately jumped up. “What’s wrong with her?” she asked as soon as the doctor was at my bedside.

  “I’d prefer to discuss that with Ms. Crane alone.”

  Grace was stumped. At first she looked annoyed, then offended, but finally she left the room without protesting.

  Dr. Anderson—that’s what the stitching on her coat said—waited until the door was closed, then turned to me. “We did a few tests,” she started. “Your iron and potassium levels are low, which means you need to increase your fluid intake.”

  I frowned. “Drink more? Is that it?” She really didn’t have to send Grace out to tell me that.

  “No. We also routinely do a pregnancy test with this blood work. Your hCG result is elevated.”

  I looked at her in disbelief.

  “You’re pregnant,” the doctor said, obviously thinking I hadn’t gotten it yet.

  I wanted to say something but couldn’t make a sound. All I could do was stare at her. It felt as if she’d slapped me.

  Dr. Anderson cleared her throat awkwardly. “I’ll refer you to an OB/GYN for additional tests.”

  She knew from my medical records that I was suffering from post-traumatic stress caused by my husband’s death. Grace had spelled it all out in precise detail when I was brought in. The doctor knew, and that was probably the reason why she suppressed the obligatory Congratulations! However, there was one thing she didn’t know. That I’d cheated on Holden. That I’d slept with someone else. No one knew. No one other than Seth, Holden, and me. Not even Grace. As soon as that thought entered my awareness, the unspeakable sadness that had been my faithful companion of recent days lowered itself over me as a terrible mixture of shame and desperation.

  “We’ll do an ultrasound, then we’ll know more,” the doctor said in that professional, almost authoritarian tone that is almost exclusively used by medical and legal professionals.

  She took her phone from her chest pocket. “This is Anderson calling from the ER. I have a patient for OB/GYN.” She listened, then nodded. “Crane, Anna-Marie. Yes. Elevated hCG.” She leaf
ed in my records. “Dizziness, fainting, nausea, weight loss, and suspected PTSD.” Her forehead furrowed. “Good. Who’s on call? OK. I’ll send her over.” She put the phone back into her pocket.

  “You’ll be on your way to gynecology in a moment. I’m headed that way myself. I’ll go with you.”

  I hadn’t said a word so far. The first thing I managed to say was a subdued “Thank you” when she helped me on my wobbly legs. She had me sit in a wheelchair in the dreary hallway and rolled me past a disbelieving Grace toward gynecology. In the fog of my confusion, I couldn’t understand what Grace called after me. When we arrived, I let myself be lifted from the wheelchair like a zombie.

  “Hello, I’m Dr. Edward Conner.” A gray-haired doctor with a Texan accent and a friendly face with smile lines extended his hand toward me. “I’ll be examining you. Please lie down.”

  I lay down on the examination table and put my feet in the stirrups. The doctor inserted the ultrasound sensor and started the exam. I was silent for several minutes trying to understand what had happened. Then, after a torturous eternity, my brain finally formulated the critical question: “How long have I been pregnant?”

  “You’re in . . . let me have a closer look.” Dr. Conner pressed a button on his ultrasound unit, drew a line across the screen, and pressed the button again as if he were measuring something. “You’re in your seventeenth week. The due date is . . .”

  “Seventeenth week,” I said. Seventeen weeks—I didn’t have to calculate.

  It was Holden’s child.

  “There you see its little heart. Beating away.”

  I was pregnant. With Holden’s baby.

  “The amount of amniotic fluid is good. The development is on schedule. The—” The doctor interrupted himself. “Mrs. Crane?”

  “Yes?” I felt as if I were drugged.

  “Don’t you want to have a look?” he asked.

  I blinked. Have a look? Look at what, I thought. Then I realized he meant the small screen that showed my, no, our child.

  I swallowed and looked up. My eyes carefully moved toward the gray shades on the monitor. But I saw it. Saw the little creature in my belly, its tiny arms and legs wiggling. The strong, regular beat of the tiny heart . . .