by Karen Rock
“What happened to Mister I-don’t-believe-in-wishes?” John wheeled closer and ruffled Scout’s ears.
Eli shrugged. He picked off the candles and dropped them on a paper plate. “Guess I’ve seen the light.”
“So, what’d you wish for, Dad?” Becca asked, grabbing hold of Tommy’s finger as it inched toward the cake.
When the lights came back up, his eyes leveled on Christie.
“Something I can’t live without.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
THE NEXT MORNING, Eli rested his ankle on a waist-high step and touched his toes, stretching his hamstring. He switched legs and felt the now-familiar twinge in his knee. It had been bothering him for a week and seemed to be worsening. But he was getting older. Thirty-five. His body was bound to have its aches and pains, especially now that he was running again.
Straightening, he pulled a heel toward his tailbone but skipped the other, sore leg. No sense in pushing it. He didn’t want anything to stop his jog with Christie. A thrill shot through him as he pictured her rounding the corner of the Korean market. He peered into the fog lifting from the black pavement, knowing it was too early but wishing she was here just the same.
Last night she’d come so close to opening up. Admitting her feelings. He wished they’d had more time to talk, but the party hadn’t been the right time. Besides, they needed to think things through. It was one thing to own up to their emotions and another to decide what to do with them, especially given his circumstances and her past.
The low wail of an ambulance sounded in the distance. A reminder, if there ever was one, to proceed with caution.
If he could guarantee his future, he’d be relentless in his pursuit. She was everything he’d ever wanted. His old self would have pulled out all the stops to woo her, sweep her off her feet and turn her life into a fairy tale.
But they’d lived through too much darkness to easily find that light together. They’d have to go slow.
The ambulance pulled onto his street and shocked him by coming to a halt before his building. The driver cut the siren but left on the rotating blue, red and white lights. Had there been an accident? His heart thudded. He knew all the tenants and had seen most of them at his party. Everyone had looked well and was in good health. All except—
“John!” he yelled, bolting up the stairs. His knee buckled, and the rough stone cut into his tender knee when he went down.
“Eli!” Christie emerged from the fog, her eyes wide. She dashed to his side as he stumbled to his feet.
“What apartment do you need?” he asked the medics as they hefted a mobile gurney to the door. Not 3B. Not 3B. Please don’t say 3B.
“3B. But there’s no rush.”
Air whooshed from his lungs. No rush. That must be good, relatively. Maybe John had slipped, hurt a hip. Bad enough. But still. It could be a lot worse. Eli turned the key and held open the door. The sight of Christie’s frozen, pale form halted his move to follow them.
“Don’t you want to see John? Make sure he’s all right?”
She shook her head, her green eyes awash in tears.
Eli cupped her shoulders. “John’s okay, isn’t he? They said there wasn’t any rush.” He glanced inside and watched the medics lug the stretcher across the foyer. His gaze darted back to Christie.
Her nostrils flared as her chest rose and fell. “There’s only one reason techs don’t hurry. And it’s not a good one.”
His head, angled forward to catch her soft words, snapped back. No. No freaking way. She wasn’t suggesting that John might be—
His gut sank.
A hole opened in his chest as he plunged through the door, Christie following.
Beside the elevator, the techs leaned on the portable bed and spoke about last night’s Yankees game, how well they’d played, what the season’s prospects were. But they said nothing...absolutely nothing...about a medical emergency. His world tilted, its polarity reversed. He leaned a hand against the wall to steady himself. Christie was right.
John was dead.
The elevator opened and the men maneuvered the stretcher vertically into the cramped interior. The metal cage grated shut and the gold-colored doors closed behind them.
A sob so quiet it could have been the wind sounded to his right. Christie. He’d been so focused on himself he’d lost track of her. In two steps he closed the space between them and pulled her into his arms. She pillowed her head between his shoulder and neck and he stroked her trembling back.
They stood in silence, arms wrapped around each other, hearts beating fast. What had happened? Last night John seemed great. He’d played piano, told jokes, asked out Rosaline. And hadn’t his last medical report been good?
Eli jerked away and paced, every second feeling like a minute and every minute an eternity. Why were they taking so long? He knew in his gut Christie was right, but he needed to see John himself. He swallowed hard. Hadn’t he promised John he’d be there with him at the end? They’d made a pact and he’d let his buddy down.
Voices sounded from above as the men bore a stretcher down the stairs. A black, zippered bag that looked improbably small for what it contained was strapped to its surface. He rubbed his pounding temples. So this was it. How it ended. At least he knew what to expect.
The elevator sounded and John’s daughter-in-law stepped out. He’d forgotten she’d been caring for him since his stroke.
“Do I ride with you to the hospital and finish the paper work there?” she asked the men, holding the door open.
“Yes. But we’ll need a minute to settle him in, okay?” replied one of the EMTs as they passed outside.
“Hannah?” Eli called as she bent to pick up her dropped bag.
“Hailey. Oh, and you’re John’s friend. Eli, right?”
“Right. I’m so sorry for your loss. John seemed fine last night. I don’t know if he told you, but I had a party and—”
She shouldered her purse, her long face somber. “Yes. He called to tell us how much fun it was and to remind me to pick him up early for his appointment.” Her eyes drifted to the men lifting John into the ambulance. “When I got here, I couldn’t wake him. They think he had another stroke.”
Guilt swamped him. “I’m sorry. If I’d known he wasn’t feeling well, I wouldn’t have invited him.”
A watery smile cracked Hailey’s tense face. “Now, that would have killed him. John always loved a good time. And you’ve been such a great friend to him.”
The hole in Eli’s chest burned deeper with regret. “I wish I’d been a better one.”
She squeezed Eli’s hand. “No. You’ve been—” She shook her head and swallowed hard. “His whole family appreciated your being there for him. We’ll call you with the arrangements.”
The door shut behind her, the stillness turning the foyer into a tomb.
Christie came back into his arms and he held her close.
After a moment she sniffed and stepped back. “He’s in a better place,” she said at last. “At least, he’s at peace.”
He nodded automatically, nails digging into his palms. He wished, suddenly, that he was alone. Back in his apartment. Away from all the hope and faith stuff she’d made him believe in again. Why had he let down his guard and started to trust in the world? Today the darkness was so bleak it threatened to swallow him whole.
* * *
“ELEVEN O’CLOCK AT TRINITY. Got it. Again, my condolences.” Eli hung up the phone and turned to watch Christie and the children snuggled on the sofa.
They’d woken the kids an hour ago, Christie taking the lead on breaking the news of John’s death. Amazing how they’d gone from tears to watching a giant sponge with a high-pitched giggle. But it must make sense in kid world. Christie’s domain. As for him, he couldn’t make heads or tails of any
of this.
His every movement felt wooden.
Tommy yawned. “I’m glad Mr. Vaccaro is in a better place. His apartment smelled like cheese. Now he’ll have flowers, right, Christie?”
Eli watched, stunned, when Christie nodded and embellished the story. “Whatever his favorite ones are—they’ll pick them every day.”
Tommy’s mouth stretched wide again. “I like that. Mine are dandelions but someone told me they’re weeds so they don’t count.”
Christie pulled his head to her shoulder. “Of course they count. They’re the most important flower of all.”
Becca turned to Christie, her attention as rapt as Tommy’s. “Why is that?”
“Because they’re the only flower that grants wishes. If you blow off all of the white fluff, you’ll get your heart’s desire.”
Eli pressed his lips together, fighting the urge not to interject, to save his kids from this...this...nonsense. It might work for people with terminal illnesses, those who needed all the faith and hope she could throw their way. But his kids? He wanted them to be realists.
He paced to the refrigerator and pulled out a pitcher of sweet tea. John’s death today had been one stone-cold bucket of reality, making him wonder...what if it had been him? How would Christie have handled it?
A quick gulp did little to soothe him. He glanced into the living room and saw that Tommy was now curled on Christie’s lap, one hand twined in her hair, the other at his mouth, his thumb-sucking habit back again. They were cuddled so close, it was hard to tell where one ended and the other began.
Had he been right to drag Christie into his family after all? While she’d known John only on a professional level, she was now practically a member of their unit. How would his loss affect her? Would she be as self-possessed as she was now, or would it bring back painful memories of losing her own family? Crush the optimism she clung to? It seemed to be her only coping skill and he hated to put her in a position to lose that.
But right now? Optimism wasn’t working for him. At all.
“Would you like me to take you back to bed?” Christie asked when Tommy yawned again. It was still early, only seven-thirty. Luckily they didn’t have school and could relax, watch cartoons, play video games or any of the other things Christie had listed for him when they’d trodden upstairs.
Becca crouched in front of her brother and let him clamber onto her back. “I’ll take him. I’m tired, too.” She smiled at Christie then tugged at Tommy’s stranglehold. “Thanks for talking to us. It really helped.”
Becca shot Eli a narrow-eyed look as she disappeared down the hall to the bedrooms. When he heard both doors close, Eli released his pent-up breath. So now he was the bad guy for not joining in Christie’s fantasy of the afterlife? Maybe it was time to end this before things went any further.
“Shh,” she said when he must have made some kind of noise. “He’s in a better—”
“Place?” He stepped back and rubbed his eyes to clear his blurred vision. “You think they serve whiskey where he is? Tell off-color jokes? Flirt with women?” He swallowed the last of his tea and set the cup in the sink with a hard rattle. “Because if not, he’d much rather be here. Trust me.”
“Eli, are you okay?” She joined him in the kitchen. When she grabbed his hand, he pulled free. Her platitudes weren’t working. He didn’t feel soothed. He was furious, letdown and demoralized. Most of all, he needed to be on his own. To think things through.
“John’s the one who’s not okay. Me? I’m fine. Or I think I’m fine. But who knows? Because that’s the beauty of it all. We just don’t have a clue. Life is a cosmic joke and it always has the last laugh.”
“I see,” said Christie, her voice so quiet he instantly wished back those harsh words.
“I just don’t—” The side of his curled hand connected with the counter, a dull thud when he wouldn’t have minded a more satisfying crash. “I’m having a tough time seeing a bright side in anything right now.”
Christie nodded. “You were right to say how you feel. I don’t blame you for that. And who knows. Maybe I’m the one who’s wrong about all this faith and hope stuff.” She backed away, her shoulders tense. “I just don’t know how else to deal, okay? Ironic, right? The grief counselor who doesn’t know what to say at a time like this?”
She shook her head, visibly upset. He wanted to reach out to her. To help her as much as she’d helped his kids.
Then again, maybe it was time they both realized he didn’t have a clue how.
* * *
THREE DAYS LATER, Christie stood on the spongy grass of Trinity Church’s Washington Heights Cemetery, holding Becca’s and Tommy’s hands. Her black heels sank into the soft ground, making her shift uneasily. It felt too close to her nightmare—this sensation of being pulled into the earth, the dirt closing in around her, the darkness.
“Ouch!” Tommy said then pulled his hand free.
“Sorry. Didn’t know I was squeezing so hard.”
His hand slipped back into hers. “It’s okay. Look. There’s Daddy!”
Eli limped toward the head of a casket raised above a dark hole. In the expectant silence, a bird called from a towering elm, its leaves shading one of the last reserved burial spots in Manhattan. Christie forced herself to focus on him rather than the black rectangle. And to breathe. Those were Laura’s last words of advice before she’d forced her out the door.
Since most of Christie’s departed clients held services outside the city, she’d avoided cemeteries since her brother’s funeral nearly ten years ago. Her parents had died in a car crash, their remains cremated and held in an urn on Gran’s mantel. Deciding to come here had meant sleepless nights and panic attacks coupled with the determination not to let down Tommy and Becca. They’d called to ask her to ride with them, never questioning her attendance.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Eli’s voice rang out. “I’ve been asked to say a few words about my good buddy John Vaccaro. We were neighbors for eight years and did chemotherapy together for one.”
The crowd murmured for a moment then hushed. The whir of a mower sounded in the distance, and when the breeze shifted, flowers from nearby arrangements perfumed the air. Her eyes wandered to other graves then pressed closed, images of what lay underground exploding behind her lids. She inhaled slowly through her nose and exhaled through her mouth. Nice and easy. Just a few more minutes. She had this.
Eli cleared his throat, his somber eyes passing over the gathering then stopping, for a heartbreaking moment, on her. “He called our cancer fight ‘chemical warfare’ and in a way he was right. It was a battle. One he fought harder than anyone. Sure, he took the pills, kept his appointments and followed the rules the doctors gave us...but that’s not how he won. He beat his cancer by refusing to give in to it. By living his life, full stop—even if that meant frequenting the White Horse Tavern, hanging out at Off Track Betting and chasing women.” A titter rose from a trio of attractive older ladies standing beside the grave. “Even in the hospital, after his first stroke, he asked me for an IV tap of whiskey.”
Laughter rippled through the group, many nodding and smiling. Christie wanted to join in but her breaths were coming faster now, the panicky feeling rising despite her best efforts to contain it.
“John knew how to enjoy himself,” Eli continued, his dark suit contrasting with the azure sky. “He didn’t waste a moment in self-pity. In fact, he once gave me some good advice that I wish I’d followed. He told me that life doesn’t give you do-overs. If you waste today, you never get it back.”
Eli looked down at his feet. When his blue eyes rose, they shimmered like the surface of a tropical ocean. How kind of him to say things he didn’t believe for others’ comfort. It quieted her racing heart, giving her the courage she needed not to bolt.
“I’ve done a lot of thinking since
John left us. Went over the things he said, his life, and I realized I’ve been a fool not to take his advice. I can’t get back the days I lost, but I won’t miss any more. That’s John’s legacy to me.”
Their gazes locked, the promise in his expression making Christie’s pulse speed and bump. He’d apologized when they’d last spoken. But now she sensed a real change of heart. Did he actually mean what he said?
Eli took in the assembly once more. The late-morning sun backlit the rugged angles of his face and the breadth of his shoulders. “So in his honor, let’s follow John’s example and enjoy this day. Celebrate his life while we mourn his passing. Would everyone please raise your glass?”
A funeral-service worker pressed a plastic cup into her hand. The amber liquid and its spicy, woodsy scent was instantly recognizable. Whiskey. Of course. She raised it overhead.
“To John!” everyone shouted.
She downed the drink, its tart wash crossing her tongue before burning its way down her throat. Eli handed the microphone to a woman in a long, navy dress. She crooned “Moon River” as he joined them.
Christie shook in her shoes by now, her knees knocking together from too many emotions and too much...everything. The death, the funeral. Memories of her brother’s passing. Eli’s call to seize the day when she felt as though her whole world was imploding...
“That was the wedding song when John married his wife, Annabeth,” Eli whispered in her ear, the warm rush of breath against her neck making her shiver in awareness.
Her chest tightened into a fist so fast she couldn’t breathe. A sob caught in her throat, a painful wheeze she tried to quiet.
“What you said was beautiful.” She cast an anxious look at the casket. “But I have to go.” Any minute now and they’d lower it, undoing the slippery grip she had on her self-control and sending her emotions careening into a dark territory she wasn’t ready to handle. She’d feel like that guilt-ridden teen standing beside her parents ten years ago, watching her brother disappear from her life and return to the earth forever.