by Ka Hancock
I became aware of her at the same instant I realized they were talking about me. The apparition was there, but she was standing a bit off, so I couldn’t see her clearly. But I felt her. I felt her eyes on me. “My baby?” I said, but not with words.
She didn’t answer and the heaviness of my family’s grief fell upon me.
“You can’t take both of us. It would kill them,” I said. “Is it time?” I asked, trying to make my thoughts louder.
“Soon,” she answered.
I closed my thoughts to her, irritated at the helplessness she’d imposed upon me, and I lifted my awareness to the outside of my body. I concentrated on the hand holding mine. I was right there. I just had to push through the barrier that separated me from everyone else.
“Lu?” Mickey rasped. “Honey? Please open your eyes.”
I heard Peter Gladstone walk in and address everyone in the room.
Everyone but me. He told my family about the form I had signed two weeks earlier; my living will. It stated that I had prohibited the use of artificial oxygenation except if needed to save the life of my unborn baby. At that time, Dr. Gladstone had explained what he predicted would be the final phase of my illness. He told me that though I could be kept alive by mechanical means; doing so would not impact the outcome of my cancer. He was adamant that by the time a ventilator would be required, the only purpose it would serve would be to prolong the suffering of those around me. I had pictured exactly this scene in my mind. Everyone I loved encircling me, brokenhearted. I had signed the paper without hesitation, quickly banishing the image of Mickey clinging to a me that would never wake up.
This grave news was delivered to my family not unkindly, but neither was it done with enough warmth. Peter Gladstone had always maintained a slightly judgmental demeanor, and today was no exception, and now I heard Mickey start to cry—big, gulping sobs. Priscilla got angry, announcing, “This is bullshit!” and I heard Lily say with emotion, “So this is it? There is nothing we can do for her? She can’t breathe!”
“Lucy wanted no heroic efforts,” the doctor said. “She wanted nothing done that would simply prolong the inevitable. It’s all clearly explained in this document.”
“How long, Dr. Gladstone? How long are we looking at here?” Ron asked, his quiet voice trembling.
“I wish I could say. Lucy has surprised me at every turn, and she might surprise me yet. But, I would say not long.”
I looked into the eyes I had known since I was a child. The specter was lovely and familiar to me. I turned toward her, knowing that she alone could alleviate my fear. “Not long?”
“Soon,” she said.
A while later the apparition nodded and reached out her hand to me. I felt something in me let go, but reined it in. “I can’t leave without saying good-bye,” I said in my fashion.
She nodded, and suddenly I felt myself surface; that’s the only way I can describe it. I came up into wakefulness and was immediately aware of my pain, and the terrible sensation of suffocating. I opened my eyes and found the room dim except for the light next to my bed. Mickey’s head was bent near our joined hands. “Mic?” I rasped.
He looked up at me and quickly got to his feet. His eyes were swollen with tears. “Hey,” he whispered. He kissed me then and touched my face with his rough hand. There was such relief in his eyes, such unrealistic hope. He kissed me again. “We have a daughter, Lu. A beautiful daughter. You did it, baby.”
I struggled to ask how she was, but couldn’t push the words out. It didn’t matter.
“She’s a fighter, Lu. Just like her mom. She’s not quite breathing on her own, but she’s close. A real nice doctor is taking good care of her.” Mickey came close and cupped my face in his hands. “She’s beautiful, Lu. You did good.”
“Mic . . .” I was so tired, and each breath took exquisite effort. “I love you,” I creaked. “I love you so much.”
“I love you, baby,” he said, his voice catching.
As I looked at him, I knew I’d love him forever. With that realization, I suddenly understood what my mother had meant when she told me there was nothing to be afraid of. I struggled to breathe. “Mickey . . . don’t be afraid.”
“Hey. None of that kind of talk,” he said, trying to sound like he was in charge.
I looked at him for a long moment. His thick, wonderful hair was now more than half silver and badly needed to be cut. I tried to reach up and run my hand over it, but I didn’t have the strength. He caught my palm and kissed it.
“Do you hurt, Lu? What do you need, baby?”
What did I need? What was there left to need at this moment except more of what I could not have? I couldn’t answer him. I just looked into his sad eyes, burned them into my brain so I would never forget. Then I asked my precious husband to get me some ice.
“Ice? Sure, baby. And I’ll tell the nurse you’re awake.” He kissed my forehead, my parched mouth, loomed above me with raw need in his wet eyes. “I’ll be right back.” Then he walked out and I was alone.
With a single labored breath, I let myself go and reached for the hand that beckoned me. As I did, the beautiful, ghostly apparition became solid and dimensional, and I wept with recognition. “It’s you.”
“Yes, my darling. It’s me.”
thirty-two
I knew before I walked in with the ice that she was gone. My breath caught in my throat, in my heart, as I stared in at my beautiful wife, who for all the world looked like she was merely sleeping. I watched her, but could not walk into that room. Dimly lit. Warm. Two plants and unopened cards sitting on the bedside table, and a water pitcher, which, had I bothered to notice before, would probably be filled with ice. A special bed for the ill, elevated to partial sitting. And quiet. So god-awful quiet. It all looked so foreign to me.
I breathed and told myself Lucy was just sleeping, her dark hair spilling over the pillow. I repeated it until I believed it. She was just resting until I came back with her ice. I would sit down and she would open her eyes. I would lift spoonfuls into her dry mouth and she would smile as she began to feel better. The baby was here and she would be so happy about that. She’d made it. Now she could start on all the life-saving drugs she had refused until this very day when the baby had come. It was all right, I told myself. But another self shook his head in pity at the lies I was telling as I walked ever so slowly to the bed.
“Lu? Baby? Lucy?” I tried to keep from crying, I needed to be strong for her. I did not want her to catch me bawling. Not when she’d just gotten through the hardest day of her life. But the tears fell despite my reasoning. I took her hand and ran my thumb over her warm knuckles. No more strain was in her face, every muscle was relaxed, the crimp in her brow that had broadcast her pain had melted away. I begged her to breathe and watched her still chest ignore my prayer. “Oh, Lord. Please, no.” I fell into the chair, into the skin of the man who knew she was gone. Knew it and yet could not imagine it. “Lucy . . .”
I was not ready. Not today. Today I had watched her give birth to a daughter without recognizing the pain of it, or the joy of it, or the accomplishment of it. But I never imagined she would actually leave, that the life in her would truly evaporate.
I could not take my eyes off her, this woman who held my life in her smile, in her touch. I could not take my eyes off her. Not when Ron put his arm around me. Not when Lily and Priscilla and gradually everyone else crowded around to cry with me. I could not pull my eyes from her because if I did, I was sure she would be gone when I looked back.
When that finally did happen, I thought my heart would stop. Someone had called the Withers’ Funeral Home, and Earl and Chad showed up in their official capacity to take my wife away. I could not let go of her hand. Chad had to untangle my fingers from hers, but he did it with such kindness. They worked in silence, wrapping my Lucy in a sheet, gently, carefully tucking it in around her feet. They lifted her onto their gurney, and Earl patted my wet face before he wheeled her out of the room. As he r
ounded the corner with my wife, I started to crumble from within. It was excruciating. I looked back at her empty bed and felt my knees buckle, but Harry caught me, and like a child I wrapped my arms around his neck and sobbed. Jan ran her hand through my hair and through her own tears said, “C’mon, sweetie. Let us take you home.”
I remember them taking hold of me; each of them had an arm and I was a prop carried between the two of them. For a moment it was surreal, otherworldly, much like psychosis, though I was painfully sane and present. My wife was dead, and I could not make it real. Harry kept saying things like “You’re stronger than you think you are, Mic. You can do this, we’re right here with you.” And Jan tried to keep control of her tears, but they were all clogged up in her throat as she muttered over and over, “Oh, that sweet girl, that sweet girl. She loved you so much, Mickey.”
At the main lobby, I disengaged from them and thanked them for loving me. They were my parents in every sense of the word, but I needed to be away from them, from their sadness, because I didn’t have room for any more than my own. “I’ll be fine,” I lied. “I’m going to drive up to Partners, tell Jared. And I need to call my dad.” I answered their collective concern for me with a reassuring nod that could have won me an award for acting.
“You’ll call us?” they said.
“I will,” I promised. Then they went one way and I went the other. I did go to Partners. And Jared, my good friend, cried when I told him. “You take as long as you need,” he said. “Whatever you need, man. When’s the funeral?”
“I don’t know. I’ll find out and call you.”
“We’ll all be there, Mic. We’ll close up in Lucy’s honor.”
I drove home after that, but as I approached my house, my chest tightened and I knew I couldn’t walk in there alone. So I drove to the pier and stared out at the black Connecticut River. It was ten thirty in New Orleans, and there was a good chance my dad was in bed. I dialed his number, thinking with any luck he wouldn’t answer. When his machine picked up, I said, “Hey, Dad, it’s me. I have some bad news, and I’m sorry to leave it in a message.” My voice broke and it was a minute before I could finish. “It happened . . . tonight, Dad. Lucy’s gone and I . . . I have a daughter.” I’d still have to tell him that she was mostly Ron and Lily’s, but I didn’t have the energy to go into it now. Instead, I asked him to call David if he got the chance because I didn’t have my brother’s number.
I don’t know what time it was, or how long I’d sat in my car, before I pushed the door open to find the pier blanketed in deep, soft, powdery snow. I trudged through it to the slip where our sailboat was marooned for the season. It was up on blocks and I had to use a trash can to get up there. The deck was slippery where I tore the tarp and exposed it to the weather, and I had to crawl to the galley door. I was surprised I could find the combination of the padlock in my addled brain, but I did. I pulled the door open, then shut it behind me as I slid down the stairs like a drunk. For a long time, I sat in the dark on the last step, then I settled myself on the bed. I guess I slept, but if I did, it was rest in name only.
It could have been an hour or a day later when Ron found me, but when he did, the horror in his eyes made me wonder if I had grown another head. He apologized all over himself as he drove me to his house. He made me eat oatmeal, actually fed it to me, I think. Then he got me in the shower and dressed me in my dark suit, literally moving my arms and legs for me because they refused to function. Then he drove me to Lucy’s viewing. I felt every eye on me when we walked in, and when I saw my wife lying in her casket, a man inside me screamed and wept and beat at the walls of my chest. But the walls were thick and the man couldn’t break through—not his voice, not his tears.
I was staring at her, my beautiful Lucy, willing her to wake up and be with me, but Lucy just slept, and I just watched her. I could have watched her for the rest of my life, but Earl said he had to close the casket, and his words meant nothing to me, until he did it. Then the man inside escaped.
The only thing I know for sure about Lucy’s funeral is that I made a lot of noise and had to miss it. Ron missed it as well, taking care of me. Gleason missed it, and Harry missed it. It was an awful day for a funeral anyway. Bitter winds blew off the river and blinding snow was swirling everywhere. It was as though the day was repelling the terrible occasion.
They admitted me to the hospital. They had no choice. I was crazy with grief, combative and noisy. I could have hurt someone lashing out the way I was at these, the most important men in my life. Thank God I didn’t, but it took Gleason’s twisting my arm to prevent it. He’s strong for an old guy.
When I finally stabilized, I was in the psychiatric lockdown and had had a few shots of Haldol. I was groggy, but not groggy enough to keep it all from rushing back. Lucy was gone. I had no idea how long I’d languished in that cave of a room. I only knew that Lucy was dead, and the weight of that knowledge immobilized me. Gleason came by but we didn’t talk. I’d grown docile under the influence of my medication, so after he left, two burly psych techs walked me down the hall to a regular room. Here I sleep, or at least I lie in this bed and face the wall. Ron has come by several times, but I don’t honestly know if it’s been several days or several times in one day. Time means nothing here, and the darkness of the thick winter sky beyond my window seems never to change.
I’ve only made one request to the nursing staff, and that is not to allow anyone to visit me. Peony said she’d do it but would not include my immediate family in the mandate. So Ron comes by, and Lily, and strangely, Priscilla. Lily cries when she’s here. Sometimes I pretend I’m asleep just so she’ll leave me alone. She says she wants to name the baby but doesn’t want to do it without my input. I’m ashamed to say I couldn’t care less.
Lily came earlier tonight and I kept my eyes shut when she begged me again to come see the baby, but she wasn’t fooled. Despite the tears in her voice, she just kept yammering at me about names, about the nice doctor taking care of the baby, about her still not breathing on her own. But Lily’s best efforts to distract my grief failed, mostly because she was swollen with her own. I could hear it in her voice. If I opened my eyes, I would see it in her face. I wanted her to go away. Finally, I felt her touch my shoulder.
“I know you can hear me, Mickey. I’m leaving you something to look at. Jan made it for Lucy.” Her voice broke then, and I felt my own sob threatening, but I didn’t move. “Lucy found this fairy tale my dad wrote about us when we were little, and Jan added her amazing art, and I thought you’d like to see it. I don’t know how she did it, but it’s exactly how we looked when we were little. Anyway . . .” She kissed me and watched me for a minute. Then she walked out.
It must have been late because it was quiet. Up the hall, I heard Lily say good-bye to the nurse, then the magnetic door slammed shut. I lay there and let the noiseless night swallow me, then I slept until my bladder woke me. I pulled myself up, turned on the bedside lamp, and squinted my way to the bathroom. Honest horror shone back at me in the mirror. I looked awful. It was almost as if Lucy had been embedded in my features, and now that she had gone, she’d left them heavy and sagging and wholly ruined. I hardly knew myself. Back in my room I sat down and hung my head. I did not know how to survive this.
The something Lily left was a book, and it was sitting on the bedside table. It looked like a child’s story, colorful and oversized. I picked it up with a shaking hand. The cover was a vivid painting of three little princesses, two blondes flanking a little, brown-haired Lucy. Each wore a crown in her tangled curls, and each was easily identifiable as a Houston daughter. The sob I’d been able to swallow when Lily was here now burst out of me, and my heart hurt to see the unspoiled joy on their faces, the mischief Jan had captured in their wide, green eyes. I opened the book to find an inscription on the inside cover:
Sweet Lily,
Lucy found this story written by your dad and asked me to illustrate it. She wanted to surprise you, and I worked hard to
do this last favor for her, but I didn’t quite make it before she died. Now I realize it was never for Lucy, but for you and Priss. A small comfort she could leave behind. A remarkable message from your father, who loved you all so much.
I turned the pages, and by the soft light at my bedside I lost myself in the world of a man who adored his daughters. The words blurred beneath my tears as this mere man dressed up like a king flawlessly described his children. I kept turning back to a page that depicted a sleeping Lucy sucking her thumb. The rendition of my wife and her guardian angel sister being watched over by their worried father nearly stopped my heart. I could feel how much this man, a man I’d never met, loved his daughters. How anxious he was for them. How he would give anything to protect them. I could not imagine being loved like that as a child. I turned to the last page, where an angel was holding a tear that had fallen from the king’s eye. The sight of her on the page was surprising; she was just a baby, conjured by a prayer. The king implored her to carry his love to the princesses: Oh, angel, I would that you bless and keep my daughters. Fill them with my love and guard them in my absence. Can you do this for me? In the warm, institutional silence of my hospital room, that angel’s voice lifted from the page: It will be my honor. As she made her vow to the king, I could almost hear it. Her name was Abigail.
Abigail: keeper of the love.
It was nearly four thirty in the morning when I walked down the hall to the community phone. When Lily answered, sounding groggy but alarmed, I simply said, “Abigail. I want to name her Abigail.”
thirty-three
I was sitting at the foot of my bed staring out the window when Lily walked in.
“You’re awake,” she said softly, then she kind of gasped. “Mickey, you’re so thin.”