by Sarah Jio
“Yes,” I say stiffly.
“Cam called to tell me that you discovered the article. Jane, I’d love for us to talk. Could you come into my office today?”
“Dr. Heller, I don’t know that there’s anything left for us to discuss.”
“There is,” she says. “I’d like to apologize to you in person, and I won’t feel right until I can explain myself. Can you be here in an hour?”
“All right,” I say. “I’ll do my best.”
I walk into Dr. Heller’s office that afternoon and feel a pang in my heart. Although I didn’t read Cam’s interview notes with her, the mere fact that she’d even think to speak to a journalist about me gives me pause. It has rattled my trust in her, trust I’ve built since childhood, when she’d dangle stuffed animals above my head to get me to focus while she examined my eyes. Today, I want to look her in the eye and ask her how she not only betrayed my trust but violated medical ethics.
“I’m glad you came,” Dr. Heller says when she walks into the room. “Please, let’s go talk. Maybe in the cafeteria? I’ll buy you a coffee.”
I nod and follow her to the elevator. We ride to the third floor in silence, and when the doors open, the smell of boiled broccoli and burnt French fries hits my nose.
We stop at the coffee cart. Dr. Heller orders two coffees, and we head to an empty table.
“Let me start by saying that I didn’t know he was recording me,” she says. “I asked him to keep my comments off the record.”
“Off the record, or on the record,” I say. “Dr. Heller, I’m honestly shocked that you’d even think to speak about my condition to anyone without my consent.”
“I know, Jane; I was wrong. And I violated some established medical ethics. I’m not proud of that. But, please, I hope you know that it came from a place of good intent. You know I have cared about your health since the first day you came into my office as a young child. And when you refused the surgery, I felt that maybe by talking to Cam, you’d come around. Maybe together, with his understanding of science and my medical knowledge, we could convince you to make the right choice for your health. For what it’s worth, I believe he cares about you and ultimately wanted you to see that surgery was the only way.”
“And betraying me was his way to do it?” I shake my head and sigh.
Dr. Heller refolds her hands in her lap. “I realize I handled this all wrong. I only hope that someday you can forgive me, and also Cam.”
I take a deep breath. “I cannot forgive Cam. But, Dr. Heller, of course I forgive you. You have been like a mother to me. I know you only have my best interests in mind. I just wish that you would have understood that no matter how much science or medical data, I have to make the right choice for me, even if it seems illogical or foolish.”
“You’re right,” she says. “And I am grateful for your forgiveness.” She pauses for a moment. “And what about Cam? Can you ever forgive him?”
I shake my head. “Colette told me she saw love between us, but even that knowledge is not enough. He wanted to sensationalize my story, to capitalize on it. He saw me as a great byline—the moment he met me last New Year’s Eve, in fact. I know that now.”
“That may be true,” Dr. Heller says, “but what you can’t deny is how his feelings may have changed and grown over this year. I believe he loves you, Jane.”
I shake my head and smile to myself. “No, it’s not love. It was a figment of it. A hologram.”
“But you believe in love, Jane,” she says. “I know that about you.”
“I believe in it for others, just not so much for myself.”
Just then, Dr. Heller’s nurse, Kelly, waves from across the room. She holds a tray from the cafeteria as she approaches our table.
“Please, join us,” I say.
“No, no,” she replies. “I don’t want to interrupt. I’ll just grab another table.”
“Kelly, please, feel free to sit down,” Dr. Heller says, smiling. And as Kelly takes her seat, I feel pressure behind my eyes. It’s light at first, and I almost dismiss it entirely, but then it intensifies, and I blink hard when a film of fog envelops my vision. I can hardly believe it. I’ve gotten it all wrong. All this time, I thought Dr. Heller was in love with Dr. Wyatt. But no. Dr. Heller loves Kelly. And Kelly loves her in return.
“Jane,” Dr. Heller says, jumping to her feet. She kneels beside me and holds my wrist to take my pulse. “You’re having an episode, aren’t you?”
I nod.
“Can I get you some water?” Kelly says nervously. “Can I do anything?”
“No,” I say. “I’m OK.” I sit still for a long moment, and when the fog lifts, I turn to Dr. Heller, who’s still kneeling beside me. Her eyes are moist, as if tears might spill from her lids at any moment. And I realize, for the first time, that she believes.
“You understand now, don’t you? You finally get it.”
Dr. Heller looks at Kelly, then back at me. “I do,” she says, wiping a tear from her eye.
“Now you see,” I say, standing up. “That’s what true love does to me.”
Kelly smiles at Dr. Heller. I turn to the elevator, then look back at the two of them. “I’m so very happy for you.”
As I drive out of the hospital parking garage, I reach for my phone to call Colette. Tomorrow is my thirtieth birthday, and I am ready, finally, to write my findings about love in the book. I want to tell her about it. About Cam. About the jumble of thoughts pulsing through my brain and heart.
I dial her number, but there’s no answer, so I decide to drive straight over, parking on the street in front of her building. I take the elevator up to her floor and see from a distance that her door is ajar. “Hello,” I say, peering inside. “Colette?” My voice echoes back to me.
As I push the door open wider, I’m shocked at the sight before me. The apartment is empty, the bookcases bare. The old velvet drapes hang limp and lonely from the bay window ahead. Colette is gone, and the only sign that she ever lived here is sitting at the center of the room. The old flower cart, which once brimmed with blossoms on a Parisian street, now sits empty in an abandoned apartment in Seattle. I reach for the envelope taped to its side.
Dear Jane,
I must leave you now, for my work here is complete. You must continue on as I have done before you. I wish you happiness, but most of all, I wish you love. Don’t ever lose sight of it.
Yours,
Colette
I can’t believe she’s gone. I think of her flying into New York City. Or Rio de Janeiro. But I really hope she has gone to Paris. I hope she will take a second chance at love, and I hope she will succeed.
I wheel the old cart to my car, and I’m happy to see that it fits, with a little angling, in the back of the station wagon. As I climb into the driver’s seat, my phone rings. It’s Mary. “Jane, tomorrow’s the big day. I want to make sure you can still be there to meet my baby girl.”
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” I say. “What time is your induction?”
“It’s been moved to later in the afternoon,” she says. “With any luck, I’ll be holding her in my arms by evening. You can be the first to hold her, after me.”
I know it then. The final piece of my journey that I have been most concerned with now makes sense. I will give Mary’s baby girl my gift. I think of Mary, wide-eyed and kind; hurt deeply but not hardened. Her heart, somehow, has remained tender and beautiful through her pain, like my mother’s. Yes, I think to myself. Mary’s daughter will have access to her heart, to love, in the very same way. And she will see the world through the foggy lens of love the way I have done. She will find her way, just as I have, even when it doesn’t always end with the loose ends tied up neatly in a bow. That is life, and that is love.
After I hang up the phone, it buzzes, and I glance at the screen to see a text from Cam that reads,
“I’m so very sorry.”
I sigh and tuck my phone into my coat pocket. I am too.
Chapter 24
Jane, it’s Katie.” She sounds scared, frantic.
“What’s going on?”
“I don’t know how to say this. . . . Josh left me.”
A customer walks into the shop, and I motion to Lo for assistance. “Wait, what?”
“Yes, he left me. He walked out of our house to get coffee and said he’d be back soon, but instead he had breakfast with a blonde and decided not to return.”
“Katie,” I say with a gasp. “This makes no sense. I have never seen two people more in love than the two of you. Surely you’re mistaken.”
“I’m not,” she says. “He hasn’t even come home to get his stuff. He’s done. Done with everything. I just wish I’d known this was coming. There were no signs. Not even one.”
“Honey, I don’t even know what to say. This makes zero sense.”
“I know,” she says. “But I do know that if he’s chosen to leave, I need to move on. I can’t sit around in this house we used to share and wait for him to come home. I’ll have to sell the house. Jane, I feel like I’m living a nightmare right now.”
“It does sound like a nightmare,” I reply. “I’m so sorry. Is there anything I can do?”
“No,” Katie says. “Actually, yes. I think I need to get out of town. How do you feel about going somewhere sunny and beachy with me soon? Next month, maybe. Mexico? Hawaii? Somewhere away from here. With fruity cocktails. Let’s get Lo to come too. We can sit around by the pool and drink ridiculous amounts of alcohol and not think or talk about men.”
“That sounds like heaven,” I say.
“Good,” she says. “I just need to get my mind off all of this. Jane, I’m so heartbroken.” She sighs. “I’ll look at flights and let you know.”
“OK,” I say. “And, Katie, I don’t know what is going on with Josh. And it doesn’t sound good. But here’s what I do know: I have seen you two together; I have witnessed your love, and it is real. Don’t ever discount that, OK?” I know she’s crying. I can hear the faint sounds of sniffles. “Promise me?”
“I promise,” she finally says.
“It’s Christmas Eve,” I say to Lo. “Time to head home.”
“Nah, I’ll stay. There’s more to do.”
“No, there’s not,” I say. “And what am I? Scrooge? Go home, drink some mulled wine, listen to Bing Crosby.”
She nods. “Alone.”
“Me, too,” I say. “Though, honestly, I’m so tired after this week, I really don’t mind. I just want to sleep, for a thousand years.” Lo has been sad, introspective for the past few days. “You need rest. Aren’t you leaving for Paris in the morning?”
“Yes,” she says, forcing a smile.
“Then get out of here,” I say. “I am going to shoo you out with a broom if you don’t leave right this second.
She slips her apron off and hangs it on the hook behind the counter. “OK, boss,” she says with a smile.
Just as she walks out the door, I hear the bells jingle again, and a wave of cold air breezes through the shop. Without looking up, I say, “Sorry, we’re closed. I—”
And then my eyes meet a man’s. The customer who comes in every year on Christmas Eve, the one with sad eyes who walks with a limp, and tips heavily, for a reason unbeknownst to me.
“Oh, hello,” I say, recognizing him immediately.
“I’m sorry,” he says with a shy smile. “My train was late.” He’s a little out of breath. “I was worried I wouldn’t make it before you closed.”
“Train?”
He nods. “I live in Portland.”
My eyes narrow. “Portland? So why does someone from Oregon come to a Seattle flower shop every year on Christmas Eve?”
His expression is serious and his eyes, sad. “You have the best flowers,” he says after a long moment.
“Well, then,” I say. “Let me get started on an arrangement for you.”
“No,” he says quietly. “Don’t put yourself through the trouble. I’ll take something from the case.” He points to a vase of red roses and greenery. “That is perfect.”
I carry it to the front counter. As I reach forward to rearrange a rose that looks a little off kilter, I feel a prick on my index finger.
“Darn,” I say, as a drop of blood pools on my skin. “The growers always get sloppier around this time of the year. If I had a dollar for every thorn I’ve seen on a stem this month, well.”
The man nods. “And every time I’ve held a rose, it seems I only felt the thorns.”
“Billy Joel,” I say with a smile.
“Yes,” he replies. “‘And So It Goes.’”
“It’s a beautiful song.”
I bandage my finger, as he hands me a check.
“Merry Christmas,” he says, heading toward the door, before turning around once more. “That was your mother’s favorite song.”
I am too stunned to speak, frozen in place as the door closes and the man walks out to the street. I look down at the check and read the name printed on it: Eric Williams.
My father.
An hour later, I close up the shop, carrying an extra wreath and a holiday arrangement with me, and walk through the market. It’s quiet, almost eerily so. I hear Christmas music coming from an idling car ahead. Inside the SUV is a man and his wife, and their three children, two boys and a girl, who are licking candy canes in the backseat.
The air is crisp and cold, and I can see my foggy breath all around me, and Mel in the distance. His suit looks like it might have fit him well—in 1983.
“Jane!” he exclaims. “Just the lady I was hoping to run into.”
“Merry Christmas, Mel,” I say softly.
“Merry Christmas, beautiful,” he replies with eyes that twinkle under the streetlights. “I need your finest bouquet of flowers. I’m going to give them to Vivian tonight.”
I smile at his enthusiasm. Even in one’s seventies, love can be young. “Here,” I say, handing him the arrangement I made for my mantel: green chrysanthemums, interspersed with yet-to-bloom lime-green hyacinths, Mom’s favorite Christmas bouquet. “Take her these. She’ll love them.”
“But I couldn’t—”
“Please, I want you to.” I feel the sting of a tear in my eye when I think of how much my mom would have loved giving flowers to Mel and shooing him off to woo his beloved.
“Thank you, sweetheart,” he says.
“I hope they do the trick.”
He straightens his tie with his left hand. “Me, too.”
I walk past Meriwether next and admire the rings of fruitcake and braided bread in the window. Elaine is probably home putting the finishing touches on the kids’ Christmas stockings, but I know her mind—and her heart—is full with weighty decisions.
Bernard is just packing up to leave as I enter the lobby of my apartment building. “I’m so glad I caught you,” I say, reaching into my pocket and handing him an envelope with a little Christmas cash. “Merry Christmas,” I say, smiling.
“Merry Christmas, and an early happy birthday,” he replies. “Oh, that boyfriend of yours, what’s-his-name . . .”
“Cam,” I say. “And he’s no longer my boyfriend.”
“Oh,” Bernard replies. “Well, he was here earlier today to see you. He said he stopped in at the flower shop but didn’t find you. Anyway, he asked me if I’d give you this.” He places an envelope in my hand. “I was about to slide it under your door before I left. I get the feeling that it’s urgent, something you should read tonight instead of finding it in your mailbox in a few days.”
“Thank you,” I say curtly, tucking the envelope in my pocket.
“Can I give you some advice?” he asks.
“Sure,” I say cau
tiously.
“Whatever you’re punishing him for,” he says, “don’t do it for too long. Forgive him. Life is too short not to extend forgiveness, even for the worst offenses.”
I nod and venture a smile. “I’ll think about it,” I say, stepping onto the elevator as I give Bernard a parting smile. “Merry Christmas.”
After I greet Sam, I pour a glass of wine and turn on a Johnny Mathis Christmas CD. It reminds me of Mom, and I ache a little, for Mom, for my past, for the future that—if Dr. Heller’s predictions are accurate, or if I fail to adhere to the rules Colette has laid before me—I might never know.
My coat is draped on the couch, and I reach for the envelope in the right pocket, tearing it open and pulling out the single page inside:
Dear Jane,
I won’t be here to wish you a merry Christmas and happy birthday, and even if I were, I know that you wouldn’t want to see me anyway. What I did was wrong, and you have every right to blame me, to hold a grudge against me for the rest of your life.
I’m going back to New York for a few weeks. After I refused to turn over my notes for the feature about you, my editor was forced to kill the story. They’ve laid me off as a result, so I’m pursuing other opportunities. I’ve just been offered the science editor position at Newsweek. It will mean moving back to New York. I don’t want to go, and yet . . . is there anything for me here anymore?
I felt something big with you, Jane. Something I haven’t felt since my fiancée died, and then I went and screwed it all up. For that, I will always have deep regrets.
I have never met a woman like you, and I know I never will again. You changed me. You made me see the power of love. You taught me to believe in it, to trust it.
I will always love you, Jane. Always.
Cam
A single tear falls from my eye and lands on the letter. I run my hand along Cam’s signature, studying the curve of his C. And then I take a deep breath and tuck the letter back into the pocket of my coat.
Chapter 25