Cherish

by Tracey Garvis Graves

“I’m going to get ready for bed,” she says.

  I lock up and turn off the lights in the kitchen. When she returns to the living room wearing her pajamas, she makes up her bed on the couch.

  “Good night,” she says.

  “Good night.”

  I turn off the living room light, but before I reach the doorway that leads to the hall, I stop and turn around. “You don’t have to keep sleeping on the couch.”

  “I don’t mind.”

  “I know you don’t, but I’d like it if you slept next to me.” Sometimes I feel lonely, and I lie in bed thinking of Jess out here on the couch, wishing she was beside me.

  She rises silently from the couch and follows me down the hallway into my bedroom. She slips under the covers, and there’s a bit of tossing and turning as we get comfortable and settle into our positions, but that night I sleep better than I have in a very long time.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  JESSIE

  In an effort to jostle some more memories loose, we’ve been going through the contents of Daniel’s home. We’ve already made our way through the boxes in the spare bedroom, but they’re mostly filled with receipts, our old tax returns, and owner’s manuals for things Daniel and I don’t own anymore, like the big-screen TV from our old house and the snowblower he replaced last winter. We eliminate what we can, and Daniel organizes the rest in the filing cabinets in his office, which is something he said he’s been meaning to do since he moved in but never made time for. It’s tedious work, but he doesn’t seem to mind. Reviewing and cataloguing the information helps him feel more in control of his surroundings, and according to his therapist, tasks like these will help him improve his attention span and concentration skills.

  I made a list of our favorite movies, and we’ve been working our way through them. We watch them on the couch together. Daniel holds my feet in his lap the way he always used to. It feels every bit as good as it did when we were together.

  Sleeping together feels good too. It took me a few nights to get used to it again, and even though there is nothing romantic about it, there is something peaceful about sleeping next to him again, especially because I’ve spent almost two years sleeping alone. It’s a king-sized bed and we stay on our respective sides, but I can feel his presence. I’m aware of the smell of his skin and the sound of his breathing. It calms me.

  One day while Daniel is walking on the treadmill, I make my way down to the basement to start tackling the Rubbermaid storage tubs that are lined up against one wall. I can’t even begin to imagine what’s in them. When Daniel moved out of our home, I spent the day with my parents so I wouldn’t have to be there. When I returned, not much had changed. He left all the furniture and took only his clothes and personal items. There appeared to be fewer things in the basement and garage, but I’d never taken the time to figure out exactly what was missing. Shortly after that, I sold the house and all the furniture I no longer needed and moved to my apartment.

  The basement is partially finished, but the tubs are in a room with a concrete floor next to the furnace and water heater. I pry off the lid of the first tub and come face-to-face with my old maternity clothes. I have a vague recollection of Daniel gathering up anything baby related and packing it away so I wouldn’t have to see it. But now that time has passed, the sight of the clothes doesn’t upset me as much. The pain is still there, but it’s outweighed by the memories of how happy I was during my pregnancy.

  After pulling out all the items, I lay them on the floor and sit down, not really caring that the concrete is hard and uncomfortable. I hold up each item, remembering the places I wore it. The clothes in this first tub aren’t actually maternity clothes at all, but rather regular clothes in bigger sizes. As I’d outgrown them, I’d washed them and put them back for the next pregnancy.

  The second tub holds the clothes I’d worn in the middle months. I pull out the striped long-sleeved T-shirt I wore when I first started to show. I’d been so excited to finally look like a pregnant woman instead of one who’d just gotten a bit thick around the middle. When I pointed out my barely-there bump, Daniel insisted on taking a picture of me while I was turned to the side. He took one every week after that as I grew bigger and bigger.

  The last tub holds the clothes from the end of my pregnancy. I remember telling Daniel that the baby needed to come soon because I only had a few things that fit by then, and I was tired of wearing them.

  We tried for another baby after Gabriel, because everyone thinks that all you need when you lose a child is a replacement. Our lovemaking took on a subtle, procreational vibe, with whispered inquiries from Daniel in the heat of the moment about whether or not it was a good time.

  When my depression really sank its teeth into me, the sex ended and so did Daniel’s hope for another baby.

  I don’t know what to do with the clothes, so I put the lid back on and pull out another tub.

  The contents take my breath away.

  Gabriel’s baby book is on top and underneath it a hodgepodge of items, as if Daniel packed everything away with urgency. There is the outfit we dressed Gabriel in to bring him home from the hospital. It’s yellow, because we didn’t want to know the sex of our baby in advance. There are giraffes and elephants on the front, and it came with a matching cap. I pick it up and hold it, as if Gabriel is still in it, and I hug it gently. My tears fall fast and furious, but I’m not sad or upset. I am filled with a sense of joy that I’ve never felt before. I can feel Gabriel’s spirit in the room with me, full of love and peace and happiness.

  After Gabriel died, I couldn’t bear to look at or touch any of his things. They felt as cold and stiff as he had felt when I reached into his crib to pick him up that morning. But now I rub the fabric against my cheek, and it’s warm and soft. I can still smell the faintest trace of him, or maybe it’s just the special detergent I washed his clothes in. I don’t care because it’s a wonderful, heavenly smell.

  Frantically, I begin tearing lids off the tubs. I sob loudly and cathartically as I discover Gabriel’s clothes, bibs, rattles, and toys. I touch and smell and feel everything. My gratitude toward Daniel for preserving these memories is immeasurable.

  After Gabriel died I’d made my way—slowly, messily, reluctantly—through the first four stages of grief: denial and isolation, anger, bargaining, and depression. Then I stalled, staying in the fourth stage for far too long, with no idea how to move on.

  The fifth stage—acceptance—is finally achieved on a hard concrete floor in my ex-husband’s basement.

  This is where Daniel finds me.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  DANIEL

  I can hear Jess crying from upstairs. When I make my way down to the basement, I spot her sitting on the floor. All of Gabriel’s things are strewn around her in haphazard piles.

  I approach cautiously. “Jess? Are you okay?”

  She looks at me, her eyes swollen and red. “It’s all here.”

  “I thought you might want it someday.”

  “I want you to know that even if you don’t get back every memory you lost, if you struggle to think of words or their meanings, you’re still the smartest man I’ve ever known.”

  I crouch down beside her. “I’m not sure I ever really understood how bad things got for you.”

  “That’s because I never wanted you to know. I didn’t want anyone to know. It was easier to push everyone away until they finally left me alone.”

  “I remember trying to help you. Did I not do enough? Because if I didn’t, I’m sorry.”

  “You did everything you possibly could, but ultimately it was something I had to figure out on my own. I was on antidepressants for a while, and they helped me claw my way up from the really dark stuff. I went to group counseling sessions for bereaved parents. I’m not sure if you remember, but someone suggested that we try that after Gabriel died, and I wasn’t open to it. Too much talking, and I wasn’t ready for that yet. For some reas
on, cycling through the stages of grief took me more time than usual. And I couldn’t reach the acceptance stage until now. I don’t know if enough time has finally passed or it’s because of what happened to you. I don’t know what it is, but I’m so incredibly grateful to have finally reached it.”

  I reach for her hand and hold it in my mine.

  “I cherish these things. All these memories you saved for me. You said there were things about Gabriel you couldn’t remember. I can tell you everything.”

  “It won’t be too painful for you?”

  “It will be painful until the day I die. But I feel strong enough to bear it now.”

  She talks for so long that my ass and back are aching from sitting on the concrete floor. Her voice grows hoarse, but I don’t dare stop her. I chime in with the things I can remember, and between the two of us, we do justice to Gabriel’s incredibly short life story.

  Later that night we sit on the couch, and instead of a movie, we watch the videotapes of our son that Jess found in the last box of Gabriel’s things.

  She cries, but she’s able to smile and laugh through her tears.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  JESSIE

  I can’t sleep. For the past week my mind has been on overload with thoughts of Gabriel. I can’t get enough of him. I’ve talked about him with my parents, my sister Trish, and some of my friends. I feel so energized that it’s hard to turn off my brain and settle down. Daniel sleeping peacefully beside me only adds to my happiness. Maybe it’s not that I can’t sleep, but that I don’t want to. Because I feel more alive than I have in a very long time, and I don’t want to miss a single minute of it.

  Silently, I ease back the covers and slip out of bed. In the living room I pick up a box I brought up from the basement. It’s full of CDs. I meant to go through them after dinner, but then Daniel and I watched The Shawshank Redemption and the news and went to bed.

  Daniel’s basement has been a treasure trove of memories, and I’ve become somewhat of a junkie. I’ve unearthed items in those boxes that are over a decade old.

  “I do believe you may have a hoarding problem,” I said jokingly to Daniel.

  “You realize all of this is stuff we collected together,” he said, laughing.

  “Then I’m worried about both of us.”

  After settling myself on the couch, I pull the first CD out of the box and smile. I choose four more and load them into the five-disc CD player that sits on Daniel’s bookcase.

  I sift through some more, and when I look up again, Daniel is standing in the doorway. “Did the music wake you up?”

  He shakes his head. “I couldn’t even hear it. I woke up and realized you weren’t next to me. I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

  “I couldn’t sleep. Feeling kind of wired lately.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “I found a box of our old CDs.”

  Daniel nods his head toward the stereo. “Alanis Morissette?”

  “Jagged Little Pill. Do you remember how much I loved those songs?”

  “Didn’t you have to replace the speakers in your car because of that CD?”

  I nod excitedly. “You remember!”

  The last notes of “You Oughta Know” fade away and the sound of the Wallflowers fills the room. “Where’d Alanis go?”

  “It’s on shuffle.” I pat the couch. “Come sit with me. If you’re not too tired, we can play Name That Tune.”

  “This should be good,” Daniel says with a grin.

  “Do you know this one?”

  I walk over to the stereo and turn up the volume a little. He listens carefully, but I can tell he doesn’t know it. Until Jakob Dylan sings the title phrase.

  “‘One Headlight,’” Daniel shouts.

  I cross my arms in front of my chest. “That’s cheating.”

  “Maybe so. But I’m not sure I could come up with any of these even if I hadn’t been shot in the head. Music was always your thing.”

  “It’s one of my many superfluous talents.”

  The next song after the Wallflowers has me squealing in delight.

  Daniel scrunches his forehead. “Wait. I know this one.”

  I give him a minute to come up with it on his own. “Come on,” I urge.

  He groans in frustration. “Give me a hint.”

  “Little girl in a bee costume!”

  He gives me a look like What the hell are you talking about? But then it hits him and I can almost see the sizzle as his brain waves connect. “Blind Melon. ‘No Rain.’”

  I leap to my feet and Daniel does the same. We smack our palms together in a double high five.

  “More,” he says.

  He is able to identify several songs from the Gin Blossoms with ease, especially “Hey Jealousy.” Sarah McLachlan’s “Building a Mystery” stumps him, but he claims it’s because she was always more my speed than his. “What’s Going On” by 4 Non Blondes cracks us both up. We listen to songs by Seal and TLC. The Fugees and Barenaked Ladies.

  “We had an extensive and varied music collection,” Daniel says.

  “Young kids today will not know the pleasure of buying CDs and storing them in those tall metal towers like the one we had in our first apartment. Do you remember that?”

  “No. Not really.”

  I laugh. “We used to knock it over all the time. CDs would go flying.”

  When the Backstreet Boys begin to sing, I crack up. “Oh my God, remember your hair.”

  “You loved my hair. Admit it.”

  “Shallow girl that I was, I told all my friends it was one of my favorite things about you.”

  “I rest my case.”

  “You still have great hair.”

  He reaches up and touches the spot where the bullet entered. “I don’t think it’s going to grow back in this spot.”

  “You can’t even tell.”

  When “Stay (I Missed You)” by Lisa Loeb and Nine Stories comes on, I look meaningfully at Daniel.

  “I’m not sure about this one.”

  “It’s from the movie soundtrack for Reality Bites.”

  “Did we see that one together?”

  “No, but this song will always remind me of the night we met. Someone kept playing it. Do you remember?”

  He looks at me with a blank expression. “Refresh my memory.”

  “It was at some house party off campus. One of the girls I was with was invited by one of the guys who lived there—they had a class together or something. It was just supposed to be a quick pit stop on our way to something else. I’m pretty sure we came for the free beer.”

  Daniel grins. “Naturally.”

  “Anyway, I was standing in line for the keg, and when it was my turn nothing would come out. The keg was on the porch, and you were sitting next to it on some crappy old couch with a few other people. You reached over and pumped the keg for me. When my glass was full and I looked at you to say thanks, I couldn’t speak. I mean I literally lost the ability to form words.”

  “No you didn’t.”

  “I did. I had never met a guy who was so absolutely gorgeous. When I finally snapped out of my trance, you said, ‘How does it feel?’ I was confused because I didn’t know what you meant, so I said, ‘How does what feel?’ And you said, ‘How does it feel to be the hottest girl at the party?’”

  “That’s what I said?”

  “Well, you also winked.”

  Daniel shakes his head. “Jesus. I want to invent a time machine so I can go back to 1993 and punch myself.”

  “If it’s any consolation, I melted. Right there on the porch next to that crappy couch. I followed you around like a puppy dog for the rest of the night. At one point you took me by the hand, pulled me into a dark corner, and kissed me. We were never apart after that. You used the date we met as your garage code. It took me a while to crack it, and frankly it was a desperate Hail Mary attempt. Imagine my surprise when it
worked.”

  Daniel is silent for a minute. “You were wearing a pink shirt and a miniskirt. You had a row of bracelets up one arm, and you smelled like flowers. You had the longest legs I’d ever seen. And speaking of hair, it probably took you at least an hour to do yours that night. Lots of big curls.”

  My jaw drops. “You remember?”

  “I may occasionally struggle to identify the color blue or what a lemon smells like, but it will take more than a bullet to the head to make me forget meeting the girl who would become the great love of my life. I just wanted to hear you tell the story.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  JESSIE

  Daniel’s eyes get big when I walk into the room, and he doesn’t bother to hide the way he’s looking me up and down. “Where are you going?”

  “I’m going out to dinner with Amy and Trish.”

  He looks hurt. “I remember that part. I meant where are you going for dinner.”

  I wince. Although his memory is improving by leaps and bounds, he’s still self-conscious about it, and if there’s one person who should be aware of that, it’s me. “I’m sorry. We’re going to Café Provence.”

  “Is that what you’re wearing?”

  “Yes.” I’m wearing a black-and-white dress. The cap-sleeve bodice is fitted and the skirt flares into an A-line that ends just above the knee. I’ve paired the dress with strappy high-heeled, closed-toe shoes. I’m completely overdressed, but it feels good to wear something nice after months of jeans and sneakers, which I’ve come to think of as my rehab clothes.

  “What’s that called? The way that material is all bunched up.” He points at my chest and snaps his fingers in frustration like the word is on the tip of his tongue.

  “Ruching.”

  “Oh,” he says, appearing relieved. “I’m pretty sure I never knew that word in the first place.”

  I look down at the gathers in the fabric. “Why, is there something wrong with it?”

  “Every man you talk to will be staring at your chest.”

  “No they won’t.”