The Dandelion

by Michelle Leighton

  “She’s been sick for so long,” he mutters into my hair, his voice low and scratchy with emotion. “I just don’t want her to suffer. She’s been through enough. She deserves happiness. And peace. And I…I’m doing everything I can to give her both.”

  I lean back and look up at him. “She knows that, Sam. She has to. Anyone who watches you two can see how much you love each other.”

  Staring down into my eyes, that indecipherable expression returns to Sam’s face. Neither of us steps back. He has something to say. I can tell.

  “Abi, Sara’s symptoms are going to get worse. Fast. She won’t be able to take care of Noelle, and I can’t be here all the time. I mean, I’m taking off work as much as I can already. I’ll take a leave of absence, but I have to get some things in place, people lined up to see more patients before that, and…and…”

  “What do you need, Sam? I’ll do it. Whatever it is.” His need makes me feel strong. Like I can be strong for them. Stronger than I can be for myself.

  “I hate to ask and—”

  “I want you to. What do you need? The house cleaned? Dinner cooked?”

  “No, Mrs. Sturgill already cleans the house for us. And I can take care of the cooking most nights. That’s not a problem.”

  “Well, whatever you need, whenever you need it, just say the word. I can be here, day or night. Just call.”

  Sam raises a hand and strokes the backs of his fingers down my cheek. His heart is in his eyes when he says, “Thanks, Abs. I mean it. Thank you.”

  I nod and smile, tucking my chin and taking a step back.

  Abs.

  He hasn’t called me that since the day I kissed him for the last time, before I got in the car with my mother, not knowing if and when I’d ever see him again. That was his nickname for me—Abs. No one else has ever called me that.

  Hearing it pleases me in a place so deep, so hidden and so sacred, that I feel the need to flee. To go find a quiet place in the dark where I can sort through all the ways I feel conflicted about it.

  “It’s no problem. Really.” I shove my hands into my back pockets again. “I guess I’d better get going so you can get some rest. Thank you again for dinner. It was delicious.”

  “Thanks for cleaning up,” he says, sweeping his hand to encompass the kitchen and dining areas. “I…I just…Well, I appreciate the help. That’s all.”

  “It’s the least I could do.” I grab my purse from where I sat it around the corner, out of the way. I throw the strap over my shoulder before looking back at Sam. “Call if you need me.”

  “You probably need to give me your number then.” His lips quirk like he’s suppressing a mischievous grin.

  “Oh. Duh.” I shoot a self-deprecating eye roll toward the ceiling. Sam gets his phone out and I rattle off my phone number.

  “I’ll text you tomorrow so you’ll have mine, too.”

  I nod, backing away, feeling almost desperate now to get away from the source of this clamoring that’s going on inside me. Sam’s presence is like a live wire, delivering a constant stream of electricity to thoughts and feelings and ideas that have been shut off for half a lifetime.

  “Good night, Sam. Thanks again.”

  “Good night, Abi. Sleep well.”

  “You, too.” We both know he won’t. Something tells me that Sam will be awake until the wee hours of the morning.

  CHAPTER 20

  ABI

  New Ways

  A few days later, I wake to a text from an unknown number. It takes me exactly one word to know whom it’s from.

  Sam: Abs, is there any way you’d be able to keep Noelle for a while today?

  I respond immediately.

  Me: Of course. Just let me know when and where. I’ll be there.

  Sam: You’re a lifesaver. She doesn’t want to go to daycare. She’s crying to stay at home with Sara and I feel like I should let her.

  Me: I would, too.

  Sam: I’ve got to leave for work. I’ve got patients in fifteen. Can you come over soon?

  Me: I’ll be right there.

  Sam: Great. The front door will be open. Sara will probably be in bed, so just come on in.

  Me: Bad night?

  Sam: Very.

  Me: I’m sorry.

  Sam: Yeah, me, too.

  I get out of bed and hit the shower immediately, figuring I can get coffee later. Which I do. At Sam’s.

  As instructed, I don’t bother knocking when I get there. I open the door and poke my head in, listening for signs of life. I hear the television going, but that’s it, so I make my way inside.

  I smell coffee the instant I reach the doorway to the kitchen, and I find Sara and Noelle on the couch watching Finding Dory again. I stop dead in my tracks, debating whether to go back to the door and ring the bell. But then Sara would either have to get up and answer it or risk sending Noelle to the door, not knowing for sure whom she might find. I’m still toying with my options when Sara’s soft, weak voice calls to me.

  “Help yourself to the coffee. Sam made it before he left, but it’s still good I’m sure. He makes a great cup.”

  I let my purse slide to the floor in its customary spot behind the wall at the edge of the dining room. “Thanks. Sorry if I scared you. Sam said it would be unlocked, to just come on in.”

  “Don’t apologize,” she says, sincerity coloring her voice. “Make yourself at home here. I expect to be seeing a lot of you for the next few weeks.”

  I swallow uncomfortably. The next few weeks. This woman is thinking of the rest of her life as the next few weeks. Everything she wants to do or needs to say will be lost forever if it doesn’t get done or said in a couple months’ time. Yet she’s up, watching a movie with her daughter, welcoming a stranger into her home, into her life. Into her husband’s life.

  I think I knew from the moment I met her that Sara Forrester is an exceptional woman. I know that I didn’t realize just how exceptional, though. Clearly, she’s going to squeeze every moment of life out of the time she’s got left, and I admire that more than I could ever explain to her. It’s so easy to just give up, to stay overwhelmed. To hide away inside your own head until you can’t find a way to climb back out. But Sara didn’t take the easy way. Even now, she’s fighting whether she realizes it or not.

  Once I locate the mugs, I pour myself a cup of coffee and walk into the den to perch on the opposite end of the couch. Noelle is still in her pajamas—cute, ruffled pink calypso pants and a matching shirt. She looks like a tiny Spanish dancer lording over her mother, who is like a pale china doll pretending to be her prop.

  When Sara looks over at me, the only things that move are her eyes and her lips as she smiles. I don’t know if she’s in pain or if she’s simply too tired to do anything more.

  “How are you feeling?”

  I could kick myself for the question the instant it’s out of my mouth. What’s she supposed to say? I feel great! Like a million bucks! Not at all like I’m dying.

  Unfortunately, no matter how much I wish the words back into my mouth, they’re already out and eliciting a response. Sara’s smile turns sad and she shakes her head one time. Not much of an answer, but one that speaks volumes nonetheless.

  She closes her eyes and I turn my attention to the movie, uncertain of what to do. When I look back, Sara’s chest is rising and falling evenly, and I’m pretty sure she fell asleep. That quickly.

  As I ponder what to do at this point, Noelle shifts, catching my eye. She turns more toward her mother and squats down until her face is level with Sara’s. Then, slowly, as though she’s afraid of waking her—or maybe breaking her—she leans in until their lips are pressed together.

  The action takes me by surprise. I’m not prepared for the onslaught of emotion that rockets through me. My heart lurches in my chest and I have to smother a gasp with the back of my hand. There are few things more exquisite than the love of a woman for her daughter. The love of a child for her mother is one. And it’s clear that
Noelle adores her momma.

  She holds that position for what seems like an eternity, just pressing her lips against Sara’s like she’s imparting comfort. Or maybe she’s just squeezing as much love as she can into a single kiss. I don’t know what possesses me to do it, but I’m taking my phone from my pocket and aiming it at the two female Forresters before I can think twice about it. Some moments are so precious they should be recorded. I know without a doubt this is one of them. Sam will want to see this and, one day, Noelle will, too. Many, many years from now when she has only cloudy memories of her mother, it will warm her heart to be able to see the love they shared.

  I know, for me, I treasure every picture I have of my parents, especially those showing us together. Looking at them, I can feel the emotion pouring from the glossy prints, as though its embedded in the paper itself, forever preserved and protected. Even pictures of my mother and me affect me that way. She’s not dead physically, but the woman in those photos is gone forever, so part of my heart feels as though she passed away. For all intents and purposes, I am an orphan and have been for quite some time. All I have left are pictures and memories, both of which fade with time, only one more quickly than the other.

  When Noelle leans away, her mother wakes, her lids flickering open drowsily. “Did I fall asleep?” She directs her question to me.

  I smile and nod, not trusting my voice.

  “Are you keeping Noelle until Sam gets home?”

  Again, I smile and nod.

  “Would…would you mind helping me upstairs?”

  I set my coffee down and hop up. “Of course not.”

  I approach her, reaching behind her back when she sits up, trying to recall everything I can from my years of training. I was a nurse once upon a time, in a life called “before”. Most of that has faded, too.

  Time takes everything from us eventually.

  I support and assist Sara into a standing position, and then loop my arm around her back, holding her hand with my free one. Once she feels stable, we make our way slowly toward the stairs.

  Noelle shows up on Sara’s other side, reaching out to take her right hand. “I can help, too, Mommy.”

  She wants to be a part of what’s going on with her mother, even though she can’t possibly understand much of what’s happening. That’s what love does to us. It compels us to reach out, even when we aren’t sure why. It offers a hand, a kiss, a few minutes of our time, whatever we have to give, for as long as we can give it, even when we don’t fully comprehend it.

  “You’re precious, baby girl,” Sara replies weakly, but I see her give her daughter’s hand a light squeeze.

  I can practically feel the adoration traveling between the two of them. Unspoken, but clear as a bell.

  My throat is tight and my eyes are burning. I gulp and blink repeatedly so that none of what I’m feeling will show. She doesn’t need my heartbreak right now. She needs my strength.

  Carefully, the three of us navigate the stairs and the short hall that leads to the master suite. I pay little attention to the décor, noting only that it’s done in rich creams and pale yellow, which perfectly reflects the woman of the house. Delicate. Soft. Feminine.

  The king-sized bed is unmade and Sara more or less falls onto the mattress, exhausted from the trip to the second story She labors to wiggle until she’s in a comfortable position. Her feet are nearly hanging over the end of the bed, and I want to help her move up, but I’m afraid to insist. After a full minute of debate, I cover her when she reaches for the duvet, and I leave her be. If she wants help, she’ll surely ask for it. She hasn’t hesitated to ask things of me thus far.

  “Can I bring you anything?”

  “No, thank you. Sam’s made sure I have everything I need up here. I think he knows.”

  I think he knows.

  Knows she’s dying.

  Soon.

  That’s what she’s implying.

  What do I even say to that?

  I have no idea. That’s why I say nothing. I say nothing at all.

  When I straighten and would move away, Sara reaches for my hand, gratitude shining brightly from her otherwise dull eyes. “Thank you.”

  “There’s nothing to thank me for.”

  “We both know there is. And there will be.”

  Again, I don’t respond. I only smile and give her hand a pat before I step away from the bed.

  “Noelle, do you want to come back downstairs with me and finish your movie?”

  Lip stuck out in determination, she shakes her head vigorously, platinum curls bouncing. “I’m staying with Mommy.”

  I look helplessly toward Sara, unsure of what to do. She raises one arm a bit and beckons her child with a wave of her hand. Noelle climbs up the bed and nestles in, resting her head on her mother’s shoulder. She looks like a tiny beautiful bird, safe and secure under her dying mother’s wing.

  Sara falls back to sleep immediately, and Noelle rests against her. She closes her eyes as though she knows that’s what she’s supposed to do, and she feigns sleep until her chest, too, begins to rise and fall with the rhythm of real slumber. Once more, impulsively, I take out my phone and capture the two of them together.

  As I watch the pair, I’m overcome with a profound sense of tragedy and loss. This is so unfair. For Sara. For Noelle. For Sam. And while Sara seems to think my presence will fix that, I know in my heart that it won’t. Losses like this can’t be fixed. They leave scars that never go away. Not completely. Sara will leave hers behind when she goes on to a better place where there will be no more sadness. But Noelle and Sam… They will be stuck here. Without her. Without Sara, but with all the pain.

  Noelle will heal quickly. She’s young and resilient, too young to be hurt as deeply as someone who fully understands. I was young when my father died. Not as young as Noelle, but still young enough to be selfish and not feel the loss as deeply as those older than me. She will feel the loss in different ways, and it will change as she ages. She will feel it when she can’t talk to her mother about school or mean girls or cute boys. She will feel it when she can’t ask her advice or get a hug or when she needs a mother’s kiss to a scraped knee. Noelle will suffer eventually.

  And Sam will suffer with her.

  He will hurt. Now and later. For a long time, he will hurt. He will think and rethink things. He will list his regrets and wish he had do-overs. He will mourn her, curse her, and then mourn her again. He will feel loss and guilt and emptiness and hopelessness. And he will have to survive it all with a smile on this face because he has a little girl to think of.

  All of this, and Sara Forrester expects me to be able to help. She expects that my presence will somehow ease their pain. She expects that I can replace her. She thinks that’s not what she’s asking, but it is. She wants me to pick up where she left off and raise her child and heal her husband. On the surface, I’d be more than happy to do that. As disgustingly traitorous as that sounds, I could very easily fall in love with this family. I could very easily let myself care so much about them that they feel like mine.

  The problem is, she doesn’t know that by inviting me into their life, she could well be increasing their pain, not alleviating it. Because she doesn’t know me. She doesn’t know what I’ve been through. What I’ve done. What still lies ahead for me.

  She doesn’t know because I didn’t tell her.

  Oh, God!

  I flinch as a wave of nausea rolls through my stomach.

  Oh, Jesus, what have I done?

  I try to keep my steps measured as I make my exit, but it’s hard. Everything in me wants to run, as far and as fast as I can. Only I can’t. I can’t leave her. Not like this. Not this way.

  So I flee as far as I can, which is outside to the hall, and I close the bedroom door behind me. Even that much separation feels mandatory, like I wouldn’t be able to breathe without it.

  I lean back against the wall and clamp a hand over my mouth to keep any noise from coming out. I hide it all fro
m Sara because she doesn’t need trouble like me. Maybe that’s why I haven’t told her everything. Right now, I’m a lifeline to her. A lifeline to the safety and security of her family. I am the one thing that is giving her peace before she dies. At least the hope of me is.

  Only that hope isn’t real.

  The woman she thinks she knows isn’t real.

  I squeeze my eyes shut, but the tears leak out anyway. They pour, unchecked, over my cheeks. I slide down the wall until I’m sitting on the ground, and I let myself cry. Silently, helplessly, I let myself cry.

  I don’t know how long it is before I move.

  ********

  An hour has passed. Noelle hasn’t come back down and Sara hasn’t made another appearance, not that I really expected she would. She’s done. Done trying. Fading quickly. Anyone with eyes can see that.

  I don’t know what to do. Sam isn’t home and I don’t know when to expect him. He asked me to take care of Noelle, presumably so that Sara could rest, only Noelle isn’t down here. She’s with Sara. So what am I to do? Just leave her up there until she comes down on her own? Find something to do upstairs so I can hear Sara if she calls out for me to get her daughter? Go up and wake Noelle, make her come downstairs?

  None of those feels right.

  Am I being ridiculous for making this too hard? Am I overthinking things? I have a nasty habit of doing that, so it’s possible. Even probable.

  I wander through the house, thinking and rethinking. Rethinking and overthinking. I stumble upon the laundry room, tucked neatly behind the kitchen, beside the garage. There is a shoot that leads from the second story and a basket beneath it that’s overflowing with clothes. Without hesitating, I dig in, separating the pile into colors, whites and towels, and dumping a load into the washer.

  As I amble back through the kitchen, I notice a green light on the dishwasher, so I pull open the door and check the contents. There is water on the tops of the glasses and they’re still hot from the heated dry. I search the drawers for a dishtowel and begin to dry and put away the clean dishes.