A Virgin River Christmas (22 page)

“I just told you—it wasn’t too much. We were busy, yeah. But everyone felt like I did—on different levels. He was his mother’s baby—she needed that time. His father’s pride—he needed time, too. Bobby was amazing—his brothers and sisters needed that time to say goodbye.”

Ian was quiet for a moment before he said, “If I’d read the goddamn letters, I might’ve been one of the people to pitch in, in case he was thinking in there, counting faces…”

She was quiet for a moment. Then she tipped the bottle over both their glasses. “Want help finding more things to be guilty and regretful about, since your original ideas aren’t covering all the bases? As I understand it, you were barely home from a miserable war, broke up with your fiancée, fell out with your dad, left the Marine Corps, to which you thought you’d give at least twenty years. So, Bobby’s injuries were just one more thing, and all the family is so grateful you risked your life to try to save him.” She took a sip. “Ian, no one’s mad at you for not being around.”

“Yeah. You sure about that?”

She leveled him with a determined green-eyed stare. Then she snatched the pile of letters and dragged them over to her. “Let’s start right here.” She snapped off the rubber band and, once she saw they were stacked in order of delivery, lifted the first one and opened it.

“‘Dear Ian,’” she read.

“I hope you’re well. You’ve been out of sight for too, too long and I miss you so much. It would be so nice to hear from you. I want you to know that Bobby’s been moved to a wonderful nursing home. His entire family and my entire family work together to be sure that he’s always around loved ones. We help with some of his care, but there’s an awesome staff here. He’s not in pain. Really. Of course we don’t know everything, but doctors have run every test imaginable and examined him a hundred times—he feels nothing from his neck down. And he never exhibits any symptoms of tension or anxiety. I’ve been told he could make tears if he felt suffering. Ian, there are no tears. In fact, even though they say I’m crazy, I think sometimes I see the closest thing to a smile.

“My life feels strangely normal. I work at the insurance company—same job, same friends. I don’t make a lot of money but my boss is real flexible; he’s a great guy—he brings his yellow Lab to work with him every day. Bobby’s wonderful mother insists I have nights out with some of the girlfriends who were keeping me busy while the two of you were in Iraq—we even go dancing sometimes, but a couple of them are pregnant so more often we do movies, dinners out, picnics in summer and parties with our gang in winter. I seem to have inherited a really large family and huge group of friends, almost all married with families. They’re the same friends I’ve had for years—there are three girlfriends from high school I’ve known forever and four women from work I’ve known since I started there. You’d think working together every day, we’d get sick of each other—but we still drive the boss crazy talking and laughing all the time.

“I like to take my time with Bobby in the early mornings before work—but not every day. Most days, though, when he’s just coming awake, I like to be the first person he senses. Don’t laugh at me now, but I think he can smell me. He turns his head toward me and I can tell he knows. Then I like the evenings. Reading to him relaxes us both. I’ve been reading Bobby
Ivanhoe—
it’s just amazing how much I get into this story by reading aloud. I have no clue if he’s hearing me, and I’m sure he isn’t understanding me, but I almost can’t wait to get to the nursing home and start the next chapter. Bobby has read more good books since he was injured than he ever did before. I get right up on the bed with him to read and sometimes he turns his head toward me and seems to nuzzle me, burrow his head into my shoulder….”

Marcie read on, through a dozen letters, every once in a while replenishing her glass and his. At one point she got up and fixed herself a glass of cold well water, but continued on. Eventually, the letters contained more about her and less about Bobby, because of course he remained unchanged. She had written all about her trip to British Columbia, about the charm, the landscape, the friendly people. Then there was an all-girls cruise for four days, three nights. She took Ian through two years of her life as the wife of a disabled marine, as a sister, a sister-in-law, daughter-in-law, friend. There were family gatherings, new births, weddings, things that were
normal.
She had a falling-out with a close girlfriend that alienated them for a few weeks and in the next letter explained how they worked it all out. She told him about a bad haircut, about her younger brother Drew’s plethora of girlfriends and his careless ways with them. She even reported on the VW’s broken fuel pump.

The letters were more about Marcie’s life than Bobby’s. And Marcie’s life was not the torture he’d envisioned. But the thing that had him riveted was that she wrote to him as if he were an old friend. An important friend. And she always included her phone number, asking him to call her collect anytime. And she always closed with
“Miss you…”

Then came the most recent letter, written last year, telling him that Bobby had passed, sweetly and quietly, and as divine luck would have it, she had been there. Since she was only there for a couple of hours a day and took some days off on occasion, she considered this a small miracle. She was cradling his head in her arm, reading, when she realized he hadn’t moved his head or eyes or mouth in a long while. She felt for a pulse, put her face against his to see if he was breathing. “‘And I knew right away…. Not from the absence of pulse or breath really…It was as if I felt his spirit leave him. I don’t know if you’ll understand this—it was a great relief to know that all this time his spirit had been there while we all loved him so well. I had always thought it possible that his spirit had gone home long before his body would release its hold—but I swear to you, I had a fullness in my heart as though he’d passed through me as he departed. And I said, “Goodbye, darling Bobby. We’ll all miss you.” And I was so happy for him.’”

It was quite late when she’d finished reading that last letter to him. The level in the bottle was considerably lower, but they hadn’t killed it. She plunked the last envelope down on the stack and they were quiet. Ian sniffed quietly once or twice, then wiped impatiently at his eyes.

Finally Marcie said, “I might need an escort to the loo. I’m a little drunk.”

It broke through his sadness, changing his mood yet again. “You think?” he asked, smiling.

“Well, I don’t exactly have your height and girth. And I’m a small drinker—couple of beers or wines or fruity things. Truth is, I’m worried about standing up….”

He laughed at her. “No one held you down and poured it down your neck.”

“It’s awful reading letters you’ve written. All the bad sentences, terrible spelling, stupid remarks…I bet when you go to hell, they just read every letter you ever wrote out loud.”

He chuckled and stood. He said, “Come on, lightweight, I’ll take you out.” But what he thought was, they were beautiful letters. If he’d actually read them, they might have helped him get his head straight a little quicker. The one thing he’d been missing in his life—someone who cared about him—she’d offered him a long time ago.

He walked her to the outhouse, stood outside while she took her turn, then escorted her back to the cabin before making his run. She flopped on the couch and rolled over on her side without taking her boots off, without pulling up the quilt. He shook his head at her. “You’re going to sleep good.” Then he pulled her boots off and covered her.

“Hmm. That’s the last time you get me drunk, Buchanan.”

“Like I said, I didn’t hold you down.”

“I sense a problem. I got real used to the taste.” And then she hiccupped.

“I’ll be gone when you come out of it,” he reminded her. “I’ve got some wood to deliver in the morning.”

“Right. Yeah, I know that. Do I still have my library books?”

“You think I could get to the library in the hour you were gone today?”

“Oh, never mind. Good night, my sweet bear.”

Oh, God, how that made his heart swell and lurch. Before he could stop himself, he bent his lips to her temple and placed a soft kiss there. Her hand came up, stroked his hairy face, and she hummed. “The only problem with this is that I can hardly tell when you smile. I so love it when you smile.”

“Good night, lightweight.”

While Marcie slept the sleep of the drunk, Ian paged through the album of baseball cards. He imagined Bobby’s fingers on every one. Tears ran out of his eyes, washing the remorse and pain out of his soul. She might never know how much this simple gift meant.

Twelve

W
hen Marcie finally opened her eyes, there was a marching band on parade in her head—a dull thumping that seemed to have a beat. Whoa. She’d sipped her way through twelve or fourteen letters. Bad idea. But she knew where Ian kept the aspirin.

She sat up carefully. The room was in order, as Ian always left it. Even the letters were tucked away; the baseball card album still on the table where she’d left it. The coffeepot rested on the woodstove, which needed a couple of logs. She fed the stove first, then put on her boots and took a trip out back, and when she returned she just about chugged the thick, black coffee even though it wasn’t quite hot enough. A glance at her watch told her that Ian wouldn’t be back for a while, and having now learned the ways of stoves, she decided to take advantage of his absence to freshen up. She heated the water for her hair first, then the tub. Then she went through the tedious process of emptying the tub, which was more trouble than filling it. By the time she was done with all that, she was actually tired, which had more to do with staying up late and drinking than the flu. In fact, she had hardly coughed at all.

After washing her hair and bathing, she took her manicure scissors to her damaged bangs and managed to snip away the charred ends, combing it into some order. Her small makeup mirror showed she had a slight, healthy glow; the burn was healed, or nearly so. She applied a little makeup, something she hadn’t bothered with since arriving. But she’d forced her presence on Ian over and over again—it wouldn’t hurt to be presentable. She gave some attention to her eyes, lined her lips. She opened one of those cans of stew, ate about half, then she settled on the couch with her book, a new woman.

Without warning, the new woman vanished. Suddenly she knew—it was a year ago today. Funny, she hadn’t thought of that even once while she was reading through all those letters—not even the one with the date of Bobby’s passing in it. December 17, a week before Christmas.

It had been a very odd experience. Once she’d known Bobby was gone, she stayed right where she was, holding him. She didn’t cry; she didn’t call for a nurse or aide. And while she held him she communicated with her heart, telling him to be happy where he was. It was at least an hour before anyone came into the room—a sixty-year-old nurse’s aide, bringing around linens for the morning shift. “You’re here late,” the woman said.

And Marcie was stroking Bobby’s cheek, running her fingers through his hair, holding him close. She didn’t respond. She knew once she let go of him this time, she wouldn’t be able to hold him again. Something about the way she was touching him must have tipped off the aide because she came over to the bed and put her fingers to Bobby’s neck. “Mrs. Sullivan,” she said gently.

“I know. I’m having a little trouble letting go…” Marcie murmured.

“I understand. I’ll call someone for you. That usually helps. Someone will come and—”

“Could you put that off for just a little while? Could you give me just a little more time with him?”

“I’ll finish my rounds with the linens and then I’ll have the charge nurse make a call. Would you like it to be to his parents? Or maybe to your sister?”

“Call his parents,” she said. “They should be the first to know. Then would you please call Erin?”

“Sure.” Then she smiled sweetly and gave Marcie’s brow a loving stroke. Surely she’d seen every bizarre reaction to death in this place. “Take your time here. Take all the time you need.”

And when the aide left the room, Marcie had picked up the book she’d been reading to Bobby and continued to read. She read aloud to him for almost another hour—his body had grown cool to the touch. He was so completely lifeless, it rather amazed her. She would have thought there wouldn’t be much change in him, in his body, since he was so still even when he was alive, but the change in him was remarkable. She had never sensed tension in him until he passed, and then a complete relaxation settled over his facial features and he looked positively beautiful. Ethereal. Complete peace took over. And then he became so quiet. Cool. Hard. Still. Gone.

Mr. and Mrs. Sullivan came into the room and rushed to her. They found her with Bobby in her arms, the book open on her lap. “Marcie? What are you doing?”

“I wasn’t ready to leave him,” she said softly, her voice clear, her eyes dry.

“She’s in shock,” Mrs. Sullivan said to her husband. “We should call the—”

“I’m not in shock,” Marcie said. Then she laughed lightly. “Good Lord, I’ve been expecting this for three years. But now it’s here, I know I won’t touch him again and I’m having a little trouble giving him up….”

The book was pulled out of her hands, she was drawn off the bed, to her feet, away from him. His parents kissed him goodbye and the sheet was pulled over him. Marcie went to him and pulled the sheet back. There was no reason to hide him—he looked as if he was asleep. She smoothed back his soft, dark hair.

“Marcie, the mortuary was called. They’ll be here soon.”

“I’m in no hurry,” she said. It wasn’t as though there were decisions to make—all the arrangements had been made a couple of years before. They’d take him away, he’d be cremated and there would be a memorial for him. But until they took him, wasn’t he still
hers?

“He belongs to a higher authority now.” It was her sister’s voice. “You can let go of him without the slightest worry. He’s in good hands.”