Days of You and Me (26 page)

Quinn:
Oh wow. That’s incredible. It’s a great idea.

Leo:
Do you really think so? I wondered if maybe Gia would want to be part of setting it up. I was going to call her tomorrow.

Quinn:
It would probably be good for her. She’s still struggling so much.

Leo:
I’m going to sound all corny and shit and say maybe it would give us both a little closure.

Quinn:
Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone you used that word. Your secret is safe with me.

Leo:
I always knew I could trust you, Mia. So are you really doing okay out there? You know you can be real with me.

Quinn:
Thanks, Dr. Leo. ;) Yeah, I am. It was hard at first, but I’m settled now, and I like what I’m doing. I’m getting used to living in the city . . . I haven’t met anyone yet outside the Crockers and some of the people who work for them, but I’m not as homesick as I was.

Leo:
I’m glad. Still miss you, though.

Quinn:
Still miss you, too.

Leo:
I was thinking—shit. They’re coming down the hall, and Danny is yelling for me to get my ass out there before he drags it out. Help.

Quinn:
Is it terrible that I’m giggling?

Leo:
Yeah, it is. Okay, I’m saying goodnight before they find me texting you. Danny’s so wasted, he might steal my phone again and send you selfies you just can’t unsee.

Quinn:
Ummm . . .?

Leo:
Trust me on this, babe. They wouldn’t be of his face.

Quinn:
Eww.

Leo:
Exactly. Good night, Mia.

Quinn:
Good night and good luck.

“So here’s where we stand.” I angled my laptop so that Allan and Kara could see the screen. “We’ve covered Allan’s early life, college, when you two met . . .” I flashed them a broad smile, which only grew brighter when I saw the not-so-secret glance they exchanged. For a couple who’d been married for over thirty years and had been through what they had, the fact that they still had a romance that clearly burned so hot was inspiring. It made me want what they had—and it gave me a glimmer of hope that maybe it was still possible for me.

“We’ve also finished the sections of the book about Allan’s pro football career, how you both started up the restaurant and then how it went nationwide with the franchise. We’re done with the part about establishing the charity and how others can get involved with it.” Dropping my hands from keyboard, I turned to them. “The only thing left for us to discuss is Gunner. His birth, his childhood . . . and um, his passing. We have bits and pieces of his story woven into the rest of it, but we haven’t tackled the chapter that’s only about him.”

Kara sighed. “Half of me wants to work on that one, because remembering this way . . . it’s been like having him back again, sort of. And the other half is terrified that going back to that time is going to hurt too much.”

I laid my hand on hers. Over the past three months, I’d grown especially close to this woman. She was a little younger than my own mom, but we had so much in common, even besides our connection to the disease that had taken both Nate and Gunner. Kara was warm and open, not afraid to share tears or laughter or even blushing secrets about her love life. She’d been the force who’d pulled me into life again in so many ways, dragging me with her to lunches and other events for their charity, in the name of giving me a clearer picture of what they did. Every now and then, Kara would declare that she and I were both in danger of testosterone poisoning from all the guys who worked with the Crockers, and she’d whisk me off for a spa day. I’d been spoiled in so many ways; she and Allan treated me more like family than like the ghostwriter who was helping their book come to life.

Allan slung an arm around his wife’s shoulders. “The best way to do this is to dive right in and get it done. We’re together. We can handle it.”

“We can take it slow if you want. How about I start with some of the questions I have, and you can use those as jumping off points?”

Kara nodded. “Okay. Shoot.”

I hit a few keys and brought up the list I’d made earlier in the week. “Let’s talk about your pregnancy. Did you plan to start a family when you did, and how did you feel when you found out you were expecting?”

For the next three hours, Allan and Kara shared their most precious, private memories with me. Allan spoke about his joy when they’d discovered Kara was pregnant, after a few years of trying, and how excited he’d been when they’d learned they were having a boy. Kara talked about the terror of going into preterm labor and her efforts to stall the birth as long as possible, followed by the emergency caesarian that had brought Gunner into the world, as well as the fight to keep him alive in those early days.

Once they’d been able to bring him home, the couple had faced a new challenge. “Gunner was born in the spring time, so I was able to be with Kara at the hospital every day,” Allan explained. “But the week after he came home, I had to report to training camp. It was excruciating to have to choose between where I wanted to be—at home with my family—and where I needed to be, honoring my commitment to my team and making sure I could provide for all the special care Gunner was going to require.”

Listening to them describe Gunner’s early childhood and elementary school brought back vivid memories of Nate. I remembered back to the days when he couldn’t walk without his walker and how frequently he’d missed school because of doctors’ appointments. I recalled how starkly different Nate had been from the rest of the kids, and the daily battle I’d fought to be his friend, even when it was hard to make that choice.

Kara leaned over and patted my arm. “Are you okay, sweetheart? Is this too much for you?” Both Allan and Kara knew my story as well as I knew theirs. It had seemed only fair; they’d heard all the details about my relationships with Nate and with Leo, and I had a hunch that knowing my past helped them to be more open with me. They realized that I related to what they were saying.

“I’m fine.” I managed a weak smile. “Sometimes the more recent memories crowd out what it was like when we were kids. I’d almost forgotten how many times I had to choose between Leo and Nate . . . and how much I hated having to do that.” Shaking my head, I took a deep breath. “But don’t worry about me. This is
your
story. I should be the one asking if you two need a break.”

Kara glanced at her husband, and they both shook their heads. “No, let’s keep going. And then once we’re done, the three of us are going out to dinner, to Cotogna. We’re going to have several stiff drinks, as much pasta as we want, and Italian rum cake for dessert. We’ve earned it.”

Gunner’s childhood had differed from Nate’s in that his disease progressed more rapidly, despite aggressive treatment. Kara spoke almost without expression about the many hospital stays, their decision to homeschool their son when they’d realized that traditional school wasn’t an option, given his frequent absences, and how much she’d enjoyed teaching Gunner herself. Allan’s brow wrinkled as he haltingly shared how supportive his team had been over those years.

“I was never a star, you know? I had fair talent, but if I’d stepped away as soon as Gunner was born, it wasn’t going to sink the team. But my guys still had my back. They showed up to the hospital when we weren’t sure if he was going to make it—at least one of them would stop by each day. Their wives made us meals, and they drove Kara to the hospital if I couldn’t do it. Each time he got sick, they were there for us.” Allan slid his hand into his wife’s. “We’d left our extended families back in New York when I was drafted by San Francisco, so we were alone out here on the West Coast. But it turned out we weren’t. Those guys and their wives—they became our family.”

“And they still are,” Kara added. She sniffed, and I could see the emotion playing on her face. “Every year on Gunner’s birthday, the wives still take me out to lunch.” She shrugged. “Well, you’ve seen that firsthand, how wonderful they are.”

I had indeed. I’d been in town about a month when the anniversary of Gunner’s birth had rolled around. Kara had invited me to join her that day, and I’d been amazed by the love these women had showered on their friend. Some of them had been there with her from the first day of her son’s life, and some had never even met Gunner—they were newer to the organization. Yet to a woman, they’d hugged her and shared in the simultaneous joy and pain of that day.

“They remember Gunner with us, and that’s the most important thing to a parent who has lost a child.” Kara stared beyond me, her lips pressed together. “So often we feel as though we’re the only ones who’ll remember him, who will talk about him and laugh and cry over his memory. But we’re not alone.”

We moved from there into the more difficult recollections of Gunner’s death. It was reminiscent of Nate’s last days, although of course Nate had been six years older. Still, from what his parents said, Gunner had displayed remarkable clarity about what was going on and his understanding of death.

“He’d made friends with a Jesuit priest a few years before. Neither Kara nor I were religious people, really, but this guy and Gunner met in the hospital and really hit it off. They’d had some deep talks about the transition of death. Gunner told us that he believed he’d never really be separated from us, because once he’d crossed out of this world, time and space would no longer have meaning. So although we’d perceive the time between his death and our own, on this side of the divide, to him, it would be simultaneous.”

“The last thing he said to us was, ‘I’ll see you on the other side in just a minute.’” Kara smiled through tears. “He passed a few hours later, but I believe that for him, it’s as he said. When we meet again, it’ll be as though no time has gone by at all.”

A drop of salty tears slid over my lips, surprising me. I hadn’t realized I was crying with them. “Do you really think that’s what it’s like?”

Allan lifted one broad shoulder. For a guy who’d been out of the game for over a decade, he was still in killer shape. “I don’t know. But if it was good enough for Gunner, then it’s good enough for me. Besides, in the absence of any hard proof either way, I think it’s perfectly reasonable to default to what gives us comfort.”

I nodded. “That makes sense.” Using the tissue I’d wadded up in my hand earlier, I wiped my eyes. “I wish I’d known Gunner. I feel like I do, through what you’ve told me, but he sounds like he was an incredible kid.”

“He was.” Kara grinned. “Now don’t get me wrong. He wasn’t perfect, by any means. He had his moments when he drove us crazy. One of the things both Allan and I learned through counseling after Gunner died was how important it is not to re-write history and make the person who passed away into some kind of saint. We need to remember people for how they were, not for how we wish they were.”

I sat back in my chair. “That’s . . . really interesting. I think over the past few months, I haven’t let myself think of Nate as anything but the guy who’d do anything for me. The one who stuck by me all the time.”

“And I’m sure he was,” Kara agreed. “But from an outsider’s point of view, I have to say that what he asked of you was a little selfish. I mean, I understand from what you’ve told us that Nate loved you. And I get that he wanted a taste of normal life, a little bit of what might have been, before his time was over. But he put you into a horrible position. There was no good choice to make, and although you chose what many people would probably consider the more noble one, Nate had to have known what it was costing you.”

“I think he did. Maybe that’s why he was trying to talk to me about the future. He might have felt a little guilty about everything toward the end . . . and he was trying to point me in the right direction for afterward.”

“But see, Quinn, you’re doing it again. You’re justifying Nate’s behavior. There comes a point where you have to admit to yourself that he was wrong to put you in that position in the first place, no matter how he might have tried to make up for it later. It doesn’t mean you have to stay angry at him, but you can’t forgive him until you acknowledge it.”