Lily Love (23 page)

When Lily first started to have severe problems, my anxiety was barely manageable. After putting her down for her afternoon nap, I’d spend those two hours baking. Come to think of it, that was the only thing I found calming at the time. I guess that hasn’t changed much.

An hour and a half later, I have a steaming casserole dish full of baked ziti. The house smells like an Italian restaurant. I feel purged of my escalating panic, until I realize I’ve just created another problem.

What the hell are you going to do with all this food, Caro?

Crap. I hadn’t really thought that far. At least back in my baking days, I could send the treats to the office with Peter. I don’t exactly have that kind of liberty now. Tate said he wasn’t hungry, but maybe the hospice center has a kitchen where visiting families can store food. I grab my phone and look up the main number. As the phone is ringing, I start to lose my nerve and wonder if I should just hang up and send the food next door to my neighbors.

“St. Joseph’s Hospice Center, Roxy speaking.”

“Uh, hi. I was just wondering if there’s kitchen space available for the families of your patients.”

“Sure,” Roxy replies. “There’s a stove, oven, and refrigerator for everyone to share. However, you should know there’s really no need for any patient families to cook. We get a lot of food donations from the community and local churches.”

“Oh,” I say, as the lightbulb in my head goes on. “So if I wanted to bring in a covered dish, any visitors could enjoy it. Not just a specific family?” This could be a really good thing. I can indulge my need to stress-cook and St. Joseph’s can reap the benefits.

“Absolutely,” Roxy answers. “It’s a really great way to show some love. Most people who have family members here forget to eat at the regular times. It’s nice to have things available for them whenever they think to stop for a bite.”

A plan forms in my mind. “When I bring by my dish, do I have to sign in or something?”

“Just let the receptionist at the front desk know why you’re there, and she will make sure it gets to the kitchen,” she chirps.

“Great, will do,” I reply. “Thanks, Roxy.”

I barely have time to end my phone call when the doorbell rings, sending Lily into a spastic sprint for the front door. She opens it and jumps into her father’s arms, covering his face with wet kisses.

“Daddy here, Mama!” she sings.

It makes my heart swell with joy to see her so happy to see her dad. It’s easy to get caught up in the things that are difficult about raising a child like Lily. The rare and precious things are harder to hold on to when you feel like you’re jumping from one crisis to the next. Watching Lily dote on her father is a beautiful reminder of how deeply she feels things. She loves without limits, pouring her little heart into everyone she comes into contact with. She may not be hitting cognitive goals, but she excels in the areas of empathy and compassion. I relish the moments like this, when I’m reminded of what a gift she is. I can’t imagine my life without her.

Peter approaches me cautiously, still carrying Lily in his arms. “It smells incredible in here, Caroline.” He stops, leaving ample space between us.

“Thanks,” I mumble, suddenly feeling uncomfortable. I don’t want to make Peter a part of anything I’m doing for Tate, but I need help. “Would you help me carry this out to the car?” I point at the Pyrex dish cooling on the counter.

“Sure.” He sets Lily on her feet and grabs the oven mitts. “Ziti? Who’re you taking this to?” His question is innocent; I don’t sense any animosity in his tone. Still, I don’t want to get into it with him.

“St. Joseph’s Hospice Center,” I say. “I heard that the community can bring food for the families of patients. I thought it would be nice.” I’m not lying, but I’m not being completely honest, either.

“That is really nice,” he agrees as he carries the ziti out to my car. The awkwardness between us is so thick I could slice it into pieces and serve it up on crackers. Peter and I shuffle around each other, unsure of what to say or do. I take refuge on the far side of my car and sigh in relief when he takes Lily’s hand and leads her to his car.

“Here,” I offer, “I’ll grab her bag from the foyer.” I dash into the house, grateful for the momentary diversion. I check and double-check her bag, making sure she has all her meds, clothes, Bun the Bunny. I rush back outside and hand Lily’s things to Peter. “Everything is here, Peter. If she’s missing something for some reason, just call me.”

“If I need something, I’ll figure it out.” He shrugs. “It’s about time I did, right?”

I can’t help but smile. I’m proud of him.

“You’ll be fine.” I nod, and I know he will be. I don’t have any special insight that he doesn’t. I’m good with Lily because I didn’t have the choice not to be. When there isn’t someone there to tell you how you’re supposed to navigate this stuff, you figure it out on your own. That’s the thing about being a parent to a child with special needs: there’s no way to gauge what you’re capable of. You never know how much you can handle until you don’t have a choice. Those are lessons we have to
learn on our own, and Peter’s mettle will be tested just like mine was, and that’s the way it should be.

“You’re a great dad, Peter.”

And I know in my heart he will be.

something to say

M
y palms begin to sweat against the steering wheel as I make the left turn into the parking lot at St. Joseph’s. I find a close spot to park in and start the process of meditative breathing to calm my frazzled nerves. Om . . . positivity in . . . om . . . negativity out . . .

Namaste, you crazy bitch.

I tap my forehead on the steering wheel, trying to figure out how to silence the ornery voice in my head. She’s getting awfully snarky, and I’m starting to bristle at her rolling commentary.

A soft knock on the window elicits a bloodcurdling yell from me. Tate opens my door and peers in sheepishly.

“We’ve got to stop meeting like this.” He chuckles.

All of a sudden the whole scene is so absurd to me, I double over with laughter. Tate attempts to look concerned, but is fighting back the urge to join me. He looks constipated, which only makes me laugh harder, watery eyes and all.

“You scared the crap out of me,” I manage when I can breathe again.

“I saw you pull in,” he explains. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“It’s all good.” I smile up at him as he holds out his hand. Warm bliss envelops me as he pulls me from the car, into his arms. Then he kisses me senseless, right in the middle of the parking lot.

“
Now
it’s all good,” he whispers into my ear. I lean against the doorframe so I don’t dissolve into the asphalt. Sweet baby carrots, that boy can
kiss
. “What’s that wonderful smell?” He sticks his head in the car and breathes deeply.

“I know you said you weren’t hungry, but I made something you and Tarryn can have later when you are. It’s okay if you don’t want it; the nurse at the front desk said that stuff like this can be shared with everyone. So, no pressure . . .” I ramble.

“You made this for me?” Tate picks up the dish and smiles warmly at me. I feel bashful and self-conscious, so I give a noncommittal shrug.

“Well, you know, I don’t want you to starve or anything.” He closes the car door and turns to face me, pinning me with an intense stare.

“You’re taking care of me.” There is no question about it. It’s very much a statement. “This means more than you could possibly know.”

“I bet I can guess.” I run my hand along the stubble on his cheek and let his caramel eyes consume me. “You have a mother and sister you need to be strong for, but you thought there was no one to be strong for you.”

He clears his throat.

I wrap my arm around his waist, and he wraps his around my shoulders. Even when we’re side by side, there’s a fierceness with which he holds on to me, and yet he’s gentle in his mindfulness of my arm. That’s exactly how I’d explain his affection for me. He never holds back from showing me how impassioned his feelings are, but he’s always delicate with the way he handles mine. I never knew anyone could regard me that way.

Pulling me in closely, he kisses the top of my head. I place my hand on his chest to keep from falling over. I let him hold me this way until the frantic racing of his heart slows beneath my hand.

“Let’s get this food inside, and then you can fill me in on how things are going,” I say.

The first thing I notice when we step inside is how quiet it is. It’s peaceful, and absolutely heartbreaking. A petite nurse with a bouncy blond ponytail waves as we step into the reception area.

“Hey, I’m Roxy. I think I spoke to you on the phone.” She smiles widely at Tate and me.

“How could you tell?” I ask, surprised.

“Most of the goodies we get are sweets or deli platters. When I talked to you earlier, you said you were bringing in a ‘dish.’ ” She gestures toward the casserole Tate’s holding.

Tate leans in and mock-whispers in my ear, “You offered up my ziti to everyone?”

Roxy laughs. “There’re also labels in the kitchen for people to mark what they don’t want to share.”

I blush a deep red and elbow Tate in the ribs. “I didn’t know if my cooking would be received well, and I didn’t want it to go to waste.”

“Anything you make for me won’t only be received well, but will be held in the highest regard.” He kisses my hand, and my face flames even more.

“Oh, he’s smooth, girl. You’d better keep your eye on him or he’ll run away with your heart,” Roxy teases. I force a smile on the outside as my own heart bounces in my chest. Roxy’s innocent comment strikes so close to the truth.

“Only if she agreed to run away with me,” Tate returns with his heart-stopping smile. Roxy cocks her head to the side and looks me in the eye.

“Is he for real?” she asks, and all I can do is nod my head. What I really want to do is correct him and say, “You mean me
and
Lily, right?” But he can’t have an opinion on something I’m unwilling to discuss. I really need to stop being such a chicken.

“Wow.” She sighs wistfully. “You’re in trouble.”

I know I am.

We make our way to the kitchen, where Tate grabs a couple of plates to fill and label for himself and Tarryn. A quick look around the
kitchen area makes me feel even better about my new project. There are pans of cookie bars, containers full of muffins and pastries. In the fridge there’re fresh fruit and vegetable platters, but nothing to really make a meal out of.

“Whatcha thinking about?” Tate asks, just before he takes a bite from the plate he’s made. I smile to myself at the sight of him devouring my cooking.

“Just that I’m glad I brought something to eat,” I answer. “There doesn’t seem to be much more than snack food here. It makes me feel good. That’s all.” I don’t tell him that I want to continue to bring in cooked meals. I’m going to do it because I want to, not for his recognition or praise.

“This is wonderful, really superb,” he mutters between bites.

“Thank goodness, because it would’ve been really awkward if it’d sucked.” I laugh.

We sit in comfortable silence while Tate eats and I watch. It gives me time to think, which can be a good or bad thing, depending on how you look at it. I’m going to take it as a good thing for the moment.

What I feel for Tate and what I hope he feels for me is real. That’s not really the issue, though. How we move forward from here—now,
that
is an issue. Tate is good at making me feel like I’m the most amazing woman in the world, and God help me, I don’t ever want him to stop. I’d like to think that I’ve done my fair share of making him feel like the incredible man he is. What I want is for us to be able to talk about what’s going on, outside of swooning, with the same candor we’ve shared so far. I hope more than anything that when Tate’s had his fill of pasta, he’ll fill me in on what happened to make him so forlorn earlier. Perhaps sensing my weary thoughts, he lifts his eyes to mine and heaves a heavy sigh.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” he says. I hold my breath and wait to see what he’ll say next. “This place is such a blessing, but it’s all so overwhelming. I don’t know what I’m going to feel from one minute to the next—grateful that there is a place like this to help me take care of my
mom, guilty for not being able to take care of her on my own, or angry we’re here at all. It’s exhausting.” He leans back in his chair, tipping his head toward the ceiling.

Empathy can be such a contradiction. It allows me to identify with Tate’s pain, but it can’t help me resolve it.

Be careful what you wish for.

Wish, the most foul four-letter word there is. No one ever seems to get what they wish for. Life is just one fable after another, stories threaded together to teach us lessons about what we think we want and what we really need. I can’t recall a single one in which a character wished for something, got it, and lived happily ever after. I want my happily ever after, dammit.

I drag a chair up and sit next to Tate. His head still tilted back, he rakes his fingers through his hair. I’m not even sure if he realizes I’ve moved.

There have been so many times when the weight of what was happening around me was too much. I just shut down, blocking out everything and everyone. Self-preservation doesn’t always work, no matter what some might say. It preserved absolutely nothing for me to shut the world out. Peter and my family watched, unsure of what they should do. Until there was nothing left to do but pacify one another with, “Just give her some space; she’ll come around.” I never did, and eventually they all grew tired of waiting for me to snap out of it.

I place my hand on Tate’s knee; I don’t have words to lessen his pain. More often than not, there isn’t a solution, and that’s where I could really fail again. It took too long for me to accept that there was no way to cure Lily’s disability. I wasted so much time searching for a resolution when the only one that could be made was acceptance. I hope more than anything that Tate can find that acceptance of Lily, too.

I know better now than to try to solve the unsolvable; I can’t cure his mother’s cancer. I’m not going to fall into the trap of telling him that she’s going to be in a better place, or that her suffering will end soon. That isn’t what he needs to hear from me. Honestly, he doesn’t
need me to say anything. I want him to know he’s being heard, and that his pain isn’t going to scare me off just because I can’t fix it. I’ve learned the hard way that sometimes it’s not about what we can fix, but what we have to learn to accept.