So Much More (10 page)

Her hand is still on my back. It’s still apprehensive and apologetic. “But you need it. I’ve watched you struggle for a month now,” she whispers.

“I don’t want it,” I repeat. I’m not angry; it’s an admission. My back is still turned to her, making it easier to deliver the words.

“Why?” It’s one of the softest things I think I’ve ever heard. Not soft as it relates to volume, but soft as it relates to comfort.

It prompts me to share one of my biggest fears. “There are stages to the progression of this disease. I feel like if I already give in and use the cane that the inevitability of a wheelchair isn’t far behind.
I do not want to be in a wheelchair.
That scares the hell out of me.” I’ve barely let that thought cross my mind; I can’t believe I just verbalized it to another person.

“Don’t let fear rule you.” She’s not whispering anymore, but there’s no edge to her voice. It’s still soft. Still comforting. A soft place to land if I fall.

“I don’t.” It sounds like a question.

A question that she responds to. “You do. It takes one to know one.”

I huff out a laugh, if this weren’t such a serious conversation, it would have been more convincing. “You’re not scared of anything. I may not know you well, but I know enough. You’re researching life for fuck’s sake. You’re engaged in it. You give new neighbors mangos when they move in, and you help the lady next door when her pipe breaks, and you give strangers hugs on the beach. You’re not scared.”

Her hand moves up and down my back slowly; it’s soothing like the waves. “That doesn’t mean I’m not scared.” Her voice is raw. This is her being real, baring a piece— a very private piece— of herself to me.

“Why do you give free hugs at the beach?” I ask. I have a feeling her voice won’t change.

“It started out as part of my research.” She takes a deep breath. “Because everyone deserves love. A hug is a display of love that begins on the physical end of the spectrum but bleeds into the emotional end of the spectrum if you let it, if you give into it. It’s the most innocent, pure form of physical human connection there is. It only takes two willing people, who don’t even have to know each other, to participate. Two willing people who want that exchange. It’s so easy, but there are people who never get them.
People who never get them
,” she repeats softly, it’s a confession.

The confession breaks my heart and prompts my next question. “You said it started out as part of your research, which leads me to believe that your hug research ended or it morphed into something else. So, why do you still do it?”

“Because, it reminds me I’m not alone.” There’s sadness and fear in her voice, something I cannot, and will not, ignore.

I turn and don’t hesitate to fold her into my arms. “You’re not alone,” I whisper. She doesn’t hesitate in wrapping her arms around me. I picture her in my mind holding Kira on the beach. I know what this embrace looks like, because I’ve seen this display, and it feels every bit as loving as it looked. It’s strong, all-encompassing, and accepting on the outside and sweet and gentle on the inside. I feel her muscles flex because they take this seriously. I feel each inhalation and exhalation transfer peace and calm from her body to mine. Physically, I’m much bigger than she is, but she surrounds me with her being. With her energy. I hug my kids several times a day, but it’s been years since I hugged an adult. Miranda was never much of a hugger.

When we part, perhaps a minute has passed, and Faith smiles at me through teary eyes. “Thank you. You might need your own sign.” She sniffles through the smile and points at me. “People are definitely missing out. You’re good.”

That makes me smile. “Oh yeah?”

“I’ve hugged a lot of people, Seamus. You may have just dethroned and taken over the top spot.” Her eyes tell me that was both truth and compliment.

I nod, and I want to tell her that aside from my kids, because their hugs are some of the most cherished things in my life, her hug was the best hug I’ve ever experienced.
 

The best
.
 

I didn’t know people could hug your soul with their soul.
 

Faith can.

He’s not perfect anymore

past
 

“Mrs. McIntyre, there’s an urgent call from Seamus’s school. I think you should take it,” Justine, my assistant, says from the doorway of my office. Her voice sounds urgent and concerned.

I don’t have time for urgent or concerned. “Take a message,” I command.

“It’s Seamus. They’ve taken him to the hospital.” I look up, and she’s piercing me with her eyes. She’s always direct.

I sigh. The first thing that runs through my mind is, I’m going to have to leave work early and pick up the boys from daycare. And I don’t even remember where their daycare is. Goddammit, I don’t have time for this. “Put the call through,” I huff.

“Mrs. McIntyre? This is Janet.” She says it like I’m supposed to know who Janet is.

“I don’t have time for chit chat. What happened?” I say while reading through an email on my laptop screen at the same time.

I hear her stunned irritation through the receiver before she answers, “It’s Seamus. He’s been taken to the hospital. He says he can’t feel his legs from the waist down. He said it started this morning. He’s scared and asked that I call you because he’s left several messages on your cell phone today and you hadn’t answered him.”

I pick up my cell phone from my desk and look at the missed calls and voicemails. Twelve. All from Seamus. I toss my phone back on my desk. “I’ve been busy. Meetings. Trying to run a company,” I offer flatly. How dare she try to call me out.

“He’s at Mercy General,” she adds.

I hang up without acknowledging the information and glance at the time on my laptop. Four o’clock. Daycare is open until seven o’clock I’m guessing. I tap the button on my phone for Justine.

“Yes?” Justine answers. She still sounds concerned.
 

“Find out what daycare the boys are at. And what time they close,” I order before tapping the disconnect button.

Ten minutes later Justine calls. I pick up the receiver, and she immediately starts talking because she knows I don’t like to waste time with greetings. “They’re at Big Hearts Daycare. I have the address and phone number for you. They close at five-thirty.”

“Five-thirty?” I question incredulously. “That can’t be right. Call them back, there must be some mistake.”

“I’ve just confirmed with them that they close at five-thirty,” she challenges. Justine is feisty and outspoken, which I usually appreciate because she’s using it on others in my favor. I don’t appreciate it being turned on me.

“Confirm. Again,”
I grit out.

Justine confirms with the daycare again. And then confirms with me again. Five-thirty. Fuck. I don’t have time for this. I have emails to answer and a report to complete and get to Loren by midnight tonight.

I leave the office at five-thirty to pick up the boys.

It’s six o’clock when I walk into Big Hearts Daycare. The woman seated in a chair holding a sleeping Rory in her lap greets me. “Can I help you?” She looks exhausted, but with a patience that only a loving heart can display to a stranger.
What a sap
, I think.

I point to Rory and say, “You’re holding my son.”
 

When I say it, Kai walks out of a door with signage that reads
Boys
, I’m assuming the bathroom, and looks at me with mild shock racing across his features. “Where’s Daddy?”

“He’s at the hospital. Get your stuff. Hurry up. We need to go.” I know I probably should’ve softened that so I don’t scare him, but I’m too irritated to censor.

“The hospital?” he questions timidly. Kai has always been softhearted. He’s so much like his father, not an ounce of me in him.

“Yes. Hurry up,” I repeat.

The woman holding Rory looks as if she’s driving by the scene of a horrendous car accident, mouth gaping, eyes wide with alarm. “Oh my goodness, is Seamus okay?” she asks with a tremble in her voice. “I’ve been trying to call his cell, and he didn’t answer, which is so unlike him. I tried the back-up emergency number, too—your cell number, Mrs. McIntyre—but there was no answer.”

I think back on my phone ringing from my purse as I drove here. I ignored it. So, I lie, “My phone didn’t ring. Must have a bad number.”

“Is he okay?” she repeats.

“I don’t know. I’m sure he’s fine. It’s nothing life threatening if that’s what you’re asking.” Numbness hardly indicates he’s on the precipice of death.

She looks at me oddly, judging me for my lack of concern I’m sure, and says, “I need to see some ID, please, to release the boys to you.”

I look at the ceiling and shake my head as the frustration in me mounts. “Goddammit, I’m their mother. What do you need ID for?”

“Security purposes,” she says as she stands with Rory in her arms.

I dig through my purse for my wallet and instruct, “Wake him up and put him down.”

“Don’t you want to carry him out to your car?”

I widen my eyes to reinforce the point that I’m done with this conversation. “No. I don’t. He’s three. He can walk.”

She begins talking softly to him as she looks over my ID. His eyes flutter open, and a look of confusion momentarily takes over his sleepy eyes. “Sweetheart, your mommy is here to take you home. Can you wake up, honey?”

Rory blinks several times and then looks at me. “Mom?” he questions, as if me standing here is an impossibility. He’s always been the straightforward, outspoken one of the two boys. No doubt this one’s mine. He knows how to push my buttons.
 

“Yes, Rory. Let’s go.” The last five minutes of motherhood have already exhausted me; I don’t know how Seamus does this shit every day.

“Where’s Daddy?” he asks.

Kai answers, “He’s at the hospital. We need to make sure he’s okay.” There are tears dripping down his cheeks as he says the words.

Rory wiggles in the woman’s arms, and she puts him down. He immediately goes to his brother and hugs him, attaching himself to his side. This need to comfort is Seamus through and through. It’s a good thing he’s the one parenting or these two would likely be stabbing each other in the back instead of hugging it out.

When we get to the car, I open the door of my Mercedes convertible and push the driver’s seat forward so the boys can crawl into the cramped backseat.
 

“What about our booster seats, Mom?” Kai asks.

“Shit,” I mutter under my breath. I hadn’t thought of that. They’ve never ridden in my car. “We’re not using them tonight. Buckle your brother in,” I instruct.

It’s almost seven o’clock when we walk into the emergency room entrance of Mercy General. It smells like antiseptic, sanitizer, bodily fluids…and suffering. I hate hospitals. They remind me of my grandmother. She died four days after sustaining injuries from a car accident. I was driving the car. The front tire blew out and put us into a ditch. The passenger side hit a tree. A big, solid, centuries-old tree that wins battles against a cage of steel rolling at high speed.
 

I was fine.
 

She wasn’t.
 

Fate is a fickle motherfucker.
 

Four days I sat by her side in the ICU begging her to stay with me, to fight.
 

Four days of the rank stench emanating from her mangled body and the room I was trapped in assaulting my nose, a foreboding indicator that death was coming…inescapable and diligent in its duty to claim her.
 

Four days of watching her suffer while life was forced upon her through tubes and needles and devices, her body rejecting every attempt to save it.
 

Four days of listening to her cry—my strong, ruthless grandmother weeping in defeat and saying her goodbyes.

I hate hospitals.

I would burn this building to the fucking ground if I could to escape those memories. They haunt me. Every day they haunt me. But here, inside the belly of the beast, makes them insufferable.

Kai is standing beside me holding Rory’s hand.

After talking to the woman at the desk, I discover that Seamus is still undergoing tests with a neurologist. We take a seat and wait to speak to the doctor.

We haven’t been sitting here five minutes before Rory announces he needs to use the bathroom and that he’s hungry.

I make Kai take him to the bathroom while I buy them both a Pepsi, a bag of chips, and a candy bar from the vending machine. Mother of the year I am not.

We wait an hour before a nurse collects us and asks us to follow her. The smells grow stronger as we make our way into the depths of the hospital. I feel nauseous, and I’m not sure if it’s a physical reaction or a psychological reaction driving the bile up my throat. The memory of my grandmother’s cacophonous cries in my ears is so loud that my head starts to pound.

Seamus is propped up in a sitting position under the sheets of a hospital bed. He’s in a cloth gown, and his right arm is exposed, the needle for an IV is inserted and taped to the inside of his forearm, but there’s no tube running to it. I’m ashamed to admit that I’m taking everything else in so closely because I’m scared to look at his face. I’m scared that he’ll look different than the perfect man I’ve been with for years. Because, now that I’m standing in this hospital room being barraged by horrific memories of my grandmother, I know in my gut that something is wrong. He’s not perfect anymore. And he never will be again.