These Three Words (18 page)

“I do,” I said groggily. “Thank you. I’ll be there in just a few minutes.”

I got up, refolded the blanket, and looked at this room. We’d had so many hopes and dreams for this baby.

Hearing that Gray had mourned him, too made me feel less alone.

I wished he’d mourned with me.

I thought about what Peggy had said, and I understood, but . . .

I wasn’t sure it was enough.

I left the room as I’d found it and went back downstairs. I gathered my things from the hall and spotted Gray’s Mercyhurst sweatshirt. He’d bought it back when Mercyhurst was still a college, not a university. The sweatshirt had a softness that only comes from years of wear and washing.

Without thinking, I pulled it on over my shirt. If I closed my eyes, I could almost believe that Gray was here, holding me.

I headed back to the hospital.

Before I went to the elevators, I stopped at the chapel. I didn’t say anything; I simply stood for a moment, trusting that my intentions were heard.
Here I am
, I said in my head.

I turned to leave and saw Mark standing silently in the doorway.

“How is your husband?” he asked. “I was going to come up later and see you.”

“He’s holding his own. How’s your father?”

He simply sighed. “He’s the same as ever.”

I reached out and patted his shoulder, remembering how others had done the same for me—given me some human contact. We both looked at each other, then nodded. He was right. Sometimes words were superfluous.

I went back to Gray’s room. Smita was gone and Alice was back at her post. “I’m so glad you’re here,” I said.

“Your husband’s doing fine,” she assured me quickly. “On the other hand, his mother looks as if she might topple over at any moment.”

“I’ll try to get her to go home to sleep,” I promised.

Peggy was pale and drawn as she looked up when I walked in.

It was as if getting here had given her something to do, but now that she was here, she felt as useless as I did.

“I can’t stand to see him like this,” she whispered.

I walked over, knelt by her chair, and took her hand. “He’s doing better,” I told her. “He’s going to get through this.”

“I don’t know what I’d do without him.”

I’d had the same thought. “Neither of us is going to have to find out.” We stood for a few minutes next to him. He was on his back again.

I glanced at Peggy. “Why don’t you go home and get some sleep.”

She nodded. “You’re staying the night?”

I leaned toward her and said, “I have a secret ace in the hole, so I’m pretty sure I am.”

“Okay then.” She started toward the door, then turned around. “He’s been so alone since you left, Addie. It was as if he was only half there without you.”

She turned and left before I could respond.

I wasn’t sure how I would have responded, to be honest.

I moved back to the window and stood for the longest time, watching the world go by without Gray or me actively participating in it. Cars drove past the hospital on their way home from work. Giant yellow school buses as well.

People milled about on the sidewalks outside Gray’s window.

People walked by with intent.

“Gray,” I said, talking to Gray without looking at him. If I didn’t look, I could pretend away the wires and tubes. I could pretend that we were sitting in the living room on the couch together. “It’s gotten cold out in the last couple of days. But now it looks cold as well. There are dark black clouds out over the lake.”

I thought about the ice cream in the freezer. “But it’s never a bad time for ice cream,” I murmured more to myself than to Gray.

“It looks like it wants to snow. It’s too early, but then again this is Erie,” I said. “You can never say it’s too early or too late for snow. You know what they say, if you don’t like the weather, just wait until tomorrow.”

I stared outside for a few more moments, then said, “I love the snow. But you know that. Of course you know that.

“Do you remember when your mom would drive us to Four Mile Creek and that giant sledding hill that led down to it?”

Off Route 8, down Horseshoe Drive, around the bend, and up the slight incline. “The hill was tucked away. If you didn’t know it was there, you’d never know it was one of the most amazing sled-riding hills ever. How did you ever find it? I don’t remember.”

I couldn’t remember that, and I couldn’t remember a time that Gray wasn’t Gray. I couldn’t remember a time when I called him Graham. I couldn’t remember a time when he had a father at home.

How many memories do we forgot?

How many memories do we simply rewrite?

How many of our memories are truly of an actual event and how many did we rewrite simply by the telling of them? Until they became a memory of a story, more than of an actual event.

I thought my memory of that hill was true.

We’d gone out a few times every season. “I remember how the snow smelled—cold and white. Like peppermint, in my mind. Most of the time, the creek would be frozen, so if we had a good run on the sled, we’d shoot across to the opposite bank.”

The creek was shallow in the best of times, so even if it wasn’t frozen the worst we’d get was a little wet. “But we never knew for sure until our first run down. I guess we could have walked down to check, but we never did.”

I could see it so clearly. “I remember I had my hair in braids because they froze and slapped at my cheeks as we went down that hill for an hour. We thought the creek was frozen, and we’d both shot to the far side of it repeatedly. But then we went down one time and must have veered a bit from our normal path. You jumped off before we hit the creek, but I didn’t. I could hear the ice crack and I fell into the water, sled and all. It wasn’t deep, but I was soaked.”

Hitting the water had been a shock. For a moment I’d just sat there, then Gray had pulled me out.

“I remember you seemed so mad as we trudged up the hill. You dragged the sled with one arm and held my hand, pulling me up faster with your other hand.

“But when we got to the car, you finally looked at me, and I realized you weren’t mad. You were worried I’d get sick from being wet in that kind of cold.”

He’d tucked me into the front seat, as if I were an invalid and unable to seat myself.

“You put me in the front seat next to your mom and made her crank the heat up. When we got back to your house, your mom made me take a hot shower, and then gave me some of your sweats and your shirt to wear.”

I hugged the sweatshirt I’d brought with me. “I knew they were clean because I could smell the fabric softener. But I swear I could smell you, too. It was the first time I ever wore your clothes.”

I looked down at the age-softened sweatshirt. “When I moved out, I took one of your sweaters. That ratty gray one I always complained about. I wear it at night because it’s the only way I can sleep—wrapped in your sweater, pretending it’s your arms.

“Gray, it’s been months since I walked out the door, and even with your sweater, I don’t think I’ve slept one night through. I dream you’re holding me and then I wake up and find you’re not there. I dream I’m rocking our son, and I wake up and realize he died. He never drew a first breath.

“In my dreams, he smiles at me. His chubby fingers play with my hair as I rock him. I know that I’m really remembering a moment with Joey and mixing it up with dreams for our baby. I know it’s another memory that my mind’s rewritten, but for a few minutes I can believe the memory is of our son. Gray, sometimes those dream moments with him and with you are so real. Sometimes I think if I could just stay asleep with the two of you, I could be totally content.”

I looked at Gray, who for all intents and purposes was sleeping.

“Come back to me,” I said. “I’m not just talking about this.” I waved at the machines and wires. “I’m talking about us. I might have left the house, but I feel as if you left me the moment we lost our son.”

I picked up the swan.

“I don’t want to lose you,” I admitted. I set the swan down. I picked up the photo. How had the two kids in that picture grown so far apart?

All those happier moments I’d remembered in the last two days . . . how had I forgotten them? If it weren’t for Gray’s illness, would my mind have written over all of them, forever obscuring them? Would our worst moments have supplanted the best?

I set the picture down, but it wobbled and fell with a loud clatter to the tile floor. The glass shattered.

Alice popped her head into the room. “Is everything okay?”

I nodded. “I knocked our picture over.”

“I love that photo,” she said as she got the garbage can and came over to help me. “You both looked so young and happy.”

“We were.” I dropped glass into the can with her and then picked up the picture itself. There was something behind that high school picture of us. Without the glass, I could see a small lump. I popped open the back of the frame.

Our first sonogram picture of the baby. A picture when he was alive and we were still filled with our hopes and dreams for him.

There was writing on the back of it. I recognized Gray’s firm hand.
Timothy Hunter Grayson
.

My breath caught. Alice said, “Addie, are you okay?”

I couldn’t answer her because my silent sobs left me mute.

Gray had kept a picture of us, and of our son, on his desk.

He hadn’t forgotten the baby or me.

Peggy had said as much, but this was a tangible sign.

“Addie?” Alice repeated.

I nodded. “I’m fine. It’s just that Gray just told me what I’d wanted to hear months ago.”

Peggy and Ash had both tried to say as much, but I needed to hear Gray tell me. And without saying a word, he had.

He’d told me that he loved me and that he’d loved our son.

Mark had been right.

Sometimes words weren’t necessary.

As Gray lay there silent and sleeping, I’d heard the words I’d been waiting to hear all these months.

Chapter Thirteen

The doctor finally made her rounds. I’ll confess, when she started talking in medical terms, all my frustrations bubbled over. Rather than waiting for Alice to translate, I said, “Could you put that in English?”

Before she could say it was English, I said, “The type of English non-doctors use?”

She had the grace to look chagrined and started again.

It was easier to focus now than it had been in the ER. Maybe my initial shock was wearing off.

She said if Gray made it through the night with no significant changes in his vitals, they’d withdraw the medication in the morning and allow him to wake up. She talked again about rehabilitation and a less stressful lifestyle for Gray.

I thought I’d be relieved to hear he was waking up, but instead I felt nervous.

Nervous that Gray would wake up and his blood pressure would spike.

Nervous that his stent would fail.

Nervous that I’d lose him all over again.

Nervous that he wouldn’t be willing to make the lifestyle changes the doctor spoke of.

Nervous that despite everything, we wouldn’t find our way back to the way we used to be.

“Thank you,” I told the doctor.

“He’s lucky to have you,” she said.

I didn’t know how to respond to that because he hadn’t had me in a long time.

I just said, “Thank you.”

She left and I turned back to Gray. “You have to take care of yourself,” I whispered.

I couldn’t lose him, not when I felt I was finally finding him again. The mangled envelope sat on the nightstand next to our photo, the plastic swan, and the sonogram picture.

“Do you think we can go back?” I asked Gray.

He didn’t answer, but I thought about Maude. I had my answer. We couldn’t go back, but if we were lucky, we could start over.

I found myself pacing the room, willing time to move faster. After months of apart, I didn’t want to waste any more time. I wanted to talk to Gray.

I wanted him to wake up.

I walked to the window and watched the cars that flew past the small swatch of street I could see. They were driven by people heading home to loved ones. People who might not be thinking about how lucky they were. People who flew past the hospital without a thought for all the people in here waiting.

The people who went by were people who weren’t buckling under the weight of that waiting. They were moving and going. Once Gray woke up, we’d be moving, too. I just wondered in what direction we’d go.

I finally sat back down and placed my hand on Gray’s fingertips, needing to feel a connection with him.

Alice came in and spied me. She nodded approvingly. “Do you need anything?”

“No, but thank you.”

She bustled around Gray. I was used to this by now. I pulled back my hand, allowing her room as she checked his tubes and wires, studied his vitals, readjusted this and that as needed. Then rolled him again.

She nodded toward the sonogram. “Your baby?”

I felt tears gather in my eyes. “Yes. Timothy Hunter,” I said, using his name for the first time to someone else. “We lost him. Last December.”

She leaned over and took my hand. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you.” That was all I intended to say, but then I found myself blurting out, “Gray never told me he mourned our son, too.”

Alice seemed to consider my statement for a moment. Finally she said, “Some people don’t say things because they’re trying to hide ugly truths about themselves. But some people don’t say them because they can’t find the right words. Working here I’ve learned there’s no such thing as perfect. I encourage patients to muddle through it the best they can. Perfection is overrated. Sometimes just being there is enough. Sometimes just being loved is all that matters. I’ve had to learn that sometimes being imperfect is good enough.” She smiled and gave a self-deprecating laugh. “That was a very Mark-ish thing to say. So on that very wise and sage note, I’ll say good night.”

She left the room and I looked at Gray. I ran my finger through his hair, smoothing it more because of a need to touch him than any unruliness.

“She’s right,” I whispered to my husband. “I don’t need the words, I just need your love.”

His chest rose and fell to the rhythm of the machine.

“Do you remember in fourth grade? You asked me to go bowling with you. My parents dropped me off at the bowling alley, and your mom stayed with us. She very sweetly brought a book and sat in the lounge. I remember how patient you were as you tried to teach me to bowl. You showed me the dots on the floor and helped me line up my ball with them.

“But the moment that stands out the most in my memory was when you stood behind me and showed me how to swing and release the ball. Your left arm wrapped around my waist, and your right hand helped me hold the ball. It was just a little thing—that first touch. Casual, on your part. And even though I can’t remember what movie we saw after the prom, I remember that moment. My nine-year-old self was sure I could spend the rest of my life bowling with you.

“When we were done, your mom drove me home. You walked me to the door because she insisted. You said to her,
You don’t make me walk any of my other friends to the door
.”

I remembered those words, too.

“
Friends
. That’s when I realized that what I—in my girlish way—thought was a first date was simply two friends going out bowling. You thought of me as your friend. So I let go of my nine-year-old dreams and was your friend. Because even then I wanted to be with you, no matter what you called it. Come back to me, Gray. I’ll be your friend or your girlfriend or your wife. I’d like to be all three. But no matter what, I just want to be in your life.”

I admitted, “I’ve missed you. If we’d never taken our relationship further than friendship, I think I might have been content. But after we lost . . . Timothy.” Gray had given our son a name and for that I would always be grateful. “When we lost Timothy it felt like I was losing you. I didn’t understand,” I admitted. “I tried again to plan a honeymoon. I thought if maybe we could get away, we could find ourselves again. I thought we could remember the way we used to be.”

I remembered that last day, before I’d left . . .

I sat in the front window of JoAnn’s cottage. The bay was still covered with ice and dotted with fishing shacks. Most of the fishermen were safely tucked up inside, but on occasion, we’d see one walking to or from his winter getaway.

Soon the ice would start to melt and the shacks would be replaced by boats.

“We should do this more often,” I said. “It’s beautiful here any time of the year. I don’t think I realized how winter’s starkness had its own attraction. Maybe the fact that spring will be here soon amplifies the beauty.”

I wasn’t looking forward to spring. The winter bleakness matched my mood.

“The baby hasn’t slept in days, so leaving Harmon with the kids
. . .
” She stopped. “I’m sorry.”

“You can talk about the boys. They’re a comfort to me.”

Joey was a reminder of the son I’d lost. At first it had been hard, but now, holding him helped.

“I’m glad,” she said. “But about this surprise. You’ve warned Gray against things like this.”

“We need this,” I said again. I needed my husband and he’d never felt so far away. “I didn’t finalize anything. But Gray has got to know how much we need this. And the third time has to be the charm,” I told JoAnn. I worked at infusing some enthusiasm into my voice because I knew she’d been worried about me.

For the first few weeks everyone had walked around on eggshells. Most didn’t know what to say after I lost the baby. Some were embarrassed when they assumed I had a newborn at home and I had to explain.

Empathetic, or embarrassed, their concern for me written in their expressions.

The only person who wasn’t concerned was the only person who might have truly understood what I was going through—Gray.

He’d shut the door to the baby’s room at the house. He never mentioned the baby. He never mourned for him. It was as if he was pretending we’d never almost had a son.

So I put on a brave face every morning and tried to pretend that I was all right.

Eventually everyone seemed to buy it, except JoAnn.

“Addie” was all she said.

I smiled at JoAnn. “We need this. He’ll see that.”

She smiled, but I could see her skepticism. I didn’t blame her. I didn’t say it, but I had my doubts as well.

“JoAnn was right. Trying again for a honeymoon was not going to help us. I think I knew that from the start. But if you said no to going away with me, I had a reason to leave. A justification.”

When I thought back to that day I could almost feel the white-hot glow of my anger. I’d been so angry. “I think all that anger was a way to cover up the pain. As long as I could stay angry . . .” I let the sentence fade away.

“I remember looking back at the house when I left that last time.”

I’d kissed him good-bye and walked out of the house. I remember taking one last look back at the place I had thought I’d live forever with the man I loved. I’d pictured starting a family there and building a lifetime of memories.

“I remember looking back at the house and thinking it was time to build my memories somewhere else. I was wrong. You were and are a part of every memory. More than that, I want you to be part of my future—my future memories.”

The anger was gone. And while I’d never get over losing my child, I could pick myself up and move on.

“I’m so sorry, Gray. I gave up and left. I was so hurt and I felt like you left me, but you hadn’t.” I held the sonogram photo now instead of the divorce papers.

I brushed the image of our son, set it down, and picked up the picture of me and Gray. “We were so happy.”

We’d been full of such hopes and dreams.

“I’m sorry I walked away. I should have stayed and fought. I could try to excuse myself by saying I was destroyed and didn’t have the wherewithal, but it would be just that, an excuse.”

I knew that under all my anger and excuses, there was one ugly reason why I’d left. “I needed someone to blame and I blamed you. I knew you didn’t want a baby right then and it was easy to blame you for his loss. That wasn’t fair. I’m sorry, Gray.”

I held the picture close.

I let go of the pain of Timothy. I’d always miss the child I’d dreamed he’d be, but I could let go of the unremitting pain.

“But I won’t let go of you—of us. I’ve proven I can live without you, but since we’ve been here, I’ve realized that my life is only a half life without you in it. I could manage, but I want more than just managing. I want you. I need you, Gray. I’m sorry, and I hope when you wake up, you’ll give us another try.”

He looked so calm and peaceful. I no longer saw the wires and tubes. I just saw Gray, the man I loved.

The man I’d always loved, even if I’d forgotten for a time.

“Come back to me,” I whispered. “Please come back to me.”