Crossing Oceans (10 page)

When I reached a towering oak, I laid my forehead against its craggy surface, recalling a time not so long ago when I had leaned my back against this very spot as David’s soft lips pressed against mine for the first time. Next to the birth of my daughter, it was the happiest day of my life. The boy I loved, loved me . . . or so I thought.

Back then, David had been my rock. The only person in my life besides Mama Peg who hadn’t let me down. Every time my father or anyone else had hurt me, he was there, a sympathetic ear and a strong shoulder to cry on. Cool and collected, nothing ever knocked him off his game. He was everything I was not—self-assured, calm, and dependable.

I suppose being as in love with David as I was, I just assumed he felt the same about me. Nothing could have been further from the truth apparently. Lindsey did more to ignite his heart in a few months than I had in the three years we’d dated. To think he’d gone off to college, met Lindsey, and married her in less time than it took for me to bear his child still stung.

I ran my hand along the perimeter of the tree. My fingertips trailed over bark until they dipped into a groove. I looked down to find the heart I had carved as a teenager.
GL + DP.

The sound of twigs snapping echoed nearby. I turned to find Craig behind me, holding two sweating bottles, Sweet Pea in tow.

Craig handed me a Coke. “I saw you come out here and thought maybe you’d want some company.”

Cool plastic met my warm palm. “Company would be great.”

Sweet Pea meowed at me, feigning innocence. “You don’t fool me,” I said.

His ears flattened as he leered at me.

Craig’s gaze darted between the initials on the tree and me. “Is that what I think it is?”

“Hey, that was a long time ago.” I took a sip.

He stared hard at the initials, then turned to me. “I could have that thing mulched within the hour if you want.”

“That would be tempting,” I said, “but it’s not the tree’s fault.”

He took a swallow of his drink. “I’ll bet you didn’t know a bunch of us used to hang out here.”

Back in high school, David and I often found pop bottles, beer cans, and cigarette butts littering the area but had never caught anyone in the act. “I knew someone had.”

He held his hand out to me.

I hesitated, not wanting to encourage any romantic notions he might have. Finally, I gave in to the overwhelming desire to be touched.

As we walked, I took in my surroundings, feeling a familiar peace at being close to nature. Craig rubbed his rough thumb over my ring finger again and again, studying my profile as though he were an art enthusiast and I a Monet. He squeezed my hand. “You look a million miles away.”

“I was just thinking.”

“About?”

“Nothing worth the words.”

He leaned into me. “Can I ask you a question?”

I raised my eyebrows.

“How does it feel to . . . ?”

“To be dying?” I offered.

His expression saddened as he slowly nodded.

I could have kissed him for being so direct about the subject everyone else avoided, but which I so desperately needed to talk about. “I’m afraid,” I said.

Craig’s gaze lingered on the path of decaying pine needles. “Walking down streets of gold sounds nice.”

“Sometimes . . .” Shame held my tongue.

When he looked at me, something in his eyes told me he wouldn’t pass judgment no matter what I said. “Sometimes, I wonder if heaven is real or if I’ll just . . . you know . . . cease to exist.”

“There’s a heaven, Jenny.”

I warmed at the certainty in his tone. “Most days I know that.”

As we walked along, the clouds above rumbled but shed not a drop of rain. I began to hope they were nothing but bluff and bluster. Craig paid them no mind as he guided me along. He stopped abruptly and gathered up my other hand so he now held both. If I hadn’t felt like I’d been mentally slogging through quicksand, I would have fled this intimacy, but I was too drained to do anything but stand there.

“What is it?” I asked.

He focused on my hands. “I had a bit of a crush on you back in high school.”

“Really?”

He attempted a smile. The queer combination of strength and frailty in his eyes further thickened the fog in my head. “I think I still do.”

I hated that I couldn’t reciprocate, but it would be far crueler to lead him on. “Nothing like waiting until a girl’s on her deathbed to confess your affection.”

“I always was a little late on the draw.”

“You’re more than a
little
late, David.”

His face elongated and I realized my mistake. Heat flooded me. “Craig. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

I knew it wasn’t by the sadness in his eyes. A cold drop hit my face. Both Craig and I looked up.

He wiped the water off the bridge of my nose, then took my hand again. “We should be getting back.”

We started on the path again, ignoring the occasional droplets falling on our heads.

A gnat flew laps around Craig’s head. He swatted it away. “If I knew I only had a few months to live, I think I’d try to cram in everything I’ve ever wanted to do.”

“For instance?”

“For starters I’d watch a Braves game from behind home plate while eating a big pile of gooey nachos.”

“Don’t wait until you’re dying.” The intensity of my tone surprised me.

“Jenny?”

I turned to him, not slowing my pace.

“I hate that you’re sick.”

“Me too.”

“If you weren’t . . . ?” He gave me a tender look that finished the question for him.

I leaned my shoulder against his as we hurried along. “I’d be on you like . . .”

“White on rice?” he suggested.

“I was going for something a little less cliché.” My foot caught on a root.

He grabbed my arm, steadying me. “Pink on Barbie?”

I chuckled. “Yeah, just like that.”

The sky opened suddenly, drenching us. Instead of running for the house, which I knew we should do, we stopped and stared at the sky, letting water run over our heads and down our skin. I was cold, wet, and shivering, but all I could do was smile, though I had no idea why.

I turned to face Craig, feeling like I had stepped out of reality into some made-for-TV movie. We just stood there looking at one another as if there was something that needed to be said before the moment passed forever.

The rain darkened his hair, while his button-down clung to him like plaid saran wrap. “We should get you back to the house before you get sick.”

“We should,” I agreed.

“Have you ever danced in the rain?”

“Never.”

He flashed a mischievous grin. “Make hay while the sun’s still shining.”

“The sun’s not shining.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Is this the same man who told a woman with end-stage emphysema that she can’t have a cup of real coffee?

He hung his head in exaggerated defeat. “Point taken.” He peered up through his wet, blond lashes. “Genevieve Lucas?”

“Craig Allen?”

“May I have this dance?” He held his open palm to me.

Once again, I took it.

Chapter Twelve

Sunlight stabbed through the window. Shielding my aching eyes, I tried to lift my head, but it refused to budge. My cotton pajamas felt more like burlap against my sensitive skin. Even my hair hurt. Perspiration rolled down my temples as I buried my face deeper into the damp pillow. Why was it so hot? Touching my burning forehead, I realized that the room wasn’t sweltering. Just me.

My first thought was of Craig and me dancing in the rain. We shouldn’t have been so careless. Then I recalled the oncologist’s warning of the symptoms I might soon experience: high fevers lasting a few hours to a week, fatigue, shortness of breath, itching, pain, jaundice, weakness, swelling, infections . . .

And so it begins.

What if I’d waited too long to talk with my father about raising Isabella? What if I died right here in this bed without securing her future? There was so much I still needed to teach her, so much more to say.

With rising panic, I forced my boulder of a head up and opened my mouth to call for help. My parched lips stuck together and my skull felt like it was being kicked repeatedly by steel-toed boots. I dropped back to the pillow. Unable to do much more than blink for what seemed like hours, I simply lay there. Isabella’s laughter echoed through the house. Again and again she called for me. I tried to answer but managed only a hoarse whisper.

At last, the patter of small feet made its way up the stairs. She flew through the doorway wearing a pink sundress with curls springing about her head. She grinned at me. “Morning, beautiful Mama!”

I tried to smile back, but pain caused me to grimace instead. Her expression filled with alarm and she ran from the room. Moments later, she returned, pulling my father by the hand. I squinted, trying to force him into focus. His face remained a blur.

“Jenny?” He laid his cold hand across my forehead, then yanked it back. “Dear God.”

I meant to say, “It’s okay.” Instead I mumbled something about a blue train.
I must be dreaming,
I thought.
Or dying.

I knew it had to be the latter when the strong arms of God lifted me into the clouds, up, up into heaven. But the moment I submitted to death, I was cast down from my serene cloud into a shockingly frigid ocean. Icy waves rolled over my body, while a waterfall washed over my head. I tilted my neck back to drink from it.

When I looked up, I saw not the King of kings staring back at me, but my father’s worried eyes. I looked down, surprised to see myself bathing not in angelic waters but in my own claw-foot tub. My father held a plastic cup over my head and dumped it. Cold water ran down my head and over my clothed body. I shook violently. He dipped the cup into the shallow water and once again held it over my head.

I buried my face into my bent knees and pleaded through chattering teeth. “Please, Daddy, no more.”

Water sloshed from the full cup as he set it on the floor. He picked up the towel draped across the sink and held it open for me.

I pushed myself up and stepped out of the freezing tub into warmth. As I rubbed away goose bumps, I noticed Isabella crouched in the corner of the bedroom, crying.

* * *

Opening my eyes to darkness, I lifted my head, relieved to find it neither heavy nor throbbing. The clock on the dresser read nine, which meant it had to be nighttime. I groaned, realizing I had slept the entire day away.

I considered the satin nightgown that now clothed me. When had I put it on? I stroked the smooth lavender fabric, remembering the last time I’d worn it.

“Take that off!” The sting of my father’s angry tone shocked me.

My mother, barely able to stand, grabbed his hand with surprising agility. “Jack, no.”

“She rummages through your things as if you’re already—”

“She’s my daughter. She’s doing what all daughters do. Stop assuming the worst of everyone.”

My father looked at me and frowned. I stared back defiantly, refusing to cry, refusing to care. I had done nothing wrong.

As he sat on the bed beside my mother and me, the mattress sank. He reached out to touch me, but I pulled away, clinging to her instead—smelling her sickly sweet breath, feeling her heart pounding through her rib cage.

“Jack, it’s okay.” Her voice sounded like gravel. “You’re just upset. She understands. Go have your pipe and let me talk with our daughter.”

He kissed her so tenderly that embarrassment forced me to turn away.

As his footsteps descended the stairs, she laid her hand on my cheek and began humming the nameless tune she’d sung to me since infancy. I tried not to cringe at the touch of her bony fingers that were even more yellow now than my chain-smoking grandmother’s.

The song ended. “Jenny, you take care of your dad. He loves you more than you can fathom.”

I rolled my eyes. “You’d never know it.”

“Someday you’ll have a child and you’ll understand just how much we both do.”

I ran my teenage hand through her thinning hair as though she were the child and I the mother. My hand emerged with a clump of brown strands. I wanted to throw it down and run screaming from the room. Instead I laid my cheek against hers, ignoring the nasty bouquet I clutched, and hummed the song back to her. . . .

Something stirred in the corner of the room. My hand flew to my chest and I gasped.

“It’s just me, sweetheart.” My father turned on the lamp beside him. Soft light filled the room. He wore not a neat pair of creased pants and a button-down shirt, but a wrinkled white T-shirt and pajama bottoms. The gray scruff on his cheeks and chin told me more time had passed than I first thought.

“How long did I sleep?” I asked, feeling suddenly disoriented.

He studied me with a look of concern. “Day and a half.”

As I considered this, sadness pricked at me. Losing even one day when I had so little time was too much.

When he leaned forward, the lamp cast golden light across his face, bringing to mind angels and my fevered hallucination.

He scratched his chin. “I wanted to bring you to the emergency room but your grandma put up a fit.”

“I don’t think I would have survived three hours in a waiting room.”

“That’s what she said, plus she had a good point about there being a lot of sick people there. Probably not the best place to be for someone with a compromised immune system.” He rubbed his palms against his eyes the way he always did right before retiring to bed. “We called Urgent Care. They had us give you liquid Tylenol and promise to bring you in if your fever didn’t come down in a few hours. Between the bath and the Tylenol it did, thank God.”

“How long have you been sitting here?” I asked.

He stood and walked to me, laid the back of his hand on my brow, and sighed. “Awhile.” When his eyes glistened with tears, a wave of love rose up within me.

He pulled away. “I made you an appointment with the cancer center next Tuesday—9 a.m. That’s not too early, is it?”

I stared hard at him. “Why would you do that?”

“Look, Jenny, I know that you said you got a few opinions.”