His Wounded Light (39 page)

“Come home with me, okay?” he whispers. “And we can talk. Tell me everything and I’ll listen. It won’t change the way I feel about you. It won’t change the fact that you’re mine.”

“I love you” is all I can say.

The magnitude of those three words catches us by surprise and we find ourselves unable to stop the tears from flowing. It’s been months since I’ve uttered them with so much confidence. It’s been so long since I’ve felt anything so meaningful and true, but these words, they belong only to him. I know from our reaction that we will never take those words for granted ever again.

His face breaks out in a smile and he captures my lips with his. His hands cup my face for a moment before slowly inching down my side, touching each and every part of me before resting on my waist. He leans over to grab the metal grate and helps himself up onto his feet. He doesn’t let go of it but offers me his left hand and I pull on it so I can stand up.

“Let me show you where it is.” He wraps his arm around my shoulders and walks down the path with me. His movement is slow and precise, but his progress is remarkable. I can see that it’s his left leg that’s the weaker one. It drags behind the right, so he uses the cane to support it as he takes each and every step.

I’m in no hurry—we can take forever and a day to get to the other side of the bridge. If today is all I have with him, it will still be enough to get me through this lifetime. We stop halfway down the bridge and he reaches out his free hand to touch our lock. The elements have rusted its surface, but the letters he engraved still stand out as much now as they did then.

“You see? It’s still here. White ribbon and all.”

I place my hands on top of his. “Alex + Isa. There it is. That’s us.”

“No,” he objects as he lays his cane down and holds me in his arms. “This,” he kisses me deeply, pouring his love into my soul, “is us.”

***

That night at the bridge, Alex took me home and we talked about everything that had happened in the past year. He told me how he felt the first time we tried to make love right after the accident and how devastated he was to think that he would never be able to feel the closeness that we once shared. He told me about his two visits with Jesse and about Amanda’s profession of love. He also recounted what happened the night I fell down the stairs and how he hadn’t forgiven himself for the events that transpired after his accident. We spoke openly about Sophie for the very first time. I showed him her pictures. He cried in my arms as he outlined her face with his fingers and we envisioned what our life would have been like with two daughters instead of one.

I told him about Jesse and how my heart had never faltered far from his. I also told him about Lucas and the unbearable guilt that I suffered from thinking that I could have done more to take care of our baby. He wept when he saw my wrists and the scars from my fall and declared that if he didn’t hurt me, I wouldn’t have wanted to hurt myself.

He professed that he loved me more than anything in the world, that his heart has been mine since he laid eyes on me when he climbed the stadium steps towards me on that warm sunny day in high school. He said that he should have had more faith in the resilience of his spirit and in our commitment to each other.

We made love. We made love all night and all day for three consecutive days. His functions are back to normal, his permanent limp is merely a reminder that a life well lived involves taking some risks. I kissed the scars on his legs over and over again and assured him that they’re beautiful. I told him that he was my hero, my inspiration, my strength. I reaffirmed my love for him and gave him every single part of me. He did the same and more.

Two weeks later, at the Chapel of Our Lady of the Miraculous Medal in France, and in truly spontaneous Alex fashion, we were married. Again.

This time, we had the most adorable little flower girl, who stumbled down the aisle emptying the basket of rose petals even before the procession began. Alex had a best man who looked just like him, a young boy who will someday grow up to believe in marriage and love just like his parents do.

“I now re-pronounce you husband and wife. You may—oh, ok, keep going then.” The priest shrugged his shoulders and everyone broke in laughter.

Alex didn’t wait for the final blessing before he cradled my face in his hands and kissed me like I’ve never been kissed before. Slowly, as he released me and we turned around to face the congregation, I saw the faces of the people that have taken this journey with us, these people who have testified to the agony of our past year were also there to attest to the integrity of a love that finds its way in the end: Alex’s parents, Evie, Alicia, Betty and Leigh. Even Gracie, my youngest sister, who flew in from fashion school in New York, was there to witness the beginning of our story. She has her mother’s limbs and her father’s height, and I often wonder how many hearts she gets to break before she decides to settle down.

I have a new wedding ring on my finger, a custom made diamond encrusted band in the shape of a lock. It’s the perfect symbol of our love – a lock secured in place is like a heart that never gives up. It stays steadfast and strong and it holds on through adversity and strife, knowing that its sole purpose is to keep and preserve what is essential and disregard and leave out what is irrelevant. After the wedding, the family took the children home with them and Alex and I toured the world for three more weeks. Nine months later, we welcomed a little boy named Jack into our lives. When people ask us how many children we have, there is no hesitation in our response. We have four children. One of them is keeping my mother company as she watches over us.

Today, a year after the night on the bridge, fourteen years after our first wedding and almost a year after our second, I have no doubt that the frailties of life will someday rear their ugly heads. But this time, we know who we are and what we stand for. Alex Ailey is a father, a brother, a son and a husband. He’s also a champion race car driver and a heck of a polo player. I am his wife, a mother, a sister, and a woman who strongly believes in her family and in herself; a woman who will always fight for what is right and true and who trusts that the goodness of a person will always win out in the end.

This is our story. There will never be another book because Alex and I are going to live our lives together and there will be no ending. Our love will never end. They say that the heart wants what the heart wants and that nothing you do can ever change that. This book, our words, our story is proof of the enduring power of love. Love will always persevere no matter what happens in your life, so once you have it, nurture it and never let it go. Through death and loss and damage and lust, love remains faithful and true. It never wavers, it merely waits patiently until you decide to let it in.

You can lose yourself a million times over, but your heart will always know who you are. In every wound and place of emptiness, love provides a light that guides you through the darkness.

It relentlessly seeks you out and stops at nothing to find you.

Love always finds you.

And when it does, it will bring you home.

***

I lost my wife and my daughter on the very same day. Through my selfishness and misguided intentions, I lost my life. She never wanted to leave me and yet I threw her away. I tossed her aside and left her to thrash in her pain, in her agony. I didn’t know whether I would ever be able to get her back, but I sure as heck had to try. I’ve been in Paris for one week now, searching for her, trying to find her. Her sisters still won’t give me the name of her hotel.

“You left her on her own, you find her on your own,” Evie responded when I begged for her to tell me where her sister was.

So here I am, each and every afternoon, waiting for her at the Pont des Arts, hoping and praying that she finds the strength to look for the souvenir we left on our bridge a year ago. Our bridge. That’s what we called it. Funny how we are two of a million others who must regard it in that same way. Without her, it’s just a bridge, a link from one end of the river to the other. Without her, nothing means anything to me except for our children. They keep me going because they connect me back to her.

Every day, I lean on the lamppost for support as I survey the faces that walk past me. I don’t see her, I can’t find her. Such an irony considering I see her face in my mind every day; in my thoughts and in my dreams, she is with me. I memorized her face when she looked into my eyes that day that she left for Paris. Watching her walk into that plane wrecked me. I couldn’t accept the fact that she would be thousands of miles away from me. So I followed.

Today is my seventh visit to this bridge. Isa has been gone for over two weeks now and I don’t know how much longer I can take it. I’m a little late today. I suffered from a few minor pains this morning—I know it’s because I’ve pushed too hard with the walking. I didn’t want to take my wheelchair on this trip. I wanted to show her how hard I worked to get better for her. My left leg throbs as I slowly make my way up the bridge, resolved to walk up and down its full distance until I find her. As I lean on the second lamppost to survey my surroundings, I glance up to find that my dream has come true—an image more beautiful than the view of the river is in front of me. She’s finally here. I quickly pick up my pace to try to catch up with her as she slowly takes a step forward and then backward, surveying the scene with a sad, serious look on her face. Her shoulders are hunched over and I realize that she is crying. I am out of breath by the time I reach her but I stop myself from calling out her name as she starts to speak.

I hear every word she says.

She’s leaving me on this bridge and I will die without her.

“I can help you,” I say, hoping against all hope that these four words become the start of our second chance together.

“Dude, stop moving around, you’re making me nervous,” Leigh whispers as we stand at the altar of Saint Catherine’s church, waiting for the bridal procession to begin. “And I just have to tell you again how creepy I feel standing next to uh…Saint Catherine.”

I can’t help but laugh at his comment. “You should feel lucky to be in her presence. I’m totally surprised that the holy water hasn’t reduced you to a mound of ashes.”

He’s about to make a quick comeback when the music begins to play. Everyone laughs when our beautiful Maddy, escorted by Emmy, runs up the aisle with an empty basket of flowers.

“Daddy!” she shrieks as I lift her in my arms and carry her to the front with me. She claps loudly as we see Isabel and Eddie coming up the aisle to meet us. “Mommy!”