Just One Thing (15 page)

That is, he didn’t stand up well to the scrutiny until he’d met Sheila Yu. Her mother was Irish and her father was Chinese. She was working with an Irish relief agency in Afghanistan. They joked about their future babies, redheaded, tan, blue-eyed babies whose eyes would slant.

“Come with me,” Tony pressed.

Going with Tony to ask the CO for permission to marry was about the last thing Sam wanted to do, but Tony looked so desperate, which is why Sam found himself standing before the CO’s desk as Tony fumbled his way through his request.

“Listen, Mulligan, you’ve been in my office weekly, with one infraction or another, since you arrived on this base. What makes you think you’re ready to marry?”

“Sir, I . . .”

“Permission to speak freely, sir.” Sam heard the words come out of his mouth, but it was as if someone else had said them.

“Permission granted.”

“Sir, I know what you’re saying. Mulligan is one of the worst soldiers I’ve ever met. He’s the only man I know who can’t keep the beat. Not any kind of beat. When he marches, he’s always just a bit off. Not enough to get in trouble, but enough that everyone notices.”

“You’re not helping, Sam,” Tony muttered.

Sam ignored him and continued. “Frankly, he sucks as a soldier. But not with Sheila. If you saw them together, sir, you’d know. She . . .” He struggled, looking for the words to explain what he knew—what everyone who’d ever seen Tony and Sheila together knew.

“Sir, there’s a line from
Jerry Maguire
that’s been so overused that even a guy like me has heard it. She completes him. It’s like all those things we’ve all noticed about Tony are simply signs that he’s missing something. It’s as if his lack of rhythm when we march and all those other things are just physical manifestations of what’s missing. You might think it’s a drive to succeed or even caring about his personal appearance, but sir, what’s been missing is Sheila. You said Tony’s been in here every week, but in the last few months, has he really?”

The CO paused and considered. “No, not recently.”

“Not since Sheila.”

“So you’re saying I should give him permission to marry because it would be good for the unit?”

“In part. But sir, the real reason you should give him permission to marry is that no one should have to go through life missing a part of themselves. I’ve seen you with your wife, sir, and I know you know what I mean.”

“So, what did he say?” Jerry asked from the end of the bar.

“He said, ‘Romeo, you have a point.’ He gave Tony and Sheila permission and even helped Tony out with the paperwork. Marrying a non-American when you’re overseas on assignment means tons of paperwork. And he gave me my nickname. You see, Tony was also lacking an inner sensor. The story of my impassioned speech on his behalf became his favorite bar story. It was less than a week later when the entire base started calling me Romeo.”

“You’re a romantic.” That was something I hadn’t known about Sam.

“When I was in a coma, my mother read to me every day. Her favorite books were those Harlequin romances. I blame her.”

I couldn’t help but ask, “What about the love scenes? That had to be awkward.”

He raised his hand. It reminded me of my students. “She read them to me while I was in a coma. Thankfully, I don’t remember the stories.”

He paused and added, “I’d say I’d ask her if she skipped the love scenes, but I don’t think I want to know.”

We both laughed. So did Jerry at the end of the bar. And I thought I heard a few other chuckles from nearby tables.

I knew our stories jumped around our personal timelines, but . . . “But this was before you were in the hospital, wasn’t it?” I asked. “Your mother’s choice of reading material couldn’t have influenced your plea on Tony’s behalf.”

Sam sighed. “I was hoping you wouldn’t notice that part.”

“Hey, Romeo, I need a refill,” Jerry called from the other end of the bar.

Sam groaned. “Mulligan’s not even here and he’s still torturing me.”

He filled Jerry’s glass, then came back to me. “So, about a date? How about dinner and a movie on Wednesday? We can go into Erie and . . .

I nodded, agreeing. I left Sam my number, in case his plans changed for whatever reason, and he gave me his as well. After all these months, we’d never exchanged numbers.

The small scrap of paper felt heavy in my coat’s pocket as I walked home.

It was November and chilly. Most of the leaves had fallen and the few diehards that still clung to the trees rustled in the evening breeze, along with the dried cornstalks in a farmer’s field. There was the scent of autumn in the breeze as well. The smell of rotting leaves and a potential frost. Of Amish fires, warming their farmhouses. Of animals in pens.

It was cold enough that I’d shoved a knit hat on my head and kept my hands in my coat’s pockets. There were gloves rolled up against my hands, but I didn’t put them on. Once you started wearing gloves, you might as well admit it was winter. I wasn’t ready to admit that yet.

Tonight, I was filled with a warmth that belied the cold. I thought about my date with “Romeo” and smiled. I wasn’t sure where this thing with Sam would lead, but I was okay with the uncertainty. He warmed me. After spending so long in the cold, that was enough.

My first official date with Sam had been uneventful, but nice. He’d remembered that I liked action flicks and taken me to see one with a number of explosions and near misses. As we left the theater, I’d teased him.

“I was afraid you were going to take me to some sappy chick flick, Romeo.”

He tried to scowl, but couldn’t quite pull it off, and we’d both ended up laughing.

That was the theme of the dinner, too. No talk of painful pasts, just a lot of laughter. I knew that years from now, I’d probably forget what we ate, or even what movie we’d seen. What I’d remember was the laughter and how good it had felt.

I’d carried the feeling with me the rest of the week. I worked on a new square on my tapestry—a Shakespearean mask. It was an obscure reference to Romeo. Probably no one else would understand it but me, but this tapestry was for me. It was a total narcissistic homage to my life. And this square made me smile as I worked on it.

At lunchtime the following Monday, as I reheated a bowl of soup, I realized I hadn’t felt the slightest pinch of pain since that date with Sam.

I thought of Lee with nothing but a warm sense of nostalgia.

I was pretty sure I’d reached the tipping point.

I wasn’t sure if that’s what a psychiatrist would call it, but I knew it existed. Maybe not
it
—not just one point—but
they
, many points. There are moments in the grief process when you make progress. A tipping point. Maybe some grief was so great it took more than one tipping point.

After my father died, my tipping point came that day with my mother at his headstone, then the beach. I still missed him, but the overwhelming grief was gone.

I remembered the moment I’d reached it after Gracie, and I knew I had my one-thing for Sam tonight.

I went to the bar that night, ready to share.

He passed me my Guinness and said, “One thing?”

“One morning, after Gracie died, right before the twins left for college, Connie and Conner were arguing . . .”

“What’s going on now?” Lexie stared at her eighteen-year-old twins. They looked so adult, but moments before had sounded very much like they had in grade school when they argued. And whatever was going on now was a kicker of an argument.

Neither answered. “Well, you can tell me, or we can wait and all tell your father about it.”

“Dad’s been down lately, Mom. We don’t want to bother him with this. It was noth—”

“It wasn’t nothing. Connie was eavesdropping again.” Oceans of frustration flooded Conner’s voice.

“Connie?” Lexie asked.

“I wasn’t. I just couldn’t help overhearing lame-o here with his girlfriend. Oh-Lainy-mm-mm-mm.” The
mm
sounds were obviously supposed to represent Conner blowing kisses over the phone.

Lexie tried to look stern, but a smile kept creeping around the edges of her frown. She didn’t say anything, sure that if she did, she wouldn’t be able to hold back her laughter.

But Connie saw it. “Look, even Mom’s laughing.”

“I’m not; I’m frowning,” Lexie maintained. But in so doing, she’d talked, and her laughter wouldn’t be contained. A short, hiccup-length burst broke free.

“Mom.” Conner’s voice contained volumes of disgust.

“Sorry,” Lexie said, and another burst of laughter squeaked out.

This time, Connie didn’t comment, she just laughed as well.

And finally Conner joined in. “Man, the only thing that would have made this worse was if Gracie had been here. She’d have started singing that song.”

“Oh, yes, she would have. So, in honor of Gracie,” Connie said, “Conner and Lainy sitting in a tree. K-I-S-S-I-N-G. First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes Conner with a baby carriage.”

All three of them continued laughing as Connie teased Conner and vice versa. The fight had blown over and all that was left was good-natured teasing.

Lexie watched the twins as they ate their breakfast. Soon they’d be gone. Her two Cons, going to different schools and
starting independent lives. She wouldn’t have to break up any more morning fights. The house would be quiet. Just her and Lee.

Once, they’d talked about those years with anticipation. They’d looked forward to time alone, exploring what it was to be a couple. Now?

“Today is definitely going in my Grace Book,” Connie stated more to herself than to Lexie when Conner ran upstairs to get his book bag.

“Grace Book?” she asked.

Connie looked a little embarrassed, but nodded. “Yeah. I started a notebook where I wrote down all kinds of stories about Gracie. I put some pictures in, too. It made me feel better, and I figured someday I might have kids and they won’t get to meet Gracie, but I can let them read the book and they’ll know something about her. It will make her real to them.”

“May I look at the book?”

“Sure, Mom. You can add stories to it, too, if you want.”