Lily Love (22 page)

“No, I wouldn’t,” I agree. “At first, I thought I was bringing him there to share a place where he could go to think. After we got there, I realized that a part of me needed him to know what that space means to me. He gets it, without my having to explain at all.”

“Then I’m really glad you brought him there,” Paige says. “Hopefully, he can get the same peace of mind out of being there that you have.”

“I hope so too, Paigey.” I sigh.

I make sure to tell Paige about the more rational bits of conversation we had, too. The parts where we acknowledged where our priorities lay, and how neither of us can afford to indulge in getting carried away, given the responsibilities of our lives at present. He has his mother to consider above all else, and I have Lily.

Paige makes comments of support and understanding, but I hear what she doesn’t say, too. In her subtle hesitations and the way she holds her breath in certain places, I know she’s holding back her “be carefuls” and “make sure he’s worth your trusts.” The fact that she doesn’t indulge her urge to say it and rain on my parade just makes me love my sister even more.

The love I feel pulsing through my veins for her, for Lily, and for my new life—
that
is my proof of life.

writing to reach you

A
fter I make plans to see her the next day, Paige and I say our good nights and hang up. For as easily as I’d drifted off into sensual slumber before, sleep is evading me now. Thousands of thoughts scatter themselves in a multitude of directions in my mind. I lie in my bed staring at the ceiling, trying to follow where the light from my window and the light from the bathroom begin and end: the silver-blue radiance from the moon on one side, and the soothing yellow glow from the bathroom vanity on the other. The cool and warm tones would clash on an artist’s palette, but fusing on the ceiling, they create a striking balance. Silver brings a shimmering depth to an otherwise dim glow. Yellow adds a softness to the sharp edges of blue, creating an aquamarine river running down the middle of the two beams. It’s an odd amalgamation of texture and light, but it generates a beauty like nothing I’ve ever seen.

So does life, I suppose. Naturally, we try to choose colors that complement one another. Otherwise we end up with a palette riot that makes little sense and causes chaos instead of Zen. But if we’re too careful, we just end up picking the same color over and over, and end up with no picture at all. We can try to outsmart life and meticulously choose varying tints of the same color and end up with an eerie portrait
of just shadows. Whether it’s one solid color or a hundred different shades of it, it’s like painting your whole house beige and calling one room “Nomadic Desert” and another “Latte.”

I turn my head and let my eyesight adjust to the wall on the far side of my room. Peter and I spent countless hours poring over color swatches, trying to decide on the perfect shade to complement our home. I didn’t want to paint each room a different color, not even the bathrooms. I wanted the floor plan to “flow,” with a similar color scheme throughout. I can’t help but laugh out loud at myself when the name of the shade pops into my head: Timeless Taupe. My entire house is a sea of beige.

I put aside my effort to resume my dream of Tate and turn on the bedside lamp. It effectively washes away all evidence of my midnight epiphany, bathing the room with light.

You need to buy a couple of gallons of paint.

What I need to do is hire a painter, but before I do that, I need to determine how I want to color my life. I’m no good with a paintbrush; art is not my forte. However, I am pretty decent with words—I just haven’t tried in a very long time.

Before I can talk myself out of trying, I jump out of bed and pad down the hallway to the den. I bypass the light switch and stumble through the dark until I reach the desk lamp. I don’t want to taint the ideas swimming in my head with any uninspired neutrality, biscuit, buff . . . whatever you want to call it. It’s boring.

I sit down at my computer and tap the keyboard, bringing the desktop to life. I push away the memory of the last ineffective time I tried to use the voice-activated software. Paige bought it for me after my stroke, so I could continue to write via dictation. I wanted to chronicle my recovery and Lily’s developmental milestones. When that story didn’t want to get written the way I was trying, I banished the software to the corners of my computer’s hard drive. If I couldn’t tell the story the way I wanted to, then I wasn’t going to tell it at all.

After a few unsuccessful searches, I find the program I need. My heart vibrates with excitement as the blank page and blinking Record button stare back at me. I think of all of the things I’m learning about myself, life, friendship, and love. All the things I want to do and experience. I outline in my mind and then hit Record.

I’m not sure how long into the early morning I sat talking to my computer before I fell asleep. When I wake up, I peel my cheek off of the desk and try to knead out the kink in my neck. Rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I squint at the word counter on the bottom of the screen: 3,602 words. I don’t think I’ve ever written so much in one sitting. I read back through the beginning of my story and smile to myself. It’s not crap. I kind of like it. I just might have something worth pursuing here.

My attention is drawn to the file name I’ve chosen, and an involuntary rush of goose bumps covers me head to toe.
Lily Love.
The story is mine, but it’s a fictionalized version. Anyone who knows me will know it’s me. This story likely won’t get told the way I want it to, either, so what makes it different from the last? I think it’s knowing that it’s still a work in progress. There is no definitive outcome; I’ve just got to wait and see how things play out.

I stretch my arms above my head and wince as I arch my back. The clock blinks 5:45 a.m. I’m too old to fall asleep at my desk. I save my work from the evening and shut down the computer. Peter won’t be here with Lily until 8:30, so I shuffle back down the hallway and climb into bed. Sleep takes me hostage before my head makes contact with the pillow.

Tate follows me into my dreams, waiting for me in the moon garden with Shasta daisies and red carnations.

the luckiest

I
t’s Thursday morning before I know it. Between Lily’s therapy appointments, a follow-up for me with an orthopedist, and dinner with Paige, my plate has been too full for me to stress over when I might see Tate again. We haven’t talked on the phone since yesterday morning, when he called to say he’d woken up thinking of me. Thank God he couldn’t see my face, because I turned bright red when I thought of the way he’d starred in my dreams.

They were able to ambulance his mother to St. Joseph’s without incident, and so far he and Tarryn are pleased with the care she’s receiving. Forty-eight hours doesn’t seem like a lot of time, but in hospice care it’s a matter of life and death. Their mother’s condition has continued to deteriorate. Tate has kept me updated by text, but clearly he wants to give his attention where it’s needed.

When my phone rings, I expect it to be Tate with an update. It just seems like things are changing faster than he anticipated with his mother. I don’t think anyone is ever prepared to lose someone they love, and I don’t think Tate was expecting his mom to worsen so fast.

I smile, hoping it will lend some buoyancy to my tone. “Hi, there.”

“Good morning, Sunshine,” Tate replies. His voice is thick and raspy, reflecting the lack of sleep he’s had during the night.

“How are you doing?” I know he’s not doing well. Still, I want to make sure he knows he’s got the floor to talk about whatever he wants.

“I’m hanging in there, I guess.” He sighs. “The nurses here have been a godsend. They explain everything as it’s happening and why they are doing or not doing certain things for my mom.”

I can’t imagine what he must be going through. “Is there anything I can do?” I ask. “Can I bring you or Tarryn anything?” I cross my fingers and pray that he says yes so I can be of some use.

“Well, that’s why I was calling,” he says sheepishly. “I was hoping you would bring by something I’m missing.”

“Anything, Tate.” I don’t even flinch at the desperation in my voice. “Peter’s taken the day off to spend with Lily; he’ll be by at eleven to pick her up, and then I’m yours.”

“Mine, huh?” He chuckles, leaving me blushing at my choice of words.

“You know what I mean,” I mumble.

“I hope so,” he says, “because I could really use seeing your smile.”

He sounds so tired, and part of me wants to insist that he use any free time he has to rest, but it’s not about me. It’s about what he needs, and if he wants me, I’m going to be there for him.

“I can certainly arrange that.” I grin. “Why don’t I bring you guys something for lunch?”

“Nah,” he replies. “I’m not hungry at all. I just really want to see you.”

My heart doesn’t know what to do. I remind myself that he wants comfort from me, not pity. Support without charity. I can do this.

“What time works best for you?” I ask, looking at the clock. It’s nine in the morning. I have two hours before Peter gets here.

“As soon as you can.” He tries hard to keep it light and funny, but the sadness seeps through.

“I’ll come right after Peter leaves,” I promise.

“Are you sure you don’t mind?” he asks softly.

“I will never mind time I spend with you, no matter where it is. You can always count on that.”

“It’s just, a guy doesn’t strive to have a second date with his girl at the hospice center.”

“Oh, am I your girl?” I tease lightly. “If that’s the case, then do I get to wear your class ring?” I’m rewarded with Tate’s rich, reverberating laughter. The sound is like a soothing balm on my frayed nerves.

“You’re my dream girl, remember?” he teases back.

“How could I forget?” I sigh dramatically. “It’s not every day a boy tells you that you’re the one he’s dreamed of.” I choke on the last of my words, unable to prevent them from spilling from my mouth.

You were supposed to keep it light, you moron, not put words in his mouth.

“Oh, Caroline,” he whispers softly. “You have no idea.”

My breath catches in my throat and tears pool in my eyes. How do I deserve this man who regards me like I’m a prize that he’s won? His life is in shambles and he still has the ability to tell me how much I mean to him. Even when I accidentally put him on the spot. Is he for real? Will he still feel this way with Lily’s needs as part of the package?

“Oh, I might have some idea.” I smile to myself.

“You remind me that there is still beauty in this world.” His voice is thick with emotion, and it sends my heart into a tailspin. I cannot be falling for this boy, not yet. Not now. Not until he meets Lily.

“Tate.” I stop to garner what little courage I can find and pour it out into my words. “You make me want to taste life the way you do. You live with your heart wide-open, and give of yourself, even when no one would blame you if you didn’t. You inspire me to be better. You’re a wonderful man.”

The line is silent, and I fear that I have finally frightened him off.

I hear him suck in a breath and it’s my only clue that he’s still there. It’s driving me crazy that I can’t see the expression on his face. It terrifies me, not knowing what he’s thinking.

“You,” he says softly, bringing my heart to stillness in my chest. “I’m none of those things apart from who I am when I’m with you.”

Tears stream silently down my face as I listen to him continue to give pieces of himself to me, even in his grief. “Then I am the luckiest girl in the world,” I whisper.

“Hurry, beautiful girl,” he pleads, unabashed in his appeal for me. I desperately try to reason with my heart as it demands to belong to Tate.

Traitor!

“I’ll be there before you know it.”

I’ll be there for him any way he’ll let me. I just pray that I don’t lose my heart to my madness in the process.

pitter pat

T
hump-THUMP. Thump-THUMP.

When I close my eyes, I focus on my heart beating. I know it’s still there, drumming a steady rhythm in my chest, but it feels like it’s no longer mine.

What did you do? How could you let this happen?

I told myself over and over to be careful, not to allow myself to be swept up in those damned dimples! If I’m honest, the dimples may have highlighted my attraction to him, but his heart is what makes it increasingly hard not to fall ass-over-teacups in love with my stranger . . . who’s no longer a stranger, really.

I pace around the kitchen island, trying to rein in my rising anxiety. On my third lap, I steal a quick look into the living room to make sure that Lily is still engrossed in her dollhouse. She’s playing, happily unaffected by her mother’s nervous breakdown. Thank God for small favors, and all that crap. I steal a look at the clock on the stove—it’s 9:15. Only fifteen minutes have passed since the phone call that set this crazy train in motion.

You can’t be falling in love with him, Caroline. You’re not impulsive, or careless, or fanciful . . .

I know I’m not, and that is precisely why I’m scared to death. This is
not
me. I don’t behave this way. What the hell is wrong with me? I look at the clock on the oven again—9:16. I need something to do, or I’m going to lose what’s left of my mind in the next hour and forty-four minutes.

In times like this, it can only take a moment for anxiety to trample my calm. It must be the control freak in me. I need something to help keep me grounded. I make a beeline to the pantry, where a quick scan of the shelves tells me that I have just enough pasta and crushed tomatoes to make a manageable one-hand pasta dish. I grab garlic, spices, cheese, everything and set a pot of water to boil. Perhaps there will be comfort in following a recipe to a predictable result. I won’t be too creative. After all, the whole point of the exercise is to create the illusion that I’m in control. Any kind of culinary disaster would debunk that fantasy, and I need to believe it. Just a little while longer.