One Summer (2 page)

The military vets shared a glance, and then Sammy looked over all the equipment helping to keep his friend alive. He shook his head slightly and his mouth twitched. This was as close as stoic Sammy ever came to showing emotion.

“How’s work?” Jack asked, and then he took a long pull of oxygen.

“No worries. Stuff’s getting done and the money’s coming in.”

Jack knew that Sammy had been completing all the jobs pretty much on his own and then bringing all the payments to Lizzie. “At least half of that money is yours, Sammy. You’re doing all the work.”

“I got my Uncle Sam pension, and it’s more than I need. That changes, I’ll let you know.”

Sammy lived in a converted one-car garage with his enormous Bernese mountain dog, Sam Jr. His needs were simple, his wants apparently nonexistent.

Sammy combed Jack’s hair and even gave him a shave. Then the friends talked for a while. At least Sammy said a few words and Jack listened. The rest of the time they sat in silence. Jack didn’t mind; just being with Sammy made him feel better.

After Sammy left, Jack lifted the pen and crossed out December twenty-first. That was being optimistic, Jack knew, since the day had really just begun. He put the calendar and pen away.

And then it happened.

He couldn’t breathe. He sat up, convulsing, but that just made it worse. He could feel his heart racing, his lungs squeezing, his face first growing red and then pale as the oxygen left his body and nothing replenished it.

December twenty-first,
he thought,
my last day.

“Pop-pop?”

Jack looked up to see his son holding the end of the oxygen line that attached to the converter. He held it up higher, as though he were giving it back to his dad.

“Jackie!”

A horrified Lizzie appeared in the doorway, snatched the line from her son’s hand, and rushed to reattach the oxygen line to the converter. A few moments later, the oxygen started to flow into the line and Jack fell back on the bed, breathing hard, trying to fill his lungs.

Lizzie raced past her youngest son and was by Jack’s side in an instant. “Oh my God, Jack, oh my God.” Her whole body was trembling.

He held up his hand to show he was okay.

Lizzie whirled around and snapped, “That was bad, Jackie, bad.”

Jackie’s face crumbled, and he started to bawl.

She snatched up Jackie and carried him out. The little boy was struggling to free himself, staring at Jack over her shoulder, reaching his arms out to his father. His son’s look was pleading.

“Pop-pop,” wailed Jackie.

The tears trickled down Jack’s face as his son’s cries faded away. But then Jack heard Lizzie sobbing and pictured her crying her heart out and wondering what the hell she’d done to deserve all this.

Sometimes, Jack thought, living was far harder than dying.

Jack awoke from a nap late the next day in time to see his daughter opening the front door, guitar case in hand. He motioned to her to come see him. She closed the door and dutifully trudged to his room.

Mikki had auburn hair like her mother’s. However, she had dyed it several different colors, and Jack had no idea what it would be called now. She was shooting up in height, her legs long and slender and her hips and bosom filling out. Though she acted like she was totally grown up now, her face was caught in that time thread that was firmly past the little-girl stage but not yet a woman. She would be a junior in high school next year. Where had the time gone?

“Yeah, Dad?” she said, not looking at him.

He thought about what to say. In truth, they didn’t have much to talk about. Even when he’d been healthy, their lives lately had taken separate paths.
That was my fault,
he thought.
Not hers.

“Your A.” He took a long breath, tried to smile.

She smirked. “Right. Music theory. My only one. I’m sure Mom told you that too. Right?”

“Still an A.”

“Thanks for mentioning it.” She looked at the floor, an awkward expression on her features. “Look, Dad, I gotta go. People are waiting. We’re rehearsing.”

She was in a band, Jack knew, though he couldn’t recall the name of it just now.

“Okay, be careful.”

She turned to leave, and then hesitated. Her fingers fiddled with the guitar case handle. She glanced back but still didn’t meet his gaze. “Just so you know, when you were asleep I duct taped your oxygen line onto the converter so it can’t be pulled off again. Jackie didn’t know what he was doing. Mom didn’t have to give him such a hard time.”

Jack gathered more oxygen and said, “Thanks.”

A part of him wanted her to look at him, and another part of him didn’t. He didn’t want to see pity in her eyes. Her big, strong father reduced to this. He wondered whom she would marry. Where would they live? Would it be far from Cleveland?

Will she visit my grave?

“Mikki?”

“Dad, I really got to go. I’m already late.”

“I hope you have a great… day, sweetie.”

He thought he saw her lips quiver for a moment, but then she turned and left. A few moments later, the front door closed behind her. He peered out the window. She hopped across the snow and climbed into a car that one of her guy friends was driving. Jack had never felt more disconnected from life.

After dinner that night, Cory, in full costume, performed
his Grinch role for his father. Cory was a chunky twelve-year-old, though his long feet and lanky limbs promised height later. His hair was a mop of brown cowlicks, the same look Jack had had at that age. Lizzie’s parents had come over for dinner and to watch the show and had brought Lizzie’s grandmother. Cecilia was a stylish lady in her eighties who used a walker and had her own portable oxygen tank. She’d grown up and lived most of her life in South Carolina. She’d come to live with her daughter in Cleveland after her husband died and her health started failing. Her laugh was infectious and her speech was mellifluous, like water trickling over smooth rocks.

Cecilia joked that Jack and she should start their own oxygen business since they had so much of the stuff. She was dying too, only not quite as fast as Jack. This probably would also be her last Christmas, but she had lived a good long life and had apparently made peace with her fate. She was uniformly upbeat, talking about her life in the South, the tea parties and the debutante balls, sneaking smokes and drinking hooch behind the local Baptist church at night. Yet every once in a while Jack would catch her staring at him, and he could sense the sadness the old lady held in her heart for his plight.

After Cory finished his performance, Cecilia leaned down and whispered into Jack’s ear. “It’s Christmas. The time of miracles.” This was not the first time she’d said this. Yet for some reason Jack’s spirits sparked for a moment.

But then the doctor’s pronouncement sobered this feeling.

Six months, eight if you’re lucky.

Science, it seemed, always trumped hope.

At eleven o’clock he heard the front door open, and Mikki slipped in. Jack thought he saw her glance his way, but she didn’t come into the den. When Jack was healthy they had kept
a strict watch over her comings and goings. And for months after he’d become ill, Lizzie had kept up that vigil. Now she barely had time to shower or snatch a meal, and Mikki had taken advantage of this lack of oversight to do as she pleased.

When everyone was asleep, Jack reached under his pillow and took out his pen. This time he wasn’t crossing off dates on a calendar. He took out the piece of paper and carefully unfolded it. He spread it out on a book he kept next to the bed. Pen poised over the paper, he began to write. It took him a long time, at least an hour to write less than one page. His handwriting was poor because he was so weak, but his thoughts were clear. Eventually there would be seven of these letters. One for each day of the last week of his life, the date neatly printed at the top of the page—or as neatly as Jack’s trembling hand could manage. Each letter began with “Dear Lizzie,” and ended with “Love, Jack.” In the body of the letter he did his best to convey to his wife all that he felt for her. That though he would no longer be alive, he would always be there for her.

These letters, he’d come to realize, were the most important thing he would ever do in his life. And he labored to make sure every word was the right one. Finished, he put the letter in an envelope, marked it with a number, and slipped it in the nightstand next to his bed.

He would write the seventh and last letter on Christmas Eve, after everyone had gone to bed.

Jack turned his head and looked out the window. Even in the darkness he could see the snow coming down hard.

He now knew how a condemned man felt though he had committed no crime. The time left to him was precious. But there was only so much he could do with it.

Jack marked off December twenty-fourth on his calendar. He had one letter left to write. It would go into the drawer with the number seven written on the envelope. After he was gone, Lizzie would read them, and Jack hoped they would provide some comfort to her. Actually, writing them had provided some comfort for Jack. It made him focus on what was really important in life.

Jack’s mother-in-law, Bonnie, had stayed with him while the rest of the family went to see Cory in the school play. Lizzie had put her foot down and made Mikki go as well. Bonnie had made a cup of tea and had settled herself down with a book, while Jack was perched in a chair by the window waiting for the van to pull up with Lizzie and the others.

Sammy came by, stomping snow off his boots and tugging off his knit cap to let his long, shaggy hair fall out. He sat next to Jack and handed him a gift. When Jack opened it he looked up in surprise.

It was five passes to Disney World, good for the upcoming year.

Sammy gripped Jack by the shoulder. “I expect you and the family to get there.”

Jack glanced over to see Bonnie shaking her head in mild reproach. Bonnie O’Toole was not a woman who believed in miracles. Yet Jack knew the man well enough to realize that Sammy fully believed he would use those tickets. He patted Sammy on the arm, smiled, and nodded.

After Sammy left, Jack glanced at the tickets. He appreciated his friend’s confidence, but Jack was the only one who knew how close he was to the end. He had fought as hard as he could. He didn’t want to die and leave his family, but he couldn’t live like this either. His mind focused totally on the last letter he would ever compose. He knew when his pen had finished writing the words and the paper was safely in the envelope, he could go peacefully. It was a small yet obviously important benchmark. But he would wait until Christmas was over, when presents were opened and a new day had dawned. It was some comfort to know that he had a little control left over his fate, even if it was simply the specific timing of his passing.

He saw the headlights of the oncoming van flick across the window. Bonnie went to open the front door, and Jack watched anxiously from the window as the kids piled out of the vehicle. Lizzie’s dad led them up the driveway, carrying Jackie because it was so slick out. The snow was still coming down, although the latest weather report had said that with the temperatures staying where they were, it was more ice than snow at this point, making driving treacherous.

His gaze held on Lizzie as she closed up the van, and then
turned, not toward the house, but away from it. Jack hadn’t noticed the person approach her because his attention had been on his wife. The man came into focus; it was Bill Miller. They’d all gone to school together. Bill had blocked on the line for Jack the quarterback. He’d attended Jack and Lizzie’s wedding. Bill was single, in the plumbing business, and doing well.

Jack pressed his face to the glass when he saw Bill draw close to his wife. Lizzie slipped her purse over her shoulder and swiped the hair out of her eyes. They were so close to one another, Jack couldn’t find even a sliver of darkness between them. His breath was fogging the glass, he was so near it. He watched Bill lean in toward Lizzie. He saw his wife rise up on tiptoe. And then Bill staggered back as Lizzie slapped him across the face. Though he was weak, Jack reared up in his chair as though he wanted to go and defend his wife’s honor. Yet there was no need. Bill Miller stumbled off into the darkness as Lizzie turned away and marched toward the house.

A minute later he heard Lizzie come in, knocking snow off her boots.

Lizzie strode into the den, first pulling off her scarf and then rubbing her hands together because of the cold. Her face was flushed, and she didn’t look at him like she normally did. “Time for the presents; then Mom and Dad are going to take off. They’ll be back tomorrow, okay, sweetie? It’ll be a great day.”

“How’s your hand?”

She glanced at him. “What?”

He pointed to the window. “I think Bill’s lucky he’s still conscious.”

“He was also drunk, or I don’t think he would’ve tried that. Idiot.”

Jack started to say something, but then stopped and looked away. Lizzie quickly picked up on this and sat next to him.

“Jack, you don’t think that Bill and I—”

He gripped her hand. “Of course not. Don’t be crazy.” He kissed her cheek.

“So what then? Something’s bothering you.”

“You’re young, and you have three kids.”

“That I get.” She attempted a smile that flickered out when she saw the earnest look on his face.

“You need somebody in your life.”

“I don’t want to talk about this.” She tried to rise, but he held her back.

“Lizzie, look at me. Look at me.”

She turned to face him, her eyes glimmering with tears.

“You will find someone else.”

“No.”

“You will.”

“I’ve got a full life. I’ve got no room for—”

“Yes, you do.”

“Do we have to talk about this now? It’s Christmas Eve.”

“I can’t be picky about timing, Lizzie,” he said, a little out of breath.

Her face flushed. “I didn’t mean that. I… you look better tonight. Maybe… the doctors—”

“No, Lizzie. No,” he said firmly. “That can’t happen. We’re past that stage, honey.” He sucked on his air, his gaze resolutely on her.