Wanting Rita (40 page)

Rita was asleep when I took my seat beside her. I was comforted by the rise and fall of her breathing, but caught in apprehension and uncertainty. The human body—life—healing, is finally a mystery, dependant on so many complex variables. I prayed that Rita would choose to live—that she would, in some conscious or unconscious realm, choose to go for life, regardless of the disappointments, tragedies and pain.

All the collective memories I had of Rita’s life—every look, action and word that I’d felt or experienced—returned, and I relived them. I shuddered when I thought how close to death she’d been. Life and death took on new meanings: life became more precious; death more present.

We seem to pass through the world like gusts of wind, like faceless prints, like shadows moving and groping and filling a busy space, and seldom finding the source of light that gives the shadow life. Love is that light. Rita is my light.

On the evening of the sixth day, as I sat alone, nodding off to sleep, Rita awoke, and her eyes found me. There was clarity in them—a recognition. I stood, frightened that she’d turn away from me, or become angry and ask me to leave. I tried not to show her my fear. I bolstered myself with a nervous smile and fumbled out some words.

“Hi…Feeling better?”

She stared at me, silent. Finally, with a dignity of effort, she spoke. Her voice was weak, broken and wonderful. “Alan…James… here?”

I felt the start of tears. I fought them. “Yep… Can’t get rid of me.”

She gave me the slightest of smiles, but it was the smile of a lover, and the beauty of it brought tears of relief. “What…took you so…so long to come… Alan James?”

I grinned, shaking my head. “Well…I’m here, now,” I said, taking her hand, and caressing it.

She swallowed away obvious discomfort.

“Are you alright? Can I get you something?”

Her adoring eyes lingered on me. “Will you stay?”

“Of course I’ll stay. Always. Yes.”

Her clear eyes opened in a wide pleasure. “…Then I’ll just sleep for awhile…”

I kissed her hand. “Yes… you sleep. You sleep all you want, Rita. Sleep and get strong. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

Her eyelids fluttered, gently. She closed them and sank into peace. As I eased down on the edge of the bed beside her, she opened her eyes again. They held a warmth and contentment I’d never seen. They held a gala of love. “…Alan James…”

“Yes, Rita…?”

“…I won’t leave you this time. No…not this time, my love…”

While Rita slept, I went to the window to watch the sunset. It was a flaming “ascentional” sky, with golden flowering clouds and orange and crimson bursts of light shooting, like searchlights, through great porcelain clouds, down to the red mountains and desert.

Ascension, if it comes at all, will be a slow process, a slow progress. I do not believe that it will come in a dramatic illumination, but in suffering stumbles and lengthening strides of patience, compassion and self-forgiveness. I suppose that is the way of the hero. And what keeps the hero going?

Hidden within a scented breeze, a broken night’s sleep or an unexpected gap of pleasure, an essence of Rita will always awaken and arise, and I will reach for her and want her. Of course. That’s the way it has been and the way it always will be.

Simple. I will never stop wanting her.

Epilogue

In the backyard, Shane Fitzgerald Lincoln tottered along freshly cut grass, in staccato steps, rushing toward Rita, who was coaxing him on. He was giddy and assured, his face full of hope, hers adoring. As Shane struggled to close the distance between them, I watched from the red and yellow swing-set. I held a digital camera, but I wasn’t filming. I was just gently swinging. It was Sunday, the day was warm, the sky was blue and there were no emergency calls.

Rita’s hair was long again and artfully tangled by the desert wind. She was barefoot, wearing white shorts and a yellow v-neck T-shirt that invited second looks at her full breasts. She thought she was overweight, and was working hard to shed pounds.

“My ass is fat, Alan James! I never lost those pounds after Shane was born.”

But the girlishness had returned and a freshness of spirit that I hadn’t seen since Jack’s Diner.

Rita had recovered swiftly. I moved to Sedona and spent four months taking care of her. With physical therapy and a second operation on her left leg, Rita was beginning to walk without a limp, although she still had some lingering discomfort.

She was student-teaching third graders, three days a week, and though it often fatigued her, she loved it. There was a pride about her I’d never seen—a pride in herself that she’d achieved one of the major goals of her life after so many years of difficulty.

Shane stumbled on, his mother’s arms outstretched. “Come on, Shane, you can do it. Come on. Come to Momma, Shane.”

Shane was blond, pudgy and, thankfully, he looked more like Rita than me. He was blessed with her wide, wonderful eyes and glowing skin. Unfortunately, he had my stiffness and tendency to brood.

“You can work with him on that, Alan James. You’re an expert.”

It was Rita who had first believed in the miracle. Before leaving the hospital she’d told me we would have a child.

“…It’s a no brainer, Alan James. Don’t you see? All the demons have been released; all the bad stories told and tossed away; all the little hurts and wounds are healed. We’re together now and we will have a child, Alan James. As soon as I am well…we will have a child. Didn’t two doctors tell you it was possible?”

And so it was that, with medication, exercise, timing, and faith, Rita had become pregnant.

We were married in Hartsfield, five months after her second operation. It was supposed to have been a small wedding, but a lot of old high school friends and family showed up and threw us a big reunion party at Jack’s Diner. Old “Big Jack” himself was there and he danced an Irish jig for us. Betty Fitzgerald had a little too much Pinot Grigio and danced along with him, until she nearly passed out on the floor. Rita laughed for minutes, having never seen her mother so free and uninhibited. Rita had told her only that morning that a baby was on the way: “Alan James and I are pregnant, mother.”

Ms. Lyendecker brought champagne, chocolates and a book of poems by Marie Ponsot. She kissed me on the cheek. “Please come see me again when you can, and bring the child. I’ll read poetry.”

Shane ventured on toward uneven and treacherous ground. I saw the sudden alarm on his face. Rita went to grab for him, but stopped. She dropped to her knees and called him on. “Just a little more, darling. Come on, Shane. You can do it. Don’t be afraid.”

Shane persisted, though frightened and unsure. His little legs couldn’t navigate the rutted earth. He lost his footing and tumbled.

Rita rushed to him and had gathered him up into her arms by the time I arrived.

He cried out only once. But it was a long, high sound, filled with fear and puzzlement.

“Yes, yes. You’re okay, Shane,” Rita said, gently rubbing his head. “You are doing just fine, baby doll. Your Mommy and Daddy will never let anything happen to you.”

She rocked him. I looked at Rita and winked.

“You know something, Alan James?” Rita asked, batting those long, lazy eyelids.

“…Yes…Rita?”

Rita kissed Shane on the forehead and then snuggled in close to me, resting her head against my shoulder.

“There is absolutely nothing wrong with happy endings.”

The End