Withering Hope (28 page)

Ten years later

T
he last rays of sun tap through the window, their reflections creating a rainbow in my champagne glass. Today is a day for celebrating. One way or another, we celebrate every day. But today is special. I arrived home earlier from work to prepare a fancy meal. If I was still a lawyer, that wouldn't have been possible. I never even thought of going back to my old job. Something Tristan told me in the rainforest stuck with me. I can help in my own way. One person at a time. At age twenty-six I ditched what could have been a brilliant career as a lawyer and enrolled at college again—this time to study psychology. A number of friends criticized my decision, but I've learned not to care. It's never too late for a fresh start. Tristan followed suit and enrolled to study medicine. It turns out we both made the right choice, feeling fulfilled with our careers.

The college years, and the ones after, resembled our time in the rainforest in one aspect. It felt like it was just the two of us, making our way in a place we didn't belong. I wish we could be together at all times, like in the forest. Whenever we are apart for more than a day, somewhere deep inside me the irrational fear that something happened to him roars to life. It's normal—I’ve learned that in my studies. It's a feeling I will never lose, but I can live with it. And when Tristan's arms envelop me, and his lips feather on mine, like they do right now, I forget about it.

"Happy tenth unofficial anniversary," he murmurs against my lips, clinking the champagne glass he’s holding against mine. I admire my husband's beauty before answering. His black hair is now peppered with two white streaks I adore. His dark eyes haven't lost any of their glint.

"It's the official one for me." We had an official wedding a month after our return from the rainforest. We had gold wedding rings and everything. But each year, we celebrate our anniversary on the day we exchanged the thread rings in the forest. Today is our tenth. Every year on this day we take out the glass box where we keep those thread rings. The box is our little glass bubble, preserving the purity of the forest and the strength of our love.

The thread rings have been eroded by the years; they're fragile. We never remove them from the box, afraid we might damage them. We just look at them and clink champagne glasses over the box. We save wearing them for an unknown special occasion. Neither of us knows when that occasion will be, but we are certain we'll recognize it when it arrives. The tattoos we made in the forest faded over the years, but they are still readable. We thought about getting them re-done, this time in an actual tattoo parlor, but decided against it. It just wouldn't feel the same.

"Mom, Mom." The voice resounds from the little garden outside our house. It belongs to a five-year-old girl with Tristan's black hair and my green eyes. I glance at her through the open door of the kitchen. She's running from the entrance gate on the patio, taking both steps leading to our porch in one jump. When she arrives in the kitchen, she's out of breath, clutching a rectangular box wrapped in brown paper against her chest.

"Look what the mailman brought," she says proudly. "From Uncle Chris."

"How do you know it's from him?" Tristan asks, feigning suspicion. He's suppressing a smile.

"It says right here." She places her tiny finger on the envelope where the name of the sender is written. "I can read all the letters of the alphabet."

"You can, huh?" Tristan takes her in his lap, tickling her until she roars with laughter. It's contagious, and all three of us end up laughing with guffaws.

"I think it's another porcelain doll," she says after we calm down, her eyes brimming with hope. “For my collection.”

"Well, what are you waiting for? Open it," I beckon. She rips the brown paper, revealing indeed, a porcelain doll.

"When will he visit us again?" she asks.

"Let's call and ask him, shall we?" Tristan says, lifting Lynda in his arms. On a whim, I rise on my toes and give him a kiss. A light one, the way we always exchange kisses when Lynda can see us. Tristan winks at me as he steps out to the porch with Lynda to call Chris.

It took a long time for Chris and I to connect again. I sent an email to him with all my thoughts and apologies the day before I married Tristan. I never got an answer, but I didn't expect one. I didn't attempt to make any contact for a few years afterward. Not until I saw a picture of him in the news—he had received an award for business innovator of the year. On his arm was a beautiful, blonde woman. I thought it might be safe to write to him again. He was still in New York. We emailed back and forth for a few months and after she became his wife they visited us for the first time. I was enchanted with her, and they were both enchanted by Lynda. Gradually, I got my best friend back, Tristan gained a friend, and Lynda had someone to call Uncle. It went smoother than I expected. Smoother than many other things we had to fight for. My health, for example. Despite the doctor's best efforts (and mine during the recovery therapy), I'm left with a slight limp in my leg and a scar where I was bitten.

Some days my leg hurts, and I can do nothing more than curl up with a book. We have a library full of books. All kind of books. Novels of romance, adventures, and horror. Poems—cheerful ones and dark ones. When Lynda grows up, she can read about anything: pain and happiness, darkness and light. She must learn of everything, though as a mother, I hope she'll encounter only happiness. As for me, I don’t resent the fear and the pain I experienced in the rainforest. If I hadn't been through it all, I might not appreciate every day, every minute, the way I do.

Those terrifying months in the rainforest were, in a way, a gift. Maybe it's true what they say, that without darkness, you can never truly appreciate the light.

Watching Tristan and Lynda on the porch, laughing on the phone, I slump in my favorite place in whole house: a rocking chair. Maybe it's all those months we spent in the plane, but I feel more comfortable sleeping in the rocking chair than in our bed. I can sit for hours at a time in it, reading stories to Lynda, or waiting for Tristan to come home from the hospital on the nights when he must work late. Over the rocking chair I throw a cover I made by sewing together patches. Each patch has a photo of Tristan and me, or the three of us. Each year I add a few patches to the blanket with pictures from moments that stand out. Tristan says if I continue like this, when we're old the blanket will be large enough to cover the whole house. I hope it will be. You can never have enough good memories. A light pain shoots through my left ankle. It happens now and then. But I smile. No matter what hardships life throws at us, I meet them with a smile. Because I will always remember a time when all I could hope for was one more breath, one more heartbeat. Now I have plenty of them.

And I intend to celebrate every single one.

Many years later

"D
r. Spencer," the nurse calls, her head visible through the cracked door, "we need you on the second floor."

"I'll be with you in a minute."

I close the file on my desk, trying to pull myself together. In over two decades of practicing medicine, I've grown immune to this type of situations. But there are always cases that get to me. And having known Dr. Tristan Bress and his family personally since I was a young woman makes it that much more difficult.

At the age of seventy, Aimee Bress was admitted to our hospital, where her husband had worked for many years before retiring. She had a severe case of viral respiratory disease. She was admitted three weeks ago, and her husband and daughter have been practically living outside her room ever since, though not allowed to see her. She has an exceptionally contagious form and it is very dangerous for Dr. Bress, whose age made him frail and prone to contract the virus.

Her condition worsened. Last night we informed Dr. Bress and his daughter that Aimee would not survive the night. When we told them they couldn't spend the night at her bedside due to the highly contagious nature of the virus, Dr. Bress asked his daughter to take him home. It seemed an odd request, not wanting to spend the night at the hospital, as close as possible to his wife. Before leaving, he took a little glass box out of his pocket. Taking out a circle made of old, decaying thread, he asked in a pleading voice, "Will you put this on my wife's finger next to her wedding ring?” Seeing a man who I had always associated with strength become so vulnerable immediately made me say a whispered "Yes." My weak answer didn't calm him. "Promise," he urged.

"I promise." I fulfilled my promise. His daughter returned alone to the hospital after dropping him off at home. Mrs. Bress died at four o'clock in the morning. Out of respect for having known and worked with Tristan Bress for years, I accompanied their daughter to her parents' home, to tell him.

We found Dr. Bress in a rocking chair, a blanket with layers upon layers covering him from his lap down.

His daughter thought he was asleep. But I knew better.

He had died.

In his hands, he was holding the glass box he had at the hospital. The box was empty, but a similar circle to the one he asked me to put on his wife's finger was on his, right next to his wedding ring. I thought I grew immune to everything over so many years, but I couldn't help shedding tears. Aimee Bress once told me about the time they spent in the Amazon rainforest. I remembered what those thread rings meant. I tried to hide my tears, but a closer inspection of the blanket on Dr. Bress’s lap brought more tears. The blanket seemed to be made entirely out of patches with printed pictures of their family. Some photos must have been very old, because both Bresse’s looked younger than I've ever seen them. It struck me that in all photos, no matter if they were young or not, they had that same look of intense love in their eyes that I was always secretly jealous of.

When the diagnostic of the cause of his death came—literally a broken heart—I expected it to be difficult to explain to their daughter. It's an unusual diagnostic, and one that people are sceptical about.

She smiled through tears. "My parents did love each other very much." Then she said a few words that I will carry with me for a very long time. "He loved her so much he never wanted to say goodbye to her. He wanted to leave with her."

Dear Reader,

If you would like to receive news of my upcoming books, sales and giveaways, please sign up to my author mailing list by clicking
HERE
. You will find out about future books as soon as they’re released!

The Lost Series

Lost (FREE prequel novella to Lost in Us): James and Serena’s story

Lost in Us: James and Serena’s story

Found in Us: Parker and Jessica’s story

Caught in Us: Dani and tattoo guy’s story – coming in Spring 2015

Lost is a FREE prequel novella to Lost in Us and can be read before or after.

Whatever might help him forget his past and numb the pain, James has tried it all: booze, car races, fights, and then some. Especially women. College offers plenty of opportunities for everything. . . Especially when you have a trust fund to spend.