(2008) Down Where My Love Lives (28 page)

When I arrived on Maggie's floor, my faithful nurse was waiting for me, and the doctor was on the phone. I entered Maggie's room and found Blue curled up in a ball, sleeping peacefully on his blanket. Beneath the window, Maggie lay angelic and perfectly still. I dropped my blanket and lay down next to her.

"Sir, you really shouldn't do that," the nurse said hastily.

"Lady," I said gently, my wife in my arms, "go away."

She left, and for the first time in four months and thirteen days, I slid beneath the covers and fell asleep next to my wife. Drifting off, holding back the sleep and fighting the medication, I felt Maggie's warm breath on my nose.

A few hours later I woke up to a clear, dark night. No snow falling. I don't know how long I had been asleep, but they hadn't moved me. And more importantly, they hadn't moved Maggie. They had replaced my IV and pumped me with some more fluids.

I lifted my head and looked at Maggie. I admit it, I expected her to be looking back at me. To be honest, I expected to wake up and see her eyes wide open and as crystal clear as the moment they wheeled her down to delivery.

They were not. She was sleeping quietly, and beneath her eyelids, her eyes were moving back and forth.

Maggs was dreaming.

I'm not quite sure where, but from someplace deep within, where the scabs are hidden, where the doubt can't go and the scars don't show, I began to cry. I couldn't hold it anymore, so I buried my head against Maggie's chest and cried harder than I have ever cried in my life. My sobbing brought the nurse running. She stood by the bed a few seconds, covered me with a second blanket, and left.

THE NEXT MORNING, MAGGIE AND I WOKE IN EACH other's arms. Or rather, I woke up holding her in mine. For a while, I just lay there with my arm across her tummy. She had no choice, so I extended the moment as long as possible. I took her socks off and felt her cold feet rest on my legs. It was the first time I had ever willingly let her do that. After a while I sat up, covered her with my blanket, opened the closet, and rummaged through the clothes that I had left over the last four months. Dressing in the early morning light, I noticed that my hands were cut, scabbed, and sore up to my shoulders. I guessed the medication had worn off. I pulled out the W and walked to the side of the bed.

"Maggs," I whispered. "I've got something to do. Don't go anywhere." Blue got up off his towel, stretched, and looked at me with a where're-we-going look on his face. I told him to sit, which he did. Then I held my hand out and whispered, "Stay." He lay back down, rested his head on his foreleg, and cocked his ears toward me. "Take care of Maggs. I'll be back." He stood up and looked at Maggs. I said, "Okay," and he hopped up on the bed and curled into a ball by her feet.

Pulling on a jacket, I walked out of Maggs's room and down the quiet hallway. A light shone from the nurses' station, but that was about it. The nurse was reading the Enquirer and munching on a new bag of cheese puffs.

"Merry Christmas," I said, realizing I was a day late.

She turned the page and never looked up. "It is? What's so merry about it?"

At the end of the hall, they had admitted an elderly lady with pneumonia. She'd been there two days and they said she'd make it, but her lungs were pretty full, so she would stay awhile. Anyway, her room looked like a floral shop. She must have been one of the pillars of some community, because her room was a blooming jungle. They brought in tables from the cafeteria just to give her more shelf space. Her door was cracked open, so I walked down the hall and silently entered. She was sound asleep.

I grabbed the biggest bunch of flowers I could find. It was a tropical arrangement at odds with the snow outside. In the greenhouse her room had become, she'd never miss it. I set the attached card inside another arrangement, whispered, "Thank you," and pulled the door closed behind me. Walking back down the hall, I set the flowers gently on top of the Enquirer.

The nurse put down her bag of puffs, licked the orange cheese off her lips, and studied the bouquet. Cocking one eye, she looked up at me over the top of her glasses. I just stood there, smiling, with my hands in my pockets. Careful not to disturb her lipstick, she dabbed the corners of her mouth with a napkin, moved the flowers to the corner of her desk, and kept reading.

"Hope you have a nice day," I said, rocking on my toes and heels and running my fingers through the change in my pocket like an old man in church.

"Umm, hum."

I leaned over the counter and tried again. "Hope those cheese puffs don't instep-clog your arteries, causing a massive heart attack right here when you're working so hard."

She took a deep breath, folded her flabby arms on the table, and slowly looked me up and down, this time through her glasses. Leaning back in her creaking chair, she folded her hands and considered whether to call security or just give me what I wanted. Finally, she relented. "Merry Christmas, Mr. Styles."

I turned to walk away, but she stopped me. "You going home?" she asked. I nodded, wondering where this was going. "Well, you can walk if you want to, but I'm headed that way. You might as well come along." I stared at her, hands in my pockets, remembering the sight of my truck stranded on the roadside. "Well, don't just stand there," she said. "Let's get going."

I followed her downstairs and out into the parking lot. At the curb, her Buick Century idled up alongside me. She leaned over and unlocked the passenger side door. Between us sat the half-eaten bag of cheese puffs.

We pulled out of town, retracing the same route I had driven the night before. The air in the car was warm and easy.

Little snow had melted, but the roads were clearer and everything had a wet, glistening look to it. We made it to the railroad tracks, pulled off on the shoulder, and saw where the tow truck had fetched Amos's car and my truck. Only drag marks remained.

Pastor John's church was bathed in white, and in spite of what I had said, the blanket of snow really was a beautiful sight. Another mile and we drove into my drive and around the back of the house.

I opened the door and squatted down, resting one hand on the seat and one on the door. "What's your name?"

She smiled, tapped the name tag pinned to her shirt, and raised her eyebrows. It read, Alice May Newsome. RN. Serving for 38 years. She looped her finger beneath her seat belt and readjusted it. "My friends call me Allie."

"Thank you, Allie."

She nodded, rolled up my window, and quietly drove away.

I WALKED THE TREE LINE AROUND TO MY SON'S GRAVE AND down to the riverbank where the sunshine shone warm on my back. When I got to the sandy bank of the river, I stripped down to my birthday suit.

There I stood-a part-time teacher and sometime farmer, showing the first signs of weather and wrinkles, married to a woman who might never wake up, teaching dropouts, wrestling my pride, and looking into a future in question. I couldn't see beyond that second. But for the first time in a long while, I felt a smile on my face. I was standing on that bank like an idiot, smiling. Smiling! Yeah, it was cold, but I wasn't too worried about it. I had been colder.

The flow of the current was about normal when I stepped in. And the water was warmer than I thought it would be. I waded down to waist level and let my toes hang off the lip of the swimming hole where Maggs had taken her swan dive. Down there, the depth dropped to about twelve feet. I looked up at the bluff to my left and thought about our waking up in the middle of the late-summer night and walking hand in hand to the edge. About her stripping down, about her slender calves, graceful arms, the small of her back, about her soaring through the moonlight like Tinkerbell. Arms wide, feet together, her skin like porcelain. Then splashing into the black water, only to surface and let the water drip off the sneaky smile that spread across her face.

I saw us lying on the bank, watching the stars, while the warm, wet water pooled around us. I saw us walking back to the house, her shoulder tucked under mine. Swinging my cold hands, gently skimming the top of the water with my fingertips, I thought about that a lot.

Then I thought about my son, not too far from here, and how the wisteria had grown across his grave. How the blooms were dead and gone but would be back.

Then I thought about the ditch and the night before. Deep down I was conflicted-an even mixture of fear and peace. Fearful, because maybe Amanda was right. And at peace because I hoped she was. If He had been there all along, then my doubt had no home and would be turned out. I realized that was what took me there, to that place, and it was the reason I was standing in the water.

I stepped off the ledge, took a deep breath, and buried myself in black water. The current swirled around me and pushed me to the bottom, where it held me while small bubbles rose from my nose and mouth, tickling my closed eyes. I saw Maggie, bright lights, the delivery-room floor, my son's face, doctors screaming, and Maggie crying. I hovered above my son's tombstone and the tops of the cornfields. Blue licked my face; Pinky grunted; the tractor idled; the river slid by, bubbling with yellow urine; Pastor John wiped sweat off his face; the railing creaked; Amos's bald head shone; the church bell rang; and Mr. Smiles beckoned.

Trembling, I rose, fell forward, and bit the bitter bread. I stood sweating in my classroom beneath the fans. Koy stared blankly through dark sunglasses, Russell and Marvin danced at football practice. Mr. Carter held forth atop his dog box, I walked the Salk, smiled at moonlight shining through silver hair, sat with Jim Biggins, rocked on the front porch, put my hand in the buzzard hole, saw a man in a dirty kilt with a chestful of medals, felt condensation running down a cold beer, stood in a deserted parking lot, laughed at Mr. Caglestock's bow tie, and heard the echo of John Wayne's voice.

I was in the library studying, writing my dissertation, eating take-out, selling my guitar, and wearing cowboy boots and faded jeans. I was on the front row of the amphitheatre, sitting in moonlight and listening to the wind filter through the pine trees.

Back at the splintery railing, Pastor John offered the cup to Amanda. "Baby, this is ... " and then he offered it to me.

I sipped, and it stung my throat.

Standing next to Maggie's bedside, I heard her laughter, dialed voice mail, saw Blue lick her feet, slipped socks over her cold toes, saw Amos standing in the hall, touched the wrinkle on Maggie's forehead, sat with Amanda while she cleaned and dressed my arm, and felt Maggie's fingers gently touch my scar.

I swallowed.

It was dark and black on the bottom of that river, but above me light cut through the water like sunshine after the rain. That's when I knew. He was there. He was there all along. I pushed off that sandy bottom. Breaking the surface, I opened my eyes, looked downriver, and as far as I could see, the bank was white. On it, the sun shone brilliantly.

Standing in shoulder-deep water, I stopped to look at myself. I mean, really look. I studied my water-logged hands and the red scar on my arm. I marveled at my pale skin mottled with blue veins and goose bumps from the cold. And for the first time in a long time, I was clean. No blood. No blood anywhere.

ON SUNDAY MORNING PASTOR JOHN'S CHURCH WAS alive and kicking when I drove by. To say it was loud would be an understatement. Blue and I were headed home, which was a mess, so I spent the day cleaning the house. Blue passed most of the afternoon staring at me as if I had lost my mind. Next I moved on to the barn, where he trailed behind me in disbelief.

Pinky was as protective and mean as ever. I threw some corn to her, and she grunted, crapped, and kicked the door of the stall. At the end of the day, Blue and I hopped on the tractor and idled under the oaks and along the river. Blue loved the tractor. We drove to the edge of the river, cut the engine, listened to the wood ducks fly overhead, and watched the sun disappear.

Back at the house, I cooked a dinner that looked a lot like breakfast. I'm not much good at anything else; Maggie could tell you that. Six eggs, an entire package of bacon, and some toast. I devoured it and then washed it down with percolated Maxwell House. The front porch was quiet except for the creaking of my rocker-a sound Maggie loved. Before me, moonlight bathed the cornfield, and a silent breeze waved through the rows of dry cornstalks.