A Heart of Time (7 page)

A woman is kneeling down, collecting flowers and placing them in a box. I realize I have no right to say anything, especially since I’ve just picked some flowers, too, but I’m not stripping the area of all the flowers. What is she doing with all of them? I’ve never seen her here before, so I’m guessing she isn’t a new groundskeeper. Not dressed like that, anyway.

I stand up and make my way around to the other side of the pond. “This is a privately owned garden,” I tell her. I know I’m no more an owner than she likely is, but I have an arrangement with the owner, who allows me to pick a couple of blue jasmines when I’m here.

Her head pops up, startled by my presence. I didn’t mean to sneak up on her, and normally I wouldn’t approach someone like this...but these flowers—they should wilt on their own.
I’m a hypocrite
. Why am I over here?

Her jade eyes meet mine and she looks completely distraught like I have accused her of a heinous crime. “Are these
your
flowers?” she asks in a honeyed voice.

I look down at my hand gripped around a single Jasmine. “No,” I reply, despondently. “I—I got permission from the owner of the garden.”

“I did, too,” she says. “I help the groundskeepers out sometimes since I manage a flower shop downtown. The shop I work for supplies the seeds in the spring and takes what’s left at the end of the season. Since we’re getting an early freeze, I’m making my rounds sooner than normal this year.”

“I had no idea,” I tell her, feeling like my tail is between my legs.
She is the reason these flowers continue to grow here.

“It’s okay. I’m sure it looks a little odd to be cutting down flowers in the middle of a beautiful garden,” she says, closing the box up. Tucking it under her arm, she stands and flips her coffee brown hair behind her shoulders. With a couple steps in my direction, she tilts her head subtly to the side with an inquisitive look in her eyes. “Do you come here a lot?”

“Every Friday.” I point over my shoulder toward my tree. “I come to visit my wife.”

The woman places her hand over her chest and clenches the loose pink material of her shirt. Her eyes break contact with mine as she looks down toward her feet. “I’m incredibly sorry for your loss.”

“Thank—” before I can offer her my complete gratitude, she takes off past me. I turn and watch her jog up the moss steps, leaving me staring with wonder. While I’m questioning what I said to make her run, the box she is carrying abruptly flies out of her hands as she trips up one of the steps. The flowers spring out from between the flaps and the woman falls down to the step, looking defeated. Defeated from running away from me? I take my steps toward her slowly, with caution, since I don’t want to scare her again if I already have somehow.

I scoop up the flowers and take the box, laying it flat on one of the steps. I place them in one at a time, careful not to rest any of the leaves up against each other. “Are you okay?” I ask. She looks up at me with a tear streaking down her red cheek. “Did you lose someone, too?” I don’t know why I would assume that, but she’s crying and I feel like I was a dick to yet another poor person.

She nods her head subtly, staring me straight in the eyes again. “I’m sorry,” she says, her voice shaky.

“I think we covered the unnecessary apologies,” I say, feeling a ghost of a smile find my mouth. I don’t think I have smiled in these gardens since the last time Ellie was here with me.

“Yes, I lost someone,” she says.

“Life sucks sometimes,” is all I can think to tell her. “It’s what I’ve told myself every day for the last five years.”

“Sometimes, but it can be really sweet some days, too,” she argues. “Sorry for this dramatic scene.” Quiet laughter escapes her lips as she runs the back of her hand against her cheek, drying the one lonely tear. “I don’t know what to say to myself to make my pain better, and I definitely don’t know what to say to someone else to ease their pain. So, the only logical thing I can think to do is run away.” She stands up and takes the box from my hand.

“Words aren’t always needed,” I tell her.

“Words are almost always needed,” she retorts.

“Is that what
they
say?”

“Who?” she asks, appearing puzzled.

“Whoever
they
are. You know,
those
who make up all of the crazy sayings that make no sense.”

“Those sayings are like art. You have to let the words sink in, and you have to forfeit your mind to the greater meaning of what is on the surface. It will all make sense then.”

“You must be a philosopher,” I tell her.

“Just a florist,” she reminds me.

“This has been the most confusing conversation about words I will probably ever have.” All because I wanted to accuse a poor woman of stealing flowers from a garden. I really know how to keep topping myself with every stupid decision I make.

“I hope not,” she says, a grin transforming from her grimace. “But I do need to get going. I need to get the shop opened.”

“Where is the shop?” I ask, wanting to know where I can buy these jasmines.

“It was nice to meet you,” she says, avoiding my question.

“Likewise,” I say in return.

I give her a head start before I follow her up the steps and out to the dirt lot, where I look toward my tree once more, sending my last “
I love you
” to Ellie for the week. When I make it out to my truck, I see the backside of a navy blue hybrid pulling out onto the main road.
And that’s that, I guess.

My thoughts feel scattered as I make my way through the grocery store, picking up food for the week, as well as a get-well kit for Charlotte. I may not have been married for a long time, but I think I know what makes women feel better. Or I’d like to think that.

She has made a much larger effort to help me than I have made to help her, so this is an opportunity for me to thank her and maybe prove I’m not as big of an asshole as I sometimes appear to be.

After putting my own groceries away, I jog across the street and knock on Charlotte’s door. I believe I hear what sounds like a crow squawking at me to come in so I open the door slowly, finding her curled up on the couch under a blanket. “Guess working from home isn’t going so well for you today,” I say, closing the door behind me.

“Not at all,” she croaks.

I sit down at the edge of the couch and pull the grocery bag up to my lap. “I got you some stuff.” I pull the tissue box out and place it on the coffee table beside us. Next is the Advil and Nyquil, then a box of chocolates, and finally every single chicky magazine I could find on the racks. As her eyes settle on the magazines, she props herself up on the couch.

“Wow,” she says. “You are quite the desirable bachelor.”

I don’t know why, but her words cause me to back up and switch from sitting on the edge of the couch to the edge of the coffee table. The irony of just rehashing the fact that she doesn’t “
go there
” only a couple of hours ago, tells me I might have jinxed myself.

Charlotte places her hand on my knee. “Hey.” Her eyebrows knit together with an accompanying look of frustration. “Are you okay?”

“I don’t know,” I tell her honestly.

“Was it weird that I said that?” She squints one eye closed as if she were preparing to take a blow to her head.

“I—I am so fucked up, Charlotte.” Truth. Nothing but truths here right now…no point in being anything but honest, as she’s beginning to learn just how fucked up I am.

“I’m well aware,” she laughs through another fit of coughs. One thing I’ve liked about Charlotte is that she doesn’t tiptoe around off-limits subjects. “I have no filter, but I’m not sorry I said it. It’s the truth.”

I look down at my hands, searching my mind for a non-asshole-like response, but nothing comes to me because I know I shouldn’t say anything rude since I’ve been thinking the same thing about her being a desirable bachelorette.

“How was the garden?” she asks, kindly changing the subject. For my sake, not hers.

“It was fine,” I sigh. “Want me to make you some tea or something?”

“No, thank—,” she says through a sneeze.

I stand up and take the empty bag into the kitchen, dropping it into the trash bin. “If you want me to get Lana off the bus today, I can.”

“Okay.” Awesome. I just ruined the only friendship I’ve managed to maintain for longer than two weeks. “Oh, your sweatshirt is hanging on the closet door,” she adds in.

“Thanks.” I grab it and at the same time feel my phone vibrating in my back pocket. Pulling it out, I see that it’s Olive’s school calling.

“Hello?” I answer, immediately hearing the school nurse explain something to me in a way that I can’t understand. Or maybe I don’t want to understand. “What do you mean? Is she okay?”

Panic drives me out of Charlotte’s house without a goodbye or explanation. Panic drives me down to Olive’s school going twice the speed limit, and panic has me racing through the school doors, passing by the preparing EMT’s, praying that God spares me any more heartache.

CHAPTER FIVE

There was a
time in my life when I questioned why I was so lucky. I had two parents who beat the age-old odds of divorce, good grades were just something that happened for me, money was never an issue thanks to Dad and his successful business, and then in the girlfriend department—getting the girl was never an issue because I always had one. I sometimes sat down at the edge of my bed and asked God, “
Why me
?” It wasn’t that I ever expected things to come easily, or for the luck to ever continue, but I was always grateful enough to fear the day when my luck might change. Maybe part of me always knew it would.

Until the moment I saw Ellie lying on the hospital bed, dead, I didn’t realize that she
was
my luck—all of my good fortune clumped together into one being. Those other things in my life: happy parents, money, intelligence—that wasn’t luck. I thought I was good at appreciating what I had, but I came to find out that I never truly appreciated it the way I should have. I appreciated the wrong parts of life. Now I appreciate time—the time I had with Ellie, the time I take to be a dad and raise Olive, and the time Olive is awake and home from school. Time is what I’m grateful for, because without time, nothing else matters.

I bust through the front office doors and into the nurse’s office, searching around the room until I see the school nurse, principal, and receptionist hovering over Olive. “What happened?” I snap. They already told me over the phone, but I need to hear it again. I need every single detail.

The EMTs are on my tail and I’m forced to back away so they can take care of her. One of them is pulling up her eyelids checking her pupils with a flashlight while another checks her limbs. I hold my gaze on the EMTs as the nurse describes in detail about this “
misfortunate accident
” on the playground.

“She climbed up to the top of the play gym and stood on the monkey bars while reaching for the sky. By the time her teacher saw, it was too late…Olive’s foot had slipped through one of the openings and she fell off the side. The drop was about seven or eight feet, and she fell directly onto her head.”

This was one of my biggest concerns during open house. I asked them how carefully they watch the children on the playground. They explained how great their teacher/student ratio was, and that each child would be carefully supervised. Don’t they know it only takes one second?

“Looks like a grade three concussion,” one of the EMTs says, matter-of-factly, without a hint of emotion in his voice. As another EMT rushes past me with a stretcher, they place a brace around Olive’s neck, and it nearly covers her face. I can’t even touch her because they have closed in around her, keeping me away. I can only see through the cracks of their bodies, allowing me a view of the dirt staining her pink leggings.

Again, for the second time in my life, my heart physically aches. It’s beating the shit out of me from the inside out, and I’m having trouble catching my breath. Whoever the hell said, “
What doesn’t kill you, makes you stronger...
” can kiss my ass.

“Olive!” I shout, worthlessly. “Olive, sweetie, wake up!” A warm hand clenches around my shoulder, and a chest presses against my back, but I don’t turn around. I don’t care who is behind me—who is trying to show me sympathy or comfort. My little girl is lying in front of me unconscious, from a goddamn seven-foot tall fall. “Is she going to be okay? I need to know. Is she?” No one responds, so I grab one of the EMTs by the shoulder, the one who doesn’t have his hands on Olive. I yank at him until he turns around. “Is she going to be okay?”

“I’m not a doctor,” he says. “I’m not able to give you any definite answers.”

The hand that was on my shoulder is lowered to my bicep and another hand rests over my other bicep. The hands squeeze harder, but I still don’t turn around. I will not take my eyes off of Olive. As the EMT I was just speaking to moves to the side, I see that Olive is missing her shoe. She looks uncared for; she doesn’t look like my daughter.

The two minutes it takes to have her strapped down on the gurney feel like an hour—an hour of impatiently waiting for her to blink or say the word, “
Daddy
”.

“Sir, you can ride along with us.”

The hands around my arms release and a voice echoes in my ears. “I’ll meet you there,” she says.

As the EMTs rush by me, the wind of their speed knocks into me. I run, unable to feel the soles of my shoes hitting the ground, or hear the panic in everyone’s voices, or focus on the dozens of children lining the hall with fear in their eyes. I know it’s all there, but I feel locked inside of a tunnel with only darkness at the other end.

I climb into the back of the ambulance, still forced to sit far enough away from Olive that I can’t touch her. Maybe if she knew I was here, she’d wake up. “Olive,” I call softly. “Can you hear me?”

The EMT I’m sitting beside looks over at me and shakes his head slightly as if to tell me not to bother. Why wouldn’t I bother? “She’s alive, isn’t she?” I spew angrily.

“Yes, she is,” he says. “I’m just afraid she can’t hear you.”

“You don’t know that,” I grit. “You’re not a doctor, remember?”

“Take it easy, sir,” he says, remaining calm.
Unlike me.

“Take it easy? Take it easy?” I shout. “My wife died giving birth to this little girl. She is my entire fucking world. I wanted to homeschool her just so I knew she’d be safe. So don’t you tell me to take it easy—you understand?”

“That’s irrational,” he says, looking away from me. Cocky, arrogant, doctor wannabe.

I want to hit him. I want to punch him square in the goddamn jaw right now, but I know they’d kick me out of this claustrophobic vehicle, so I shut my mouth and clench my jaw.

We arrive at the hospital. This hospital—this horrible place of death that I promised myself I would never to walk into again, and yet here I am. It already stole Ellie and now it’s threatening to take my sweet, little Olive.

As I walk down the endless hall of white, an image flashes through my blurry mind—Olive at two days old in the car seat I spent hours learning how to take apart and put back together, just to make sure I knew exactly how to operate it when it came time. She was buckled in snuggly, looking up at me as I held the seat firmly within my embrace. I remember thinking
it’s just you and me now
as I wondered how I was going to do this—be this little girl’s sole provider for every single thing she needs. Then I wondered how I got to that point, and why? How could I ever imagine leaving this hospital without Ellie? That wasn’t the plan.

The sight of the EMTs rushing Olive into one of the triage areas pulls me from my thoughts. A nurse greets us just as Olive is transferred from the gurney to a bed. “Sir, you’re quite pale,” she says as she pulls up a chair and taps the armrest. “Have a seat.” I do as she asks because I don’t think my legs are strong enough to support the weight of my heart any longer. “A doctor will be here momentarily.” She places her hand on my shoulder and I look up at her.

A familiar face stares back at me, but I don’t say much to confirm the similar question swimming through her eyes.
Yes, I do look familiar. Yes, you were the one who handed Olive to me just as she was born and just as my wife died.
I’m guessing I only look
familiar
to her. This hospital sees hundreds of people a day, I’m sure. “Thank you,” I say.

“Mr. Cole,” she sighs. “It has been a while.” Her bottom lip quivers and her eyes fill with tears. “We’ll give your little girl the best care possible. I promise.”

“You remember me?” I ask, shock lacing my hoarse voice.

“I have never forgotten you. I could never forget you. You and Olive have weighed heavily on my mind for years. I think of you often, wondering how you are doing.” She breaks her stare from my eyes and focuses on Olive. “She looks just like her. She’s beautiful.” The nurse squeezes her hand around my shoulder and croaks, “I’ll be right back.”

As promised, a doctor comes jogging around the corner and up to Olive’s bedside. He introduces himself and then checks Olive over from head to toe, inspecting her pupils and neck first. He turns to me, saying, “We need to send her for a CT scan right away.” He lifts the phone and puts in the order to whoever is on the other end of the line. In less than two minutes Olive’s bed is being rolled out of the room and down the hall. When we enter the new area, I’m asked to remain in the waiting room because I can’t go in with her for the CT scan. Once again, I’m forced to sit in a waiting room, waiting to hear the destiny of the one living person I love.

“Can I get you some tea or coffee?” the nurse asks—the same nurse who remembers me. The same nurse who was able to communicate that Ellie wasn’t going to make it with only a look in her eyes. She doesn’t have that look now, but maybe she’s gotten more experienced at hiding her emotions.

I shake my head and drop my face into my hands. “My name is Caroline,” the nurse says quietly as she takes the seat next to me. “You’re doing a wonderful job with Olive.”

I lift my face from my hands and look at her with nothing but question. How in the world could anyone sit here and tell me I’m doing a wonderful job? My daughter is lying unconscious in a hospital bed. I’m thinking that’s qualification to have someone second guess my ability to care for a child, never mind doing anything less than an okay job. “I beg to differ,” I reply, sounding less cynical than I truly feel.

“Oh, honey, her clothes match, her hair had two barrettes evenly placed on both sides of a straight part down the center of her head. Her socks match. Her teeth are clean. Her belly is full. These are only the few things I noticed within the minute she arrived here. I know it isn’t much, but I could immediately tell she is a cared-for child.” Caroline takes my left hand from my lap and points to my ring finger. “And you’re caring for her yourself, aren’t you?” She knows about Ellie, which means she’s questioning if I moved on.

“Yes,” I respond, looking at my empty finger along with her. I struggled with the decision to take my ring off. I finally did last year and placed it in a box with Ellie’s ring.

“Olive is going to be okay,” Caroline tells me.

I remember asking Caroline if Ellie was going to be okay, and she wouldn’t answer me. But here she is, offering this information unprompted by me. “She is?” I need hope.
Please give me an ounce of hope to hold on to
.

“Hunter!” a voice cries from the door. “Hunter.” Charlotte runs in and throws her arms around my neck as if we do
this sort of thing
—hug when in need of a hug.

I’m still looking at Caroline, though, as well as the small smile unraveling across her lips. As the wrinkles on her cheeks smooth out, a happy gleam encompasses her face. She places her hand on my back and stands up. “I’ll give you two a moment, and I’ll check on Olive.”

“Thank you,” I tell her, then turning to Charlotte with what I’m sure is a puzzled look, I ask, “How did you know I was here?”

“When you left my house so quickly after you got that phone call, without even saying goodbye, I suspected it might have been the school calling about Olive, so I called them. I was with you at the school but… Anyway, I heard what happened and I followed you here because I thought you might need me. And I didn’t want you to be alone. I would have gotten here sooner but I was looking all over for you,” Charlotte says, breathlessly. It was
her
hands trying to embrace me at the school. It’s Charlotte who is always here for me lately. And yet, I get scared when she tells me I’m a desirable man.
What the hell is wrong with me?
“The administration desk wasn’t entirely sure where you might be and I called your phone a dozen times. As I was running through the halls, I thought security was going to escort me out, but instead, they helped me find you. How is she? Is she okay? Are you okay? Do you need something? I was so worried about her.” Charlotte sounds wild and out of control. The worry in her voice is pure and full of honest compassion for Olive—for me. It’s something I haven’t heard in a while since I’ve pushed everyone away—everyone including my own parents. I wouldn’t allow the presence of compassion in my life because it made everything worse. AJ is the only one who I haven’t burned, because he isn’t compassionate. He’s an asshole like me, just in a different way—a way I can tolerate most of the time.