The Choice (27 page)

“What happened at school today?” Travis had asked her the last time she’d come. “I’m sure your mom wants to hear all about it.”

Instead of answering, Christine turned toward him. “Why?” she asked, her tone one of sad defiance. “You know she can’t hear me.”

There was a cafeteria on the ground floor of the hospital, and on most days Travis would go there, mainly to hear voices other than his own. Normally, he arrived around lunchtime, and over the past few weeks, he’d come to recognize the regulars. Most were employees, but there was an elderly woman who seemed to be there every time he arrived. Though he’d never spoken to her, he’d learned from Gretchen that the woman’s husband had already been in the intensive care unit when Gabby was admitted. Something about complications from diabetes, and whenever he saw the woman eating a bowl of soup, he thought about her husband upstairs. It was easy to imagine the worst: a patient hooked up to a dozen machines, endless rounds of surgery, possible amputation, a man barely hanging on. It wasn’t his business to ask, and he wasn’t even certain he wanted to know the truth, if only because it felt as though he couldn’t summon the concern he knew he’d need to show. His ability to empathize, it seemed to him, had evaporated.

Still, he watched her, curious about what he could learn from her. While the knot in his stomach never seemed to settle enough for him to swallow more than a few bites of anything, she not only ate her entire meal, but seemed to enjoy it. While he found it impossible to focus long enough on anything other than his own needs and his daughters’ daily existence, she read novels during lunch, and more than once, he’d seen her laughing quietly at a passage that had amused her. And unlike him, she still maintained an ability to smile, one she offered willingly to those who passed her table.

Sometimes, in that smile, he thought he could see a trace of loneliness, even as he chided himself for imagining something that probably wasn’t there. He couldn’t help wondering about her marriage. Because of her age, he assumed they’d celebrated a silver, perhaps even golden, anniversary. Most likely there were kids, even if he’d never seen them. But other than that, he could intuit nothing. He wondered whether they had been happy, for she seemed to be taking her husband’s illness in stride, while he walked the corridors of the hospital feeling as if a single wrong step would send him crumpling to the floor.

He wondered, for instance, whether her husband had ever planted rosebushes for her, something Travis had done for Gabby when she’d first become pregnant with Christine. Travis remembered the way she looked as she sat on the porch, one hand on her belly, and mentioned that the backyard needed flowers. Staring at her as she said it, Travis could no more have denied her request than breathed underwater, and though his hands were scraped and his fingertips bloody by the time he finished planting the bushes, roses were blooming on the day Christine had been born. He’d brought a bouquet to the hospital.

He wondered whether her husband had watched her from the corner of his eye the way Travis watched Gabby when their kids frolicked on the swings in the park. He loved the way Gabby’s expression would light up with pride. Often, he’d reach for her hand and feel like holding it forever.

He wondered whether her husband had found her beautiful first thing in the morning, with her hair askew, the way Travis did when he saw Gabby. Sometimes, despite the structured chaos always associated with mornings, they would simply lie together in each other’s arms for a few more minutes, as if drawing strength to face the upcoming day.

Travis didn’t know whether his marriage had been especially blessed or whether all marriages were like his. All he knew was that without Gabby he was utterly lost, while others, including the woman in the cafeteria, somehow found the strength to go on. He didn’t know whether he should admire the woman or feel sorry for her. He always turned away before she caught him staring. Behind him, a family wandered in, chattering excitedly and carrying balloons; at the register, he saw a young man digging through his pockets for change. Travis pushed aside his tray, feeling ill. His sandwich was only half-eaten. He debated whether to bring it with him back to the room but knew he wouldn’t finish it even if he did. He turned toward the window.

The cafeteria overlooked a small green space, and he watched the changing world outside. Spring would be here soon, and he imagined that tiny buds were beginning to form on the dogwoods. In the past three months, he’d seen every kind of weather from this very spot. He’d watched rain and sun and seen winds in excess of fifty miles an hour bend the pine trees in the distance almost to the point of snapping. Three weeks ago, he’d seen hail fall from the sky, only to be followed minutes later by a spectacular rainbow that seemed to frame the azalea bushes. The colors, so vivid they seemed almost alive, made him think that nature sometimes sends us signs, that it’s important to remember that joy can always follow despair. But a moment later, the rainbow had vanished and the hail returned, and he realized that joy was sometimes only an illusion.

Nineteen

B
y midafternoon, the sky was turning cloudy, and it was time for Gabby’s afternoon routine. Though she’d completed the exercises from the morning, and a nurse would come by later in the evening to do another workout, he’d asked Gretchen if it would be okay if he did the same thing in the afternoon as well.

“I think she’d like that,” Gretchen had said.

She walked him through the process, making sure he understood that every muscle and every joint needed attention. While Gretchen and the other nurses always started with Gabby’s fingers, Travis started with her toes. He lowered the sheet and reached for her foot, flexing her pinkie toe up and down, then again, before moving to the toe beside it.

Travis had come to love doing this for her. The feel of her skin against his own was enough to rekindle a dozen memories: the way he’d rubbed her feet while she’d been pregnant, the slow and intoxicating back rubs by candlelight during which she’d seemed to purr, massages on her arm after she’d strained it lifting a bag of dog food one-handed. As much as he missed talking to Gabby, sometimes he believed that the simple act of touch was what he missed most of all. It had taken him over a month before he’d asked Gretchen’s permission to help with the exercises, and during that time, whenever he’d stroked Gabby’s leg, he’d felt somehow as if he were taking advantage of her. It didn’t matter that they were married; what mattered was that it was a one-sided act on his part, somehow disrespectful to the woman he adored.

But this . . .

She needed this. She
required
this. Without it, her muscles would atrophy, and even if she woke—when she woke, he quickly corrected himself—she would find herself permanently bedridden. At least, that’s what he told himself. Deep down, he knew he needed it as well, if only to feel the heat from her skin or the gentle pulse of blood in her wrist. It was at such times he felt most certain that she would recover; that her body was simply repairing itself.

He finished with her toes and moved to her ankles; when that was done, he flexed her knees, bending them both to her chest and then straightening them. Sometimes, while lying on the couch and glancing through magazines, Gabby would absently stretch her leg in exactly the same way. It was something a dancer would do, and she made it look just as graceful.

“Does that feel good, sweetheart?”

That feels wonderful. Thanks. I was feeling a little stiff.

He knew he’d imagined her answer, that Gabby hadn’t stirred. But her voice seemed to arise from nowhere whenever he worked with her like this. Sometimes he wondered whether he was going crazy. “How are you doing?”

Bored out of my head, if you want to know the truth. Thanks for the flowers, by the way. They’re lovely. Did you get them from Frick’s?

“Where else?”

How are the girls? Tell me the truth this time.

Travis moved to the other knee. “They’re okay. They miss you, though, and it’s hard on them. Sometimes I don’t know what to do.”

You’re doing the best you can, right? Isn’t that what we always tell each other?

“You’re right.”

Then that’s all I expect. And they’ll be okay. They’re tougher than they look.

“I know. They take after you.”

Travis imagined her looking him over, her expression wary.

You look skinny. Too skinny.

“I haven’t been eating much.”

I’m worried about you. You’ve got to take care of yourself. For the girls. For me.

“I’ll always be here for you.”

I know. I’m afraid of that, too. Do you remember Kenneth and Eleanor Baker?

Travis stopped flexing. “Yes.”

Then you know what I’m talking about.

He sighed and started again. “Yes.”

In his mind, her tone softened.
Do you remember when you made us all go camping in the mountains last year? How you promised that the girls and I would love it?

He began working on her fingers and arms. “What brought that up?”

I think about a lot of things here. What else can I do? Anyway, do you remember that when we first got there, we didn’t even bother to set up camp—just kind of unloaded the truck—even though we heard thunder in the distance, because you wanted to show us the lake? And how we had to walk half a mile to get there, and right when we reached the shore, the sky opened up and it just . . . poured? Water gushing out of the sky like we were standing under a hose. And by the time we got back to camp, everything was soaked through. I was pretty mad at you and made you take us all to a hotel instead.

“I remember.”

I’m sorry about that. I shouldn’t have gotten so mad. Even though it was your fault.

“Why is it always my fault?”

He imagined her winking at him as he gently rolled her neck from side to side.

Because you’re such a good sport when I say it.

He bent over and kissed her on the forehead.

“I miss you so much.”

I miss you, too.

His throat clenched a little as he finished the exercise routine, knowing Gabby’s voice would begin to fade away again. He moved his face closer to hers. “You know you’ve got to wake up, right? The girls need you. I need you.”

I know. I’m trying.

“You’ve got to hurry.”

She said nothing, and Travis knew he’d pressed too hard.

“I love you, Gabby.”

I love you, too.

“Can I do anything? Close the blinds? Bring you something from home?”

Will you sit with me a while longer? I’m very tired.

“Of course.”

And hold my hand?

He nodded, covering her body with the sheet once more. He sat in the chair by the bed and took her hand, his thumb tracing it slightly. Outside, the pigeon had come back, and beyond it, heavy clouds shifted in the sky, transforming into images from other worlds. He loved his wife but hated what life with her had become, cursing himself for even thinking this way. He kissed her fingertips one by one and brought her hand to his cheek. He held it against him, feeling her warmth and wishing for even the tiniest of movements, but when nothing happened, he moved it away and didn’t even realize that the pigeon seemed to be staring at him.

Eleanor Baker was a thirty-eight-year-old housewife with two boys she adored. Eight years ago, she’d come into the emergency room vomiting and complaining about a blinding pain in the back of her head. Gabby, who was covering a friend’s shift, happened to be working that day, though she didn’t treat Eleanor. Eleanor was admitted to the hospital, and Gabby knew nothing about her until the following Monday, when she realized that Eleanor had been placed in the intensive care unit when she didn’t wake up on Sunday morning. “Essentially,” one of the nurses said, “she went to sleep and didn’t wake up.”

Her coma was caused by a severe case of viral meningitis.

Her husband, Kenneth, a history teacher at East Carteret High School who by all accounts was a gregarious, friendly guy, spent his days at the hospital. Over time, Gabby got to know him; at first it was only a few niceties here and there, but as time wore on, their conversations grew longer. He adored his wife and children, and always wore a neat sweater and pressed Dockers when he visited the hospital, and he drank Mountain Dew by the liter. He was a devout Catholic, and Gabby often found him praying the rosary by his wife’s bedside. Their kids were named Matthew and Mark.

Travis knew all this because Gabby spoke about him after work. Not in the beginning, but later, after they’d become something like friends. Their conversations were always the same in that Gabby wondered how he could continue to come in each and every day, what he might be thinking as he sat in silence beside his wife.

“He seems so sad all the time,” Gabby said.

“That’s because he is sad. His wife is in a coma.”

“But he’s there all the time. What about his kids?”

Weeks turned into months, and Eleanor Baker was eventually moved to a nursing home. Months eventually passed into a year, then another. Thoughts of Eleanor Baker may have eventually slipped away, if not for the fact that Kenneth Baker shopped at the same grocery store as Gabby. They would occasionally bump into each other, and always the conversation would turn to how Eleanor was doing. There was never any change.

But over the years, as they continued to run into each other, Gabby noticed that Kenneth had changed. “She’s still going,” was the way he began to casually describe her condition. Where there had once been a light in his eyes when he spoke about Eleanor, there was now only blankness; where once there was love, now there seemed to be only apathy. His black hair had turned gray within a couple of years, and he’d become so thin that his clothes hung off him.

In the cereal aisle or frozen food section, Gabby couldn’t seem to avoid him, and he became something of a confidant. He seemed to need her, to tell her what was happening, and in those moments they met, Kenneth mentioned one horrible event after another: that he’d lost his job, lost his house, that he couldn’t wait to get all the kids out of the house, that the older one had dropped out of high school and the younger one had been arrested again for dealing drugs.
Again.
That was the word Gabby emphasized when she told Travis about it later. She also said she was pretty sure he’d been drunk when she’d run into him.