The Night We Met (24 page)
Authors: Tara Taylor Quinn
bathrooms."
"This is different."
"Every single challenge we've ever met in this life has been different from all the others. But one thing remains the same and it's the one thing that sees us through every time."
His eyes were moist with unshed tears as he turned to face me, the lines around his mouth, his eyes, more pronounced than I'd ever seen them. That night, for the first time, he looked old to me.
"Our love," he final y said.
I nodded, and swal owed the lump in my throat. "Please play for me."
He started slowly, as though exploring the keys for the first time, running his fingers along the cracked edges, picking out a note, then two. Tears fell from my eyes as I watched him, knowing he was thinking about a time when he'd no longer remember how to make music.
I couldn't think about what was to come. Doing that would prevent me from getting through the next days and months.
Nate played for hours that night and I sat right beside him on that hard bench, wondering if he knew that he'd played "My Cup Runneth Over" four times.
I spent every moment with Nate after that. He could live to be a hundred—his doctor said he still had the body of a much younger man—but I had no idea how long he'd be with me in the ways that mattered. The kids came home every weekend and we'd have big dinners and singalongs at the piano.
And at night, after making love to me—sometimes desperately—Nate would talk about the future.
And the past. About life. We'd cry some. Mostly I held him and told him I'd store everything in my mind for both of us. Even when he was no longer conscious of them, his memories would always be safe with me.
In early 2007 Nate got a bladder infection. He was hospitalized due to a high fever, and two days later his doctor told me that Nate's body was shutting down. One by one, his organs were stopping.
They said the infection had spread.
They gave him a day, two at the most.
I'd never heard of anyone dying of a bladder infection.
Stunned, existing in a cocoon of disbelief, I called my children. And then I sat.
At fifty-eight, I was not ready to face a future without him.
* * *
I haven't let go of his hand, either, except to go to the bathroom once in a while. When my eyes get too weary, I lean forward and lay my head on his stomach; while I drift into sleep, I can feel the steady rise and fall of his breathing.
The kids are al here. They've been in this room with me, night and day, for the past six days. They hold me together, offer a comfort I can't describe, and yet they can't reach me in the world I'm inhabiting. Only Nate and I are there. Only Nate and I have ever been there.
I feel his hand squeeze mine—his first voluntary motion in more than a day—and my heart jumps. I've known all along that he'l show them. He’ll beat the odds. He always does.
He's been here six days instead of the two they gave him.
He isn't going to leave me this soon. It isn't time yet.
I glance up. He's staring straight at me and he's got that look in his eyes. The one that tells me he sees only me, that I am everything beautiful in the world to him.
He looks like he's trying to speak. His chin moves. The tip of his tongue comes out, as though he's trying to lick his lips. In spite of al the ice chips I've been rubbing over them, the chap stick, they are so dry.
Some part of me recognizes that the kids are roused by his movement. They're standing at the end of the bed, but they can't penetrate our space.
Finally, after obvious struggle, he manages to mouth one word. I read it clearly. Love.
And my heart speaks to me. There can be no anger now. No fight. I have to love him enough to let him do what he needs to do. I have to let go.
Standing up, never breaking eye contact with my husband, I nod. And try not to cry. I climb into the bed with him, kiss those lips, moistening them gently with my tongue, and I hold him while he passes away to the next phase of his life without me.
I don't recognize the animal cry that tears through and out of me. There are no words, nothing even human. I know it's the sound of my heart and soul erupting from the body I've been given to see me through this life—separating from it.
Hands touch my shoulders, arms come around me, but they can't reach me.
I am devastated. Empty. And scared.
I think I'm alone. I'm not sure. My children might be in the room, but they've backed away from the bed. They understand how it is with Nate and me. They know.
I don't have any sense of how long I've been lying here. Gradual y I become aware that I'm going to have to move. And as I think about doing that, it's as though Nate's there behind me, lifting me up, whispering to me.
And I'm reminded of the day after Elizabeth's al - night concert, her sweet words telling me that my voice is always in her head. Just as Nate's will always be in mine.
He's telling me I'm a blessed woman. I've lived life fully, with al my heart, guided by my heart, and that guidance will be there for the rest of my days on this earth.
He tel s me I knew it al . That in the things that matter, I will always know.
And when I pass on, Nate and I will continue walking side by side.
We are not apart, dear reader, we are only separated for a time. Our hearts recognized each other instantly the night we met, and nothing in our imperfect human existence could change that.
With Nate's strength, and my own, I climb out of bed. I have chores to do. Grandchildren to teach.
Memories to keep alive. And a love to cherish.
*****
