There was nothing joyous about last year’s holiday season. Travis did his best, forcing excitement when none was evident. He tried to do everything Gabby had done, but the effort of maintaining a happy facade was wearying, especially because neither Christine nor Lisa made things any easier. It wasn’t their fault, but for the life of him, he didn’t know how respond when at the top of both their holiday wish lists was the request for Mommy to get better. It wasn’t like a new Leapster or a dollhouse could take her place.
In the past couple of weeks, things had improved. Kind of. Christine still threw her tantrums and Lisa still cried at night, but they’d adapted to life in the house without their mom. When they walked in the house after school, they no longer called for her out of habit; when they fell and scraped their elbows, they automatically came to him to find a Band-Aid. In a picture of the family Lisa drew at school, Travis saw only three images; he had to catch his breath before he realized there was another horizontal image in the corner, one that seemed added almost as an afterthought. They didn’t ask about their mom as much as they used to, and they visited rarely. It was hard for them to go, for they didn’t know what to say or even how to act. Travis understood that and tried to make it easier. “Just talk to her,” he would tell them, and they would try, but their words would trail off into nothing when no response was forthcoming.
Usually, when they did visit, Travis had them bring things-pretty rocks they’d found in the garden, leaves they’d laminated, homemade cards decorated with glitter. But even gifts were fraught with uncertainty. Lisa would set her gift on Gabby’s stomach and back away; a moment later, she’d move it closer to Gabby’s hand. After that, she’d shift it to the end table. Christine, on the other hand, would move constantly. She’d sit on the bed and stand by the window, she’d peer closely at her mother’s face, and through it all, she’d never say a single word.
“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
By 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.