The Dandelion

  “Here, let me help you,” I say, all awkwardness gone in the face of her struggle. Keeping hold of her hand, I walk around until I’m beside her. She leans heavily onto me and, even through my shirt, I can feel how cool she is.

  She finally looks up and meets my eyes. “Thank you.”

  This person looks like a ghost of the woman I’ve seen up to now. It’s as though she’s waning, right before my eyes. Like a picture that was once vibrant, but is fading with each passing day. Her blonde hair seems paler, her eyes more opaque, and her skin more translucent. She looks as fragile as the world’s most delicate crystal rose, as though simply handling her in the wrong way could break her in two. It’s evident that her condition is far from stable.

  Her lips curve into a weak smile, as though she knows what I’m thinking. I clear my throat guiltily, wondering if I was silent too long or if I’m merely that transparent.

  I don’t want to usurp what she feels is her duty, but she plainly isn’t up to it, so I try to involve her in another way. “Why don’t you sit at the table and tell me what you’d like put out? Just point me in the right direction.”

  She doesn’t put up a fight, but simply nods in gratitude. I lead her carefully to the dining table. I get that she wants to do as much as she can for as long as she can. I get that she wants to save face in front of a guest, but considering the “arrangement” she’s invited me into, she needs to let me help her while I can.

  Sara’s health is not good. Anyone who looks at her can see that. I didn’t really catch it before. She looked a little pale and not exactly robust, but I wouldn’t have guessed this. But now, as she is in this moment, I get how dire the situation is.

  Sam pulls out a chair and I ease Sara down into it. I can feel as much as hear her exhale when she sits. Even that short trip exhausted her.

  “My…my blood pressure is becoming more and more erratic,” she says, huffing. “And my energy…I just don’t have any.”

  I don’t know what to say to that, so I nod, glancing up at Sam who is still standing nearby, a worried expression contorting his features.

  Worried and maybe pained.

  This is bad. Very bad. It’s all right there on his face.

  Sara doesn’t have much longer.

  “Then let me do this. I can set the table. And clean up, too.” I push up my sleeves, ready to take charge. No room for argument. “Where do you keep your dishes?”

  I direct my question to Sam, who points to the glass-front cabinets to the left of the stove. “Silverware is in the drawer underneath,” he adds.

  “Got it.”

  As I gather the plates and saucers, I notice that Noelle is still standing on the sofa, now turned to fully face the table, watching what’s going on behind her. Her eyes are big and round, and a still little bit frightened.

  “Hey, pretty girl.” I keep my voice gentle. Noelle turns her attention to me and I smile. “Want to help me fold napkins? We can make one into a flower for your mom.”

  At this, she perks up, nodding vigorously and leaping down off the couch to race into the kitchen.

  “Napkins are on the right, under the island,” Sam supplies automatically.

  I set the plates down so I can add napkins to the stack. Once they’re safely on top, I lead Noelle to the table. After unloading my arms, I drag a chair close to the one Sara is sitting in and pat the seat. Obediently, Noelle hops up into it, coming onto her knees like the eager beaver she is. I can’t help smiling at her. Only a child would be excited by the prospect of making a paper flower.

  I pull another chair over, closer to hers, and sit down, taking a napkin and unfolding it. “Hold it right here.” I show Noelle where to place her tiny fingers. “Good, now fold this around.” I work the napkin with her and go through, step by step, how to make a simple rose.

  When we’re done, Noelle holds it up, pinching the long, twisted stem delicately between her thumb and forefinger, her eyes rounded in awe. “Mommy look!”

  “It’s beautiful.” Sara’s voice is a wisp, little more than an airy breeze coming in off the lake.

  “We made it just for you,” Noelle says proudly, as if Sara hadn’t been sitting there the whole time.

  “I’ll treasure it always.” She takes the rose and tucks it behind her ear. Noelle grins and claps her hands in glee.

  Content to let them have this precious time together, I get up and begin doling out plates and bread plates, silverware and (regularly folded) napkins. It’s as I’m rounding the other end of the table that I notice Sam. He’s standing at the stove with a wooden spoon in his hand, staring at his wife and daughter. His face is full of a sadness that only those of us who have lost someone, or are losing someone, can understand.

  His eyes flicker to mine before I can look away. They lighten, almost imperceptibly, and he nods once, mouthing the words thank you. I smile the barest smile and nod in return.

  He holds my eyes for a few seconds more before he turns back to the food. “Who’s ready to eat?”

  “Me, me, me!” Noelle chimes. I’m beginning to think she does everything with this level of verve. What a bright, fun, lively girl she is. Sam and Sara are very lucky to have her. And it’s plain to see she’s very lucky to have them, too.

  “Sam,” Sara says, glancing over her shoulder at her husband. I hear his “yeah” come and she adds, “Why don’t you open a bottle of wine? That’ll make this meal perfect.”

  “Wine? But you can’t have—”

  Sara cuts off his protest. “Sam. Bring the wine.”

  As I set down the last knife, I see that she is staring at Sam. I spare only a quick glance behind me to see that, yes, he is staring right back. I can tell they’re holding an entire conversation without either having to say a word. I’ve been there before. And not just with Sam.

  Thoughts of Greg, of our silent conversations and how very different they were from this, cause my temper to spike. As always, that spike is followed by a deep and abiding sense of loss that I know time will never completely diminish.

  I feel the heaviness of the mood. On everyone’s part. And I feel the desperate urge to do something about it, to break the tension that’s come over the room.

  “You know, you’ve got an awfully big appetite for a little girl,” I say to Noelle. “Do you even eat your broccoli?”

  I make a face like ewwww, but she just giggles and nods. “I even eat my boccoli.”

  “Broccoli.” Sam and Sara correct her simultaneously, likely out of habit.

  “Bo-co-leeee,” she says.

  “Brrrroccoli,” Sara repeats.

  “Brrrroccoli,” Noelle finally mimics. “I like it, but it smells like a stinky.”

  Her comment is so unexpected, I laugh.

  Then she laughs.

  Then Sam and Sara laugh.

  It feels good. Like the relief that we all needed. A group exhale.

  By the time Sam arrives a few seconds later carrying a big, deep platter full of pasta mixed with broccoli and chicken smothered in Alfredo sauce, the tension has dissipated nearly to the pre-wine point.

  Nearly.

  I only notice a slight hitch in it when Sam leaves and returns to the table with three wine glasses and an uncorked, chilled bottle of white. No one says anything as he pours into all three glasses and then hands them out, one to me and one to Sara. Their eyes meet over the top of the glass. I look away. It feels like I’m intruding on something important, something that should be discussed in private, just between the two of them.

  I toy with the idea of excusing myself to the bathroom. I am the interloper. I feel it in every possible way, and rightly so. It’s what I am. To expect anything less would be ludicrous.

  What the hell I was thinking, agreeing to something like this?

  The moment and the sensation are broken when Sara turns to me and raises her glass. As she stares across at me, her eyes remind me why I did this, why I agreed.

  They are full.

  They’re full
of gratitude and sadness, desperation and acceptance. They’re a sea of emotion that I can’t look away from, and looking into them makes me feel like I’m taking on the water of her plight. Absorbing the sadness that never quite goes away, the desperation that her body and her life are spinning out of her control.

  This woman is dying. Probably in the not-too-distant future. And I give her some amount of peace. Me. As uncomfortable as it is (probably for all of us), I bring her peace, and by doing so, I’m increasing not only the quality of her last days, but Sam’s and Noelle’s, too. If she’s at peace, they can make the most of their time together.

  That’s why I’m here.

  That’s why I agreed.

  Because this is bigger than me, bigger than my feelings.

  “To you, Abigail Simmons. For finding your way back home, just in the nick of time.”

  Just in the nick of time.

  I smile, but I know it doesn’t fully reach my eyes. I can’t be one hundred percent positive who she’s talking about when she says that.

  Her or me.

  ********

  Noelle begged for us all to watch Finding Dory with her after dinner. If I could’ve extricated myself gracefully, I would have, but it turns out the wine is helping with what might otherwise have been an incredibly uncomfortable evening.

  It’s still weird. Not that the whole evening hasn’t been. Not that this whole situation isn’t. But it’s not as bad as I expected when Noelle first asked me to stay, big emerald doe eyes pleading with me. Who could say no to that?

  Apparently not me.

  I’m on my third glass of wine now and, every time my glass goes empty, Sam fills it up. He doesn’t even make eye contact. It’s like he just knows that I need it. Of course, his glass hasn’t been empty very long either.

  Sara, on the other hand, seems as relaxed as she can be. She’s resting on the couch, feet on the ottoman. Her daughter is on one side, her husband on the other.

  Noelle insisted I sit by her, so I’m at the end of the couch. I’m at the end of the couch, watching a cartoon and drinking wine with a dying woman who wants me to love her husband, and all I can think about is how much I hope there’s another bottle of wine somewhere close.

  It hasn’t even been fully dark for an hour when Sara announces that she’s exhausted and is ready for bed. I rise, grateful that the night has come to an end. Sara puts out her hand to stop me. “No, please stay. Noelle won’t be sleepy for a while yet.”

  My mouth works open and closed as I think of how to decline without seeming like a clod, but nothing comes to me. It’s like my brain is on slow motion. I blame the wine.

  “Please stay, Miss Abi, pleeeease!” Noelle adds her plea like she knows that if anything has the power to make me stay, this will be it. She will be it, the kryptonite to my resistance.

  I smile down at her before dragging my eyes back up to Sara and nodding. “Okay. I’ll stay a while longer.”

  I sit back down and Noelle scoots over to cuddle up against my side. I throw my arm over her and do my best to ignore the couple making their way from the room. If I hadn’t seen the exhaustion written on Sara’s face, I’d certainly see it in the way she moves. I’m not the least bit surprised when, from the corner of my eye, I see Sam sweep her up into his arms and carry her away. It must be horrifically painful for him to watch her struggle.

  With a heavy heart, I take a blonde curl that’s dangling over my hand and wrap it around the tip of my finger. I let my head rest back onto the sofa, and I let my mind wander.

  I feel for Sam and Sara. For little Noelle, and for everyone else who has lost someone they love. I’ve lost more people I’ve loved than I’ve been able to keep, so I know what they’re going through. I wish I was more calloused toward it, but it seems that having been there more than once, I’m, if anything, even more sensitive to it now. As though their loss is somehow a bit my own as well.

  Some minutes later, I hear air whisper out of a cushion and I lift my head to see that Sam has returned. He’s staring at me, an inscrutable look on his face. We watch each other for a few seconds before his eyes click down to where his daughter rests against me. His expression softens.

  As though she’s melting under his scrutiny, I feel Noelle slide ever so slowly down, down, down until her head is nestled in my lap. Within seconds, she’s fast asleep, the crescents of her lashes quiet against her cheeks, the tiny bow of her mouth slack. I guess she’s had a little more excitement than usual and wore out more quickly than Sara expected.

  Or maybe she knew this would happen. Maybe this is what Sara wanted, matchmaking me with her daughter as well as her husband.

  Automatically, as naturally as I might take a breath or blink, I reach down and smooth Noelle’s blonde hair away from her face. She snuggles in more closely and my heart swells, memories and sympathy colliding to leave more painful wreckage in their wake.

  “You’re a natural,” Sam whispers.

  I don’t look up and meet his eyes. Without thinking, I reply, “There are some things a woman just knows how to do.”

  When I finally get the courage to glance up, Sam is watching me again and the unfathomable expression is back.

  I shift uncomfortably, trying not to wake Noelle. “Is Sara okay?” I mouth, barely making a sound.

  I see Sam’s chest rise with a deep breath and then deflate as he exhales. His shoulders slump a little and he suddenly looks spent. Beat. As exhausted as his wife.

  He lowers his eyes and shakes his head.

  I frown in question.

  He nods to Noelle before he scoots closer to me and slides his hands under her, lifting her into his arms. She’s as boneless as a rag doll when he cradles her against his chest. And the picture they make…

  Quickly, I glance away. I hate myself for looking at them with the love and the longing that’s in my heart right now. Even though it’s what Sara says she wants, it just feels so wrong, so traitorous and forbidden. I would never dally with another woman’s man, whether he was my first love or not. Whether I still had feelings for him or not.

  But this situation… It’s different. This will all have to be intentional. And accepted. By all parties.

  Can any of us do this?

  The moment Sam and Noelle are out of sight, I get up from the couch. My first thought is to grab my purse and leave, but as I pass through the kitchen and see the mess still there—dirty dishes on the table, dirty pots on the stove, general disarray in both the dining room and kitchen—I realize that I can’t leave this for Sam to do. And I can’t leave it for Sara to wake up to if Sam is too tired. So, with a viciousness born of this unthinkable predicament I find myself in, I push up my sleeves and dig in, attacking the mess like it’s to blame.

  I don’t know how long it is before Sam returns. The table is cleared and wiped down, chairs put back where they belong. Everything has been moved off the island, and all the dirty dishes and pots are stacked beside the sink, ready to go into the dishwasher.

  Sam doesn’t say a word; he simply walks up to the sink, turns on the water, and starts to spray out the pot that he used to steam the broccoli. I open the dishwasher and take the pot from him when he’s finished, placing it on the lower rack and then waiting for the next. We work, side by side, silently, until the dishes are arranged neatly and Sam hands me the cube of detergent that goes in the door. I toss it inside, set the wash to heavy with steam dry, and then push it closed until I hear a snap.

  Sam is wiping water from the granite when I open my mouth, every intention of paving the way for my exit.

  “Well, thank you for dinn—”

  “She’s stopping dialysis.”

  He doesn’t look up and I don’t look away. Neither of us says anything else for a few seconds. He just keeps wiping and I just keep staring.

  I guess there’s not a lot to say.

  Sam tosses the rag into the sink and turns to lean back against the counter, letting his head fall back on his shoulders. “She won??
?t have much longer.”

  The bottom drops out of my stomach. This is all happening so fast all of a sudden. Too fast. I need more time. We all do.

  “This is so sudden. Why now? Did something happen in the last few days?”

  What the hell did I miss while I was avoiding Sam?

  “She’s been waiting. Now she doesn’t have to wait anymore. I think she was fighting for Noelle and me. But now that you’re here… She’s ready to go. She’s ready to give up. Stop fighting.”

  I hear the tremor, the anguish in his every word.

  “Oh…oh God, Sam! I…I’m so sorry. I don’t…I don’t even know what to say.”

  My chin trembles and I will myself not to cry. I hardly know the woman. In fact, I hardly even know Sam anymore. These aren’t my problems, aren’t my heartaches.

  Only they feel like they are.

  And the woman lying in bed upstairs thinks they are.

  I let her believe they would be. I made her promises I have no hope of keeping. How could I have done that?

  As much as I try to fend them off, the tears come anyway. I bury my face in my hands and I cry softly into them. Sara is giving up. I know what that feels like.

  Strong, warm arms wrap around me and I can’t help but lean in. There’s something so familiar in them, something so comforting. I wonder if I’d know Sam’s touch anywhere. I wonder if I ever really forgot it.

  I don’t hug him back. I don’t move a muscle, not even my hands away from my face. I just let him hold me. Even though he’s the one who’s hurting the most, I hope the simple contact is enough to give us both the comfort we need. Lord knows I need it. I’ve needed it for years now, and it’s tragic that I’d only find it when I come back to my childhood home, in the arms of a man I loved a lifetime ago, and when he’s hurting as much as I am.

  “She,” he begins, but pauses. After a couple of seconds, he tries again. “She said now that you’re here, she can rest. But she didn’t just mean tonight.”

  I cry all the harder, this time winding my arms around Sam’s waist and pressing my cheek to his shoulder. He curls in around me, tucking his face into the curve of my neck and we stand that way until my tears abate. Nothing sexual, nothing inappropriate, just two people who have known the best and the worst in each other, finding the solace they so desperately need.