“It's okay,” I reassured her.
“Maybe,” she said. "But it's selfish, too. You're trying to work through your own emotions about losing your dad, and here I am, saddling you with mine about something that might or might not happen." She turned to look out the cafeteria's window, but I knew she wasn't seeing the sloping lawn beyond.
“Hey,” I said, reaching for her hand. “I meant it. I'm glad you told me, if only so you could get it off your chest.”
In time, Savannah shrugged. “So that's us, huh? Two wounded warriors looking for support.”
“That sounds about right.”
Her eyes rose to meet mine. “Lucky us,” she whispered. Despite everything, I felt my heart skip a beat.
“Yeah,” I echoed. “Lucky us.”
We spent most of the afternoon in Tim's room. He was asleep when we got there, woke for a few minutes, then slept again. Alan kept vigil at the foot of his bed, ignoring my presence while he focused on his brother. Savannah alternately stayed beside Tim on the bed or sat in the chair next to mine. When she was close, we spoke of Tim's condition, of skin cancer in general, the specifics of possible alternative treatments. She'd spent weeks researching on the Internet and knew the details of every clinical trial in progress. Her voice never rose above a whisper; she didn't want Alan to overhear. By the time she was finished, I knew more about melanoma than I imagined possible.
It was a little after the dinner hour when Savannah finally rose.
Tim had slept for most of the afternoon, and by the tender way she kissed him good-bye, I knew she believed he'd sleep most of the night as well. She kissed him a second time, then squeezed his hand and motioned toward the door. We crept out quietly.
“Let's head to the car,” she said once we were out in the hallway.
“Are you coming back?”
“Tomorrow. If he does wake, I don't want to give him a reason to feel like he has to stay awake. He needs his rest.”
“What about Alan?”
“He rode his bike,” she said. “He rides here every morning and comes back late at night. He won't come with me, even if I ask. But he'll be okay. He's been doing the same thing for months now.”
A few minutes later, we left the hospital parking lot and turned into the flow of evening traffic. The sky was turning a thickening gray, and heavy clouds were on the horizon, portending the same kinds of thunderstorms common to the coast. Savannah was lost in thought and said little. In her face, I saw reflected the same exhaustion that I felt. I couldn't imagine having to come back tomorrow, and the next day, and the day after that, all the while knowing there was a possibility he could get better somewhere else.
When we pulled in the drive, I looked over at Savannah and noticed a tear trickling slowly down her cheek. The sight of it nearly broke my heart, but when she saw me staring at her, she swiped at the tear, looking surprised at its appearance. I pulled the car to a stop beneath the willow tree, next to the battered truck.
By then, the first few drops of rain were beginning to hit the windshield. As the car idled in place, I wondered again whether this was good-bye. Before I could think of something to say, Savannah turned toward me. “Are you hungry?” she asked. “There's a ton of food in the fridge.”
Something in her gaze warned me that I should decline, but I found myself nodding. “I would love something to eat,” I said.
“I'm glad,” she said, her voice soft. “I don't really want to be alone tonight.”
We got out of the car as the rain began to fall harder. We made a dash for the front door, but by the time we reached the porch, I could feel the wetness soaking through the fabric of my clothes. Molly heard us, and as Savannah pushed open the door, the dog surged past me through the kitchen to what I assumed was the living room. As I watched the dog, I thought about my arrival the day before and how much had changed in the time we'd been apart. It was too much to process. Much the way I had while on patrol in
Iraq, I steeled myself to focus only on the present yet remain alert to what might come next.
“We've got a bit of everything,” she called out on her way to the kitchen. “That's how my mom's been handling all of this. Cooking. We have stew, chili, chicken pot pie, barbecued pork, lasagna...” She poked her head out of the refrigerator as I entered the kitchen. “Does anything sound appetizing?”
“It doesn't matter,” I said. “Whatever you want.”
At my answer, I saw a flash of disappointment on her face and knew instantly that she was tired of having to make decisions. I cleared my throat.
“Lasagna sounds good.”
“Okay,” she said. “I'll get some going right now. Are you super hungry or just hungry?”
I thought about it. “Hungry, I guess.”
“Salad? I've got some black olives and tomatoes I could add. It's great with ranch dressing and croutons.”
“That sounds terrific.”
“Good,” she said. “It won't take long.”
I watched as Savannah pulled out a head of lettuce and tomato from the bottom drawer of the fridge. She rinsed them under the faucet, diced the tomatoes and the lettuce, and added both to a wooden bowl. Then she topped off the salad with olives and set it on the table. She scooped out generous portions of lasagna onto two plates and popped the first into the microwave. There was a steady quality to her movements, as if she found the simple task at hand reassuring.
“I don't know about you, but I could use a glass of wine.” She pointed to a small rack on the countertop near the sink. “I've got a nice Pinot Noir.”
“I'll try a glass,” I said. “Do you need me to open it?” “No, I've got it. My corkscrew is kind of temperamental.”
She opened the wine and poured two glasses. Soon she was sitting across from me, our plates before us. The lasagna was steaming, and the aroma reminded me of how hungry I actually was. After taking a bite, I motioned toward it with my fork.
“Wow,” I commented. “This is really good.”
“It is, isn't it?” she agreed. Instead of taking a bite, however, she took a sip of wine. "It's Tim's favorite, too. After we got married, he was always pleading with my mom to make him a batch.
She loves to cook, and it makes her happy to see people enjoying her food."
Across the table, I watched as she ran her finger around the rim of her glass. The red wine trapped the light like the facet of a ruby.
“If you want more, I've got plenty,” she added. “Believe me, you'd be doing me a favor. Most of the time, the food just goes to waste. I know I should tell her to bring less, but she wouldn't take that well.”
“It's hard for her,” I said. “She knows you're hurting.” “I know.” She took another drink of wine.
“You are going to eat, aren't you?” I gestured at her untouched plate.
“I'm not hungry,” she said. "It's always like this when Tim's in the hospital... I heat something up, I look forward to eating, but
as soon as it's in front of me, my stomach shuts down.“ She stared at her plate as if willing herself to try, then shook her head. ”Humor me,“ I urged. ”Take a bite. You've got to eat."
“I'll be okay.”
I paused, my fork halfway up. “Do it for me, then. I'm not used to people watching me eat. This feels weird.”
“Fine.” She picked up her fork, scooped a tiny wedge onto it, and took a bite. “Happy now?”
“Oh yeah,” I snorted. “That's exactly what I meant. That makes me feel a whole lot more comfortable. For dessert, maybe we can split a couple of crumbs. Until then, though, just keep holding the fork and pretending.”
She laughed. “I'm glad you're here,” she said. “These days, you're the only one who would even think of talking to me like that.” “Like what? Honestly?”
“Yes,” she said. “Believe it or not, that's exactly what I meant.”
She set down her fork and pushed her plate aside, ignoring my request. “You were always good like that.”
“I remember thinking the same thing about you.”
She tossed her napkin on the table. “Those were the days, huh?”
The way she was looking at me made the past come rushing back, and for a moment I relived every emotion, every hope and dream I'd ever had for us. She was once again die young woman I'd met on the beach with her life ahead of her, a life I wanted to make part of my own.
Then she ran a hand through her hair, causing the ring on her finger to catch the light. I lowered my eyes, focusing on my plate. “Something like that.”
I shoveled in a bite, trying and failing to erase those images. As soon as I swallowed, I stabbed at the lasagna again.
“What's wrong?” she asked. “Are you mad?” “No,” I lied.
“You're acting mad.”
She was the same woman I remembered—except that she was married. I took a gulp of wine—one gulp, I noticed, was equivalent to all the sips she'd taken. I leaned back in my chair. “Why am I here, Savannah?”
“I don't know what you mean,” she said.
“This,” I said, motioning around the kitchen. “Asking me in for dinner, even though you won't eat. Bringing up the old days. What's going on?”
“Nothing's going on,” she insisted.
“Then what is it? Why did you ask me in?”
Instead of answering the question, she rose and refilled her glass with wine. “Maybe I just needed someone to talk to,” she whispered. "Like I said, I can't talk to my mom or dad; I can't even talk to Tim like this.“ She sounded almost defeated. ”Everybody needs somebody to talk to."
She was right, and I knew it. It was the reason I'd come to Lenoir.
“I understand that,” I said, closing my eyes. When I opened them again, I could feel Savannah evaluating me. “It's just that I'm not sure what to do with all this. The past. Us. You being married. Even what's happening to Tim. None of this makes much sense.”
Her smile was full of chagrin. “And you think it makes sense to me?”
When I said nothing, she set aside her glass. "You want to know the truth?“ she asked, not waiting for an answer. ”I'm just trying to make it through the day with enough energy to face tomorrow." She closed her eyes as if the admission were painful, then opened them again. "I know how you still feel about me, and I'd love to tell you that I have some secret desire to know everything you've been through since I sent you that awful letter, but to be honest?“ She hesitated. ”I don't know if I really want to know. All I know is that when you showed up yesterday, I f e l t ... okay. Not great, not good, but not bad, either. And that's the thing. For the last six months, all I've done is feel bad. I wake up every day nervous and tense and angry and frustrated and terrified that I'm going to lose the man I married. That's all I feel until the sun goes down,“ she went on. ”Every single day, all day long, for the past six months. That's my life right now, but the hard part is that from here on in, I know it's only going to get worse. Now there's the added responsibility of trying to find some way to help my husband. Of trying to find a treatment that might help. Of trying to save his life."
She paused and looked closely at me, trying to gauge my reaction.
I knew there were words to comfort Savannah, but as usual, I didn't know what to say. All I knew was that she was still the woman I'd once fallen in love with, the woman I still loved but could never have.
“I'm sorry,” she said eventually, sounding spent. “I don't mean to put you on the spot.” She gave a fragile smile. “I just wanted you to know that I'm glad you're here.”
I focused on the wood grain of the table, trying to keep my feelings on a tight leash. “Good,” I said.
She wandered toward the table. She added some wine to my glass, though I'd yet to drink more than that one gulp. “I pour out my heart and all you do is say, 'Good'?”
“What do you want me to say?”
Savannah turned away and headed toward the door of the kitchen. “You could have said that you're glad you came, too,” she said in a barely audible voice.
With that, she was gone. I didn't hear the front door open, so I surmised that she had retreated to the living room.
Her comment bothered me, but I wasn't about to follow her. Things had changed between us, and there was no way they could be what they once were. I forked lasagna into my mouth with stubborn defiance, wondering what she wanted from me. She was the one who'd sent the letter, she was the one who'd ended it. She was the one who got married. Were we supposed to pretend that none of those things had happened?
I finished eating and brought both plates to the sink and rinsed them. Through the rain-splattered window, I saw my car and knew I should simply leave without looking back. It would be easier that way for both of us. But when I reached into my pockets for the keys, I froze. Over the patter of the rain on the roof, I heard a sound from the living room, a sound that defused my anger and confusion. Savannah, I realized, was crying.
I tried to ignore the sound, but I couldn't. Taking my wine, I crossed into the living room.
Savannah sat on the couch, cupping the glass of wine in her hands. She looked up as I entered.
Outside, the wind had begun to pick up, and the rain started coming down even harder. Beyond the living room glass, lightning flashed, followed by the steady rumble of thunder, long and low.
Taking a seat beside her, I put my glass on the end table and looked around the room. Atop the fireplace mantel stood photographs of Savannah and Tim on their wedding day: one where they were cutting the cake and another taken in the church. She was beaming, and I found myself wishing that I were the one beside her in the picture.
“Sorry,” she said. “I know I shouldn't be crying, but I can't help it.”
“It's understandable,” I murmured. “You've got a lot going on.”