CHAPTER 20
ABI
New Ways
A few days later, I wake to a text from an unknown number. It takes me exactly one word to know whom it’s from.
Sam: Abs, is there any way you’d be able to keep Noelle for a while today?
I respond immediately.
Me: Of course. Just let me know when and where. I’ll be there.
Sam: You’re a lifesaver. She doesn’t want to go to daycare. She’s crying to stay at home with Sara and I feel like I should let her.
Me: I would, too.
Sam: I’ve got to leave for work. I’ve got patients in fifteen. Can you come over soon?
Me: I’ll be right there.
Sam: Great. The front door will be open. Sara will probably be in bed, so just come on in.
Me: Bad night?
Sam: Very.
Me: I’m sorry.
Sam: Yeah, me, too.
I get out of bed and hit the shower immediately, figuring I can get coffee later. Which I do. At Sam’s.
As instructed, I don’t bother knocking when I get there. I open the door and poke my head in, listening for signs of life. I hear the television going, but that’s it, so I make my way inside.
I smell coffee the instant I reach the doorway to the kitchen, and I find Sara and Noelle on the couch watching Finding Dory again. I stop dead in my tracks, debating whether to go back to the door and ring the bell. But then Sara would either have to get up and answer it or risk sending Noelle to the door, not knowing for sure whom she might find. I’m still toying with my options when Sara’s soft, weak voice calls to me.
“Help yourself to the coffee. Sam made it before he left, but it’s still good I’m sure. He makes a great cup.”
I let my purse slide to the floor in its customary spot behind the wall at the edge of the dining room. “Thanks. Sorry if I scared you. Sam said it would be unlocked, to just come on in.”
“Don’t apologize,” she says, sincerity coloring her voice. “Make yourself at home here. I expect to be seeing a lot of you for the next few weeks.”
I swallow uncomfortably. The next few weeks. This woman is thinking of the rest of her life as the next few weeks. Everything she wants to do or needs to say will be lost forever if it doesn’t get done or said in a couple months’ time. Yet she’s up, watching a movie with her daughter, welcoming a stranger into her home, into her life. Into her husband’s life.
I think I knew from the moment I met her that Sara Forrester is an exceptional woman. I know that I didn’t realize just how exceptional, though. Clearly, she’s going to squeeze every moment of life out of the time she’s got left, and I admire that more than I could ever explain to her. It’s so easy to just give up, to stay overwhelmed. To hide away inside your own head until you can’t find a way to climb back out. But Sara didn’t take the easy way. Even now, she’s fighting whether she realizes it or not.
Once I locate the mugs, I pour myself a cup of coffee and walk into the den to perch on the opposite end of the couch. Noelle is still in her pajamas—cute, ruffled pink calypso pants and a matching shirt. She looks like a tiny Spanish dancer lording over her mother, who is like a pale china doll pretending to be her prop.
When Sara looks over at me, the only things that move are her eyes and her lips as she smiles. I don’t know if she’s in pain or if she’s simply too tired to do anything more.
“How are you feeling?”
I could kick myself for the question the instant it’s out of my mouth. What’s she supposed to say? I feel great! Like a million bucks! Not at all like I’m dying.
Unfortunately, no matter how much I wish the words back into my mouth, they’re already out and eliciting a response. Sara’s smile turns sad and she shakes her head one time. Not much of an answer, but one that speaks volumes nonetheless.
She closes her eyes and I turn my attention to the movie, uncertain of what to do. When I look back, Sara’s chest is rising and falling evenly, and I’m pretty sure she fell asleep. That quickly.
As I ponder what to do at this point, Noelle shifts, catching my eye. She turns more toward her mother and squats down until her face is level with Sara’s. Then, slowly, as though she’s afraid of waking her—or maybe breaking her—she leans in until their lips are pressed together.
The action takes me by surprise. I’m not prepared for the onslaught of emotion that rockets through me. My heart lurches in my chest and I have to smother a gasp with the back of my hand. There are few things more exquisite than the love of a woman for her daughter. The love of a child for her mother is one. And it’s clear that Noelle adores her momma.
She holds that position for what seems like an eternity, just pressing her lips against Sara’s like she’s imparting comfort. Or maybe she’s just squeezing as much love as she can into a single kiss. I don’t know what possesses me to do it, but I’m taking my phone from my pocket and aiming it at the two female Forresters before I can think twice about it. Some moments are so precious they should be recorded. I know without a doubt this is one of them. Sam will want to see this and, one day, Noelle will, too. Many, many years from now when she has only cloudy memories of her mother, it will warm her heart to be able to see the love they shared.
I know, for me, I treasure every picture I have of my parents, especially those showing us together. Looking at them, I can feel the emotion pouring from the glossy prints, as though its embedded in the paper itself, forever preserved and protected. Even pictures of my mother and me affect me that way. She’s not dead physically, but the woman in those photos is gone forever, so part of my heart feels as though she passed away. For all intents and purposes, I am an orphan and have been for quite some time. All I have left are pictures and memories, both of which fade with time, only one more quickly than the other.
When Noelle leans away, her mother wakes, her lids flickering open drowsily. “Did I fall asleep?” She directs her question to me.
I smile and nod, not trusting my voice.
“Are you keeping Noelle until Sam gets home?”
Again, I smile and nod.
“Would…would you mind helping me upstairs?”
I set my coffee down and hop up. “Of course not.”
I approach her, reaching behind her back when she sits up, trying to recall everything I can from my years of training. I was a nurse once upon a time, in a life called “before”. Most of that has faded, too.
Time takes everything from us eventually.
I support and assist Sara into a standing position, and then loop my arm around her back, holding her hand with my free one. Once she feels stable, we make our way slowly toward the stairs.
Noelle shows up on Sara’s other side, reaching out to take her right hand. “I can help, too, Mommy.”
She wants to be a part of what’s going on with her mother, even though she can’t possibly understand much of what’s happening. That’s what love does to us. It compels us to reach out, even when we aren’t sure why. It offers a hand, a kiss, a few minutes of our time, whatever we have to give, for as long as we can give it, even when we don’t fully comprehend it.
“You’re precious, baby girl,” Sara replies weakly, but I see her give her daughter’s hand a light squeeze.
I can practically feel the adoration traveling between the two of them. Unspoken, but clear as a bell.
My throat is tight and my eyes are burning. I gulp and blink repeatedly so that none of what I’m feeling will show. She doesn’t need my heartbreak right now. She needs my strength.
Carefully, the three of us navigate the stairs and the short hall that leads to the master suite. I pay little attention to the décor, noting only that it’s done in rich creams and pale yellow, which perfectly reflects the woman of the house. Delicate. Soft. Feminine.
The king-sized bed is unmade and Sara more or less falls onto the mattress, exhausted from the trip to the second story She labors to wiggle until she’s in a comfortable position. Her feet are nearly hanging over the end of the bed, and I want to help her move up, but I’m afraid to insist. After a full minute of debate, I cover her when she reaches for the duvet, and I leave her be. If she wants help, she’ll surely ask for it. She hasn’t hesitated to ask things of me thus far.
“Can I bring you anything?”
“No, thank you. Sam’s made sure I have everything I need up here. I think he knows.”
I think he knows.
Knows she’s dying.
Soon.
That’s what she’s implying.
What do I even say to that?
I have no idea. That’s why I say nothing. I say nothing at all.
When I straighten and would move away, Sara reaches for my hand, gratitude shining brightly from her otherwise dull eyes. “Thank you.”
“There’s nothing to thank me for.”
“We both know there is. And there will be.”
Again, I don’t respond. I only smile and give her hand a pat before I step away from the bed.
“Noelle, do you want to come back downstairs with me and finish your movie?”
Lip stuck out in determination, she shakes her head vigorously, platinum curls bouncing. “I’m staying with Mommy.”
I look helplessly toward Sara, unsure of what to do. She raises one arm a bit and beckons her child with a wave of her hand. Noelle climbs up the bed and nestles in, resting her head on her mother’s shoulder. She looks like a tiny beautiful bird, safe and secure under her dying mother’s wing.
Sara falls back to sleep immediately, and Noelle rests against her. She closes her eyes as though she knows that’s what she’s supposed to do, and she feigns sleep until her chest, too, begins to rise and fall with the rhythm of real slumber. Once more, impulsively, I take out my phone and capture the two of them together.
As I watch the pair, I’m overcome with a profound sense of tragedy and loss. This is so unfair. For Sara. For Noelle. For Sam. And while Sara seems to think my presence will fix that, I know in my heart that it won’t. Losses like this can’t be fixed. They leave scars that never go away. Not completely. Sara will leave hers behind when she goes on to a better place where there will be no more sadness. But Noelle and Sam… They will be stuck here. Without her. Without Sara, but with all the pain.
Noelle will heal quickly. She’s young and resilient, too young to be hurt as deeply as someone who fully understands. I was young when my father died. Not as young as Noelle, but still young enough to be selfish and not feel the loss as deeply as those older than me. She will feel the loss in different ways, and it will change as she ages. She will feel it when she can’t talk to her mother about school or mean girls or cute boys. She will feel it when she can’t ask her advice or get a hug or when she needs a mother’s kiss to a scraped knee. Noelle will suffer eventually.
And Sam will suffer with her.
He will hurt. Now and later. For a long time, he will hurt. He will think and rethink things. He will list his regrets and wish he had do-overs. He will mourn her, curse her, and then mourn her again. He will feel loss and guilt and emptiness and hopelessness. And he will have to survive it all with a smile on this face because he has a little girl to think of.
All of this, and Sara Forrester expects me to be able to help. She expects that my presence will somehow ease their pain. She expects that I can replace her. She thinks that’s not what she’s asking, but it is. She wants me to pick up where she left off and raise her child and heal her husband. On the surface, I’d be more than happy to do that. As disgustingly traitorous as that sounds, I could very easily fall in love with this family. I could very easily let myself care so much about them that they feel like mine.
The problem is, she doesn’t know that by inviting me into their life, she could well be increasing their pain, not alleviating it. Because she doesn’t know me. She doesn’t know what I’ve been through. What I’ve done. What still lies ahead for me.
She doesn’t know because I didn’t tell her.
Oh, God!
I flinch as a wave of nausea rolls through my stomach.
Oh, Jesus, what have I done?
I try to keep my steps measured as I make my exit, but it’s hard. Everything in me wants to run, as far and as fast as I can. Only I can’t. I can’t leave her. Not like this. Not this way.
So I flee as far as I can, which is outside to the hall, and I close the bedroom door behind me. Even that much separation feels mandatory, like I wouldn’t be able to breathe without it.
I lean back against the wall and clamp a hand over my mouth to keep any noise from coming out. I hide it all from Sara because she doesn’t need trouble like me. Maybe that’s why I haven’t told her everything. Right now, I’m a lifeline to her. A lifeline to the safety and security of her family. I am the one thing that is giving her peace before she dies. At least the hope of me is.
Only that hope isn’t real.
The woman she thinks she knows isn’t real.
I squeeze my eyes shut, but the tears leak out anyway. They pour, unchecked, over my cheeks. I slide down the wall until I’m sitting on the ground, and I let myself cry. Silently, helplessly, I let myself cry.
I don’t know how long it is before I move.
********
An hour has passed. Noelle hasn’t come back down and Sara hasn’t made another appearance, not that I really expected she would. She’s done. Done trying. Fading quickly. Anyone with eyes can see that.
I don’t know what to do. Sam isn’t home and I don’t know when to expect him. He asked me to take care of Noelle, presumably so that Sara could rest, only Noelle isn’t down here. She’s with Sara. So what am I to do? Just leave her up there until she comes down on her own? Find something to do upstairs so I can hear Sara if she calls out for me to get her daughter? Go up and wake Noelle, make her come downstairs?
None of those feels right.
Am I being ridiculous for making this too hard? Am I overthinking things? I have a nasty habit of doing that, so it’s possible. Even probable.
I wander through the house, thinking and rethinking. Rethinking and overthinking. I stumble upon the laundry room, tucked neatly behind the kitchen, beside the garage. There is a shoot that leads from the second story and a basket beneath it that’s overflowing with clothes. Without hesitating, I dig in, separating the pile into colors, whites and towels, and dumping a load into the washer.
As I amble back through the kitchen, I notice a green light on the dishwasher, so I pull open the door and check the contents. There is water on the tops of the glasses and they’re still hot from the heated dry. I search the drawers for a dishtowel and begin to dry and put away the clean dishes.
It takes me probably twice as long as it would Sara or Sam because I have to look for where things belong. By the time it’s done, however, and the dirty breakfast dishes are loaded into it, I’m as familiar with the set up of the Forrester kitchen as they are.
For the next hour and a half, I dry and wash and fold clothes, stacking the clean clothes on the counter. I’m in the middle of loading an armful of towels into the wash machine when I hear a mechanical clank followed by a whir. The garage door. Surely Anna Sturgill doesn’t use the garage entrance, which would mean that Sam is home.
I exhale in relief, my muscles melting around my bones like warm wax. For a few seconds, my legs even feel rubbery. I didn’t realize how tense I was.
I’m still in the laundry room when the garage door swings open and Sam appears. He looks haggard and pale. Like he’s tired. Exhausted even, which I’m sure he is. Both physically and emotionally.
“Hi,” is the only thing I can think to say.
A part of me, the part that’s still seventeen and in love, wants to pull him into my arms and make his troubles go away, but that wouldn’t be right.
Not here.
Not now.
Even if that’s what Sara thinks she wants. Even if it’s what I might want, in a really sick and twisted way. I just can’t do that.
Not like this.
Not this way.
“Hi,” he replies hoarsely, reaching up to loosen his tie. Before he says anything else, his silvery eyes scan the small utility room. “You’ve been busy.”
I shrug. “Just helping where I can.”
He nods his thanks. “Noelle?”
“She wanted to stay upstairs with Sara. I didn’t know what to do, whether to try and make her come down or wait for her to come down on her own, so I…I just left her.”
“That’s fine.”
I raise my hands, palm up, and shake my head. “I just didn’t know what to do. I…I’m sure Sara wants to spend time with Noelle, and I know Noelle needs it, too. But Sara does need her rest and I…I…”
Sam reaches out to touch my arm, stopping my weird ramble. “Abi, seriously. It’s fine. I don’t know what the right thing is half the time either. I’d have left her if I were here. Seriously.”
I let my head drop. Why am I making such a big deal of this? Why does it feel so important that I do all the right things?
Maybe it’s because I know that, at this point, every moment is a part of goodbye. Sara’s goodbye. And goodbyes are important. I’ve lost so much, yet I’ve never had the luxury of a goodbye. Those I’ve lost were ripped from me like flesh from bone, leaving deep wounds that haven’t healed properly. Maybe that’s why I want to make this time as easy and as full and as right as I can make it for this family. Maybe this is what I can do to help them. Maybe this is what I can offer.
Maybe this is all I can offer.
For the second time in as many days, I feel Sam’s arms come around me. For the second time, I feel his comfort extending to me as if I’m the one who needs it rather than him. And for the second time, I let him.
I let him draw me close.
I let him stroke my hair.
I let him comfort me the way he used to so many years ago.
Of all the things that have changed, this hasn’t. Sam brings me comfort—his voice, his touch, his presence. He always has. I wonder if he always will. I wonder if it’s something peculiar to first loves. Or if it’s peculiar to only loves. That would be the case for me. Not for Sam, though. He found Sara. He’s had more than one love. But for me? Sam was my first, my one, and my only.
And I know he will be my last.
He whispers against my temple. “We’ll get through this.”
I lean back and look up into his face. “Sam, I should be comforting you. I should be telling you you’ll get through this.”
He smiles a sad smile. “This is new to you. You’re just now seeing it. I’ve been watching her die for two years. I’ve had time to cope with it, to come to terms with it. To accept it. You’re just now meeting her, seeing how great she is, seeing how much she means to her daughter. For you, it’s new. And it’s hard. And I’m so sorry it’s hurting you. Because I know it is.”
I can’t deny it. It does hurt, which makes about as much sense as rain and sunshine pouring through the clouds at the same time. I shouldn’t like the woman who married the man I loved. I shouldn’t help the woman who has made such a wonderful life with the guy who should’ve been mine. I shouldn’t mourn the woman who will leave scars on Sam that I will never be able to heal.
Yet I do.
I do like her.
I do want to help her.
And I will mourn her.
As crazy as it sounds, I know it’s true. I like Sara. Admire her. She is a caliber of woman I could never be. She is selfless enough to hand over her husband to the love of someone else simply because she cares so much for him and their daughter. If Sam were mine, I would never want anyone else to have him.
But Sara is better than that.
Better than me.
I muster a smile. “Why don’t you go check on them? If they’re ready to get up, y’all can enjoy some time together. I’ll take care of dinner tonight. I bought a roast I was debating what to do with. I’ll fix that with some sides and bring it over later.”
“You don’t have to do that, Abi.”
“I know I don’t. I want to. I promise.” I add a smile to the last to be more convincing, because I really do. I really do want to help as much as I can. As long as I can.
“If you’re sure…”
“I am. Go.” I step out of his way and nudge his arm. “Go love them.”
Sam stops in the hall and turns back to me. “Will you stay and eat with us?”
“Let’s see how Sara is feeling.”
“She’d want you to stay, regardless.”
I nod my head slightly. “If she wants me to stay, I’ll stay.”
Sam doesn’t respond verbally, but he doesn’t need to. Before he disappears around the corner, I see the relief on his face. It makes me feel good to have put it there.