“Absolutely not,” Grace replied. “He might be one of those guys who sucks his teeth after he eats. Or uses toothpicks.” She made a face. “I hate that. It’s not quite as bad as flossing in public, but close.”
“True,” Monica said. “He might be one of those guys who spends his entire weekend watching football. Or Three Stooges marathons. He might be a close talker. Or flatulent. He might wear briefs instead of boxers.” Monica looked to us for support. “Am I right?”
Grace nodded. “He might drive a car with those big, oversized tires.”
“Or worse,” I said. “He might hate dogs.”
“Yes!” Monica said definitively, holding her hands sideways and chopping the air. “Exactly! He might be any of those things. Or all of them! I have no way of knowing. But there must be something wrong with him. Otherwise, why would a handsome Italian doctor who likes to cook still be single?
“Because he has flaws,” Monica said, lowering her voice to an ominous register. “Deep, dark flaws that aren’t obvious at first glance, but they’re there just the same. They must be.
“You know what? I feel better already. Clearly, I dodged a bullet. Whew!” Monica wiped imaginary sweat from her brow, picked up the scissors, and started cutting again. “So, enough of my drama. Grace, how was your week?”
“Up until yesterday, terrible. Being indispensable is exhausting,” she said, sitting down in front of the sewing machine. “I’m really looking forward to these next few days with Gavin out of town. Oh, and did I tell you what Alicia, one of Jamie’s nurses, said?”
We shook our heads.
“Well, Jamie’s pulse and temperature were a teensy bit elevated. Nothing to worry about. But Alicia thought it was because he knew I was there and—”
Grace’s cell phone rang, interrupting her story. She glanced at the screen and quickly picked up.
“Hello? Yes, this is Grace.”
She was quiet for a long while, listening to the voice on the other end of the line. From the look in her eyes, I could tell that it wasn’t good news. Finally, she said, “All right. Yes, I understand. Thank you, Doctor. I’ll be right there.”
Grace ended the call. “I have to go.”
Monica handed Grace her purse. I got her coat from the closet.
“Jamie?” I asked.
Grace nodded as she slipped her arms into the sleeves of her coat. “His temperature spiked. They’re going to take some X-rays, but the doctor thinks it’s pneumonia.”
“Oh, no,” Monica said. “Are you okay? Do you want us to come with you?”
Grace either didn’t hear or wasn’t listening. She was already halfway out the door. Monica and I stood on the porch and watched her speed away.
In the time that I’d known Grace, Jamie had gone through more than one health crisis. His condition meant he was fragile by nature, but somehow, he always managed to hold on. Grace always said he was strong, a fighter who was determined to live. I was sure she was right.
But no matter how strong the desire to live, death comes for us all in time. Though I hoped I was wrong, something in me sensed that Jamie’s time had come.
“Nan?” Monica’s voice was uncharacteristically soft. “Do you pray?”
“Every day,” I said, my mind turning to Dani.
“How? I mean . . . do you need to say anything special? Read something?”
I shook my head. “I just pour it all out and then leave it in God’s hands.”
“Does it work?”
“I don’t always get what I ask for, if that’s what you mean. Am I heard? I believe I am.”
Monica reached for my hand and closed her eyes. I did the same. We stood there like that for a long time, joined in a silent plea.
Chapter 19
Grace
“Grace.”
I turned around and found myself being hugged by Mrs. Babcock. Her hair was gray and her face was lined, but she still wore the same peacock-blue eye shadow.
“It was a beautiful service, Grace.”
“Thank you. Thank you for coming.”
I tried to draw back, but Mrs. Babcock didn’t seem inclined to let go of me just yet. Over her shoulder, I made an apologetic face to Jerry, my father-in-law, whom I had been talking to before Mrs. Babcock approached. He shrugged to let me know it was fine, then walked off to join Penny, my mother-in-law, who was sitting in a corner, her eyes red from crying.
“I’m so, so sorry for your loss.”
Mrs. Babcock squeezed me much too tightly. I took a firm step backward so she’d have to release me.
“Thank you,” I said again.
“Such a terrible thing. Pneumonia, wasn’t it? That’s what I heard. And after all he’d been through.” She clucked her tongue. “I hope, at least, that he went peacefully?”
“He did,” I said truthfully.
I could have said more and I expect that Mrs. Babcock wanted to hear more, but that wasn’t information she was entitled to. In the twelve years of our marriage, Jamie and I had shared countless private and personal moments, but none more intimate than the moment of his death.
For six days, I sat by his bedside. Every day he grew weaker. Every morning, breathing was more of a struggle than the day before. On the final morning, when it became obvious that there was no hope, I asked the doctors to remove all the needles and tubes.
I climbed into Jamie’s bed and nestled close to him, lying on my side and stroking his hair, telling him one last time how much I loved him, how happy he had made me, promising him that I would be strong and fine and well, and that it was all right to go before me. As usual, Jamie was staring at the door, now closed to protect our privacy. Though I was lying right next to him, he didn’t look at me, or acknowledge my presence.
Somehow I had thought . . . I had hoped he might. After all the months of worry and anguish, I hoped that at the end there
