Every Breath(11)
Nor was there any way to predict how quickly the disease would progress. In the months since the diagnosis, her father had seemed little changed, physically. He still went for his walks in the woods, still had the same gentle spirit and unwavering faith in God, still held hands with her mom as the two of them sat on the couch and watched television in the evenings. That gave her hope that he had a slow-progressing version of the disease, but she worried all the time. How long would her dad remain mobile? How long would her mom be able to handle his care without help? Should they start building ramps and add a railing for the shower? Knowing there were wait lists for the best places, should they start researching assisted-living facilities? And how would they ever pay for it? Her parents were anything but wealthy. They had their pensions and small savings, and they owned their home and the beach cottage, but that was it. Would that be enough, not only for her father’s medical care but for her mom’s remaining years as well? And if not, what would they do?
Too many questions, with little in the way of answers. Her mom and dad seemed to accept the uncertainty, as did her sisters, but Hope had always been more of a planner. She was the kind of person who would lie awake at night anticipating various possibilities and making hypothetical decisions about pretty much everything. It made her feel like she was somehow better prepared for whatever might come, but on the downside, it led to a life that sometimes cascaded from one worry to the next. Which was exactly what happened whenever she thought about her dad.
But he was doing okay, she reminded herself. And he might be okay three or five or even ten years from now; there was no way to tell. Two days ago, before she’d left for the beach, they’d even gone on a walk, just like they used to. Granted, it was slower and shorter than their walks had been in the past, but her dad could still name all the trees and bushes, and he shared his knowledge one more time. As they were walking, he’d stopped and leaned over, lifting a fallen leaf that presaged the arrival of autumn.
“One of the great things about a leaf,” he said to her, “is that it reminds you to live as well as you can for as long as you can, until it’s finally time to let go and allow yourself to drift away with grace.”
She liked what her dad had told her. Well…kind of. No doubt he’d viewed the fallen leaf as a teachable moment, and she knew there was both truth and value in what he said, but was it really possible to face death without any fear at all? To gracefully drift away?
If anyone could do it, her dad probably could. He was just about the most even-keeled, balanced, and peaceful person she’d ever met, which was probably one of the reasons he’d been married to her mom for fifty years and still liked to hold her hand and smooch when he thought the girls weren’t paying attention. She often wondered how the two of them could make being in love seem both intentional and effortless at the same time.
That had left her in a funk, too. Well, not so much because of her mom and dad, but because of Josh. As much as she loved him, she’d never gotten used to the on-again, off-again nature of their relationship. Right now they were in the off-again position, which was the reason that Hope was spending the week at the cottage alone except for Scottie, with only a pedicure and time with the hairstylist on the agenda until the rehearsal dinner on Friday night.
Josh was supposed to have come with her this week, and as the date of the trip had approached, Hope had become ever more certain they needed some time alone together. For the last nine months, the practice where he worked had been trying to hire two more orthopedic surgeons to handle the surging patient load, without luck. Which meant Josh had been working seventy-to eighty-hour weeks, and had been on call constantly. Even worse, his days off weren’t always in sync with hers, and lately, he seemed to feel a greater-than-usual need to blow off steam in his own way. On his few free weekends, he tended to prefer hanging out with his buddies, boating or water-skiing or overnighting in Charlotte after hitting the bars, instead of spending time with her.
It wasn’t the first time that Josh had drifted into a phase like this one, where Hope sometimes felt like an afterthought. He’d never been the type who sent flowers, and the tender gestures her parents shared every day probably seemed utterly foreign to him. There was also, especially at times like these, a bit of Peter Pan about him, a quality that made her wonder whether he would ever really grow up. His apartment, filled with IKEA furniture, baseball pennants, and movie posters, seemed more suitable for a graduate student, which made sense, since he hadn’t moved since he’d started medical school. His friends—most of whom he’d met at the gym—were in their late twenties or early thirties, single, and as handsome as Josh was. Josh didn’t look his age—he’d be forty in a few months—but for the life of her, she couldn’t understand how hanging out at bars with his buddies, who were most likely there to meet women, was something he would still find appealing. But what was she supposed to say to him? “Don’t hang out with your friends”? She and Josh weren’t married, they weren’t even engaged, and he’d told her all along that what he wanted in a partner was someone who wouldn’t try to change him. He wanted to be accepted for who he was.
She understood that. She wanted to be accepted for who she was, too. So why did it matter if he liked to hang out with his buddies at bars?
Because, she heard a voice inside her answer, right now we’re not technically together and anything is possible. He hasn’t always been faithful during previous breakups, has he?