Captured(88)

“Derek…I never realized it, but I didn’t believe in second chances. Especially when it came to finding love. I don’t think you believed in love at all. So we both learned something when we met. And now, here we are. I could tell you I love you right now, and of course it would be true. But it’s not enough. It’s not good enough. I know we haven’t come to this part yet, but I’m going to say it anyway: I do.” I squeeze his hand, blinking back tears. “I do. A million times, I do.”

The chaplain glances at Derek. “Son?”

“I do.” Two words from his lips, but I hear three, I see the I love you in his eyes.

“Then, by the power vested in me by the state of Texas, I now pronounce you man and wife. You may—well, ahem. I guess you know what to do.”

We’re kissing, a deep, slow kiss that’s inappropriate for a wedding or a hospital, much less a wedding in a hospital, but everyone is cheering and clapping, and there are tears on many faces.

Hank pulls my hand, and I break away from Derek. Hank’s other hand struggles up off his lap, gesturing to Derek, who takes it. Hank places my hand on top of Derek’s, and then sandwiches our joined hands between his. He wants to speak, wants to say something, but he can’t. His lips move, and his eyes go from mine to Derek’s and back, full of thoughts and intelligence and emotion.

Ida speaks up, speaking for her husband of fifty-odd years. “We love you, Reagan. We half-raised Tom. We kissed him and gave him money when he left for boot camp. We sent him care packages everywhere he went. We stood with you at his funeral. We cried with you. We’ve helped you raise Tommy.” Her voice falters, and she looks to Hank for strength. Somehow, she finds it. “We’ve raised six children of our own, and we have—oh my, what is it now?—more than twenty grandchildren, and at least three great-grandchildren.”

There are cheers from the crowd around the door where those children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren are gathered.

“Yes, my loves. Now hush.” She takes a shuddering breath. “We love you, Reagan. And you, too, Derek. Be each other’s—”

“And me, Gramma Ida? And me?” Tommy pipes up. He climbs up on Hank’s lap. Hank’s eyes waver, and he squeezes Tommy. “You love me, too, Gramma Ida?”

Ida has to fight for composure. “Yes, Tommy. Dearest, sweetest Tommy. You most of all, my boy.” She caresses Tommy’s head. “Reagan, Derek, be each other’s happiness. Life hands you a lot of lemons, which means you have to be each other’s sugar, so you can make lemonade. That’s the essence of love, if you ask me. The determination to be sweet as sugar when everything around you is lemons.”

Hank nods. Reaches past Tommy for me. I keep hold of Derek’s hand, pulling him with me. Hank’s once long and strong arms, now trembling and straining, wrap around us three, binding us, blessing us.





*





In that same hospital room, Hank passes the next day, surrounded by his family. Which includes, of course, Tommy, Derek, and me.

Ida cries, but she’s holding it together as the family, one by one, kisses Hank’s face, saying goodbye for the last time. They cling to each other and file out of the room. Finally, everyone is gone. Everyone except Ida and me.

“Hank was my second husband, you know.” She’s lying on the bed beside him, her head on his chest, now forever still. I suppose she’s fallen asleep like this every night for…whatever three hundred and sixty-five times fifty-seven is.

I’m startled by her sudden admission. “Really? I never knew that.”

“Only Hank knows. Knew. My first husband, William, was a fighter pilot. I was sixteen, he was nineteen, and so handsome. I ran away to marry him. This was nineteen-fifty, and everyone knew the Korean War was coming. We were married in a little church in Tupelo, Mississippi, on February eighteenth.

“He’d just finished training school. I think he’d told them he was older than he was, but I honestly don’t know. He was a very talented pilot, I do know that much. We had three months together. Three wonderful, amazing months. We were just kids, you know, he and I both. Me especially. My parents were so angry, and I ran away. I thought I knew better, the way teenage girls do. They sent me letter after letter to the little apartment where Will and I lived, outside Langley. They begged me to come home.”

She’s speaking quietly, eyes closed, as if so, so tired. “I didn’t. Oh, no. I loved Will, and he loved me. He was going to war and we both knew it, but we thought our love was enough to bring him back. And it was, for the first two and a half years of the war. He flew hundreds of missions. He was an ace, and I was so proud. He sent his money back to me. I made us a home in that little apartment. I was ready for him to come home, ready for the war to be over so I could be his wife. Well, the last time he came home, in January of fifty-three, we conceived a child. I knew it by the time a month had passed. I knew it then, that night. I just knew. And I told him, I said, ‘Will, you just put a baby in me.’ He was proud. Like it was…like he’d won a race or something. He started talking to my stomach.” She sniffs, laughs.

“He was shot down a month later. Killed instantly. I mourned for months. But I was pregnant and alone. So I went home to Mama and Papa. And they took me back. I miscarried, though. I was too upset, I think. Later, after the war, I was in Jackson with my parents, and I met a dashing young soldier named Henry. My Hank. And we fell in love. He knew about Will. He loved me enough—throughout the years—and he always understood that a piece of me still belonged to William. He loved me anyway, and he loved that missing piece. I had three months with Will, and fifty-seven years with Hank. But your first love? There’s something there that you can never replace. But you have to let Derek love you. You have to let him love that missing piece, Reagan. You have to let him.”