The Empty Jar(64)

The first time she was given a dose in the hospital, the nurse who brought it mentioned that it should help some, qualifications that didn’t inspire much confidence. And, as far as I could tell, it had only helped some. Lena still spends substantial quantities of time confused. She slept a lot in the hospital, but when she was awake, she was often disoriented.

At least the spells seem to be less dramatic now. Maybe that’s how the medication is helping—maybe it lessens the length and severity of her bouts of confusion. I’d hoped for total eradication, though, and so far, I’m very disappointed.

On the plus side, Lena seems content and more at ease at home. And I still harbor a tiny spark of optimism that the effects of the medication will be cumulative and that familiar surroundings will help things along. But only time will tell. And I’m not certain how much of that we have left.

I try to put the dismal future out of my mind. It feels something like betrayal to dwell on it, like I’m cheating on the present if I spend one moment of it mourning what hasn’t yet transpired. But it’s hard. It’s hard not to worry, not to watch my wife, sharply and constantly, as though she might disappear like a vapor if I look away for too long.

The mattress dips ever so slightly, and I come instantly awake. It’s the middle of the night, but it only takes a few seconds for my eyes to adjust to the silvery moonlit room. All my senses come online with surprising rapidity these days, and all seem more acute than ever.

I listen closely for the cry of our child, but I hear nothing except for the muffled pad of my wife’s feet as she crosses the thickly carpeted floor. I hold myself perfectly still and wait for Lena to leave the room before I get up to follow her.

I’m still not sleeping soundly. Not only am I listening for my wife, but I’m also listening for sounds of our daughter. I can’t help wondering if I missed her cry, though, and if that’s what roused Lena.

When she sleeps, she often sleeps so deeply that she won’t even respond to the call of her name, but so far, she seems to hear even the most hushed whimpers of little Grace. A mother’s sensitivity, maybe.

Quietly, I trail my wife down the hall to the baby’s room. I stop in the doorway and lean one shoulder against the jamb. I can see perfectly—the padded rocker in the corner, the cheerful mobile hanging over the crib, the puffy quilted letters that spell out Grace on the wall. Despite the dim glow of the nightlight, the room is still fairly bright. The pale yellow paint helps, makes the walls look like French vanilla ice cream at night, soft and velvety.

Lena crosses slowly and silently to the white crib, bending to peer down over the padded rail. “Hi, beautiful,” she coos tenderly, reaching in for her daughter. She lifts her out, expertly tucking Grace against her chest. “What’s your name, little girl?”

When I hear the question, I tense. I have no way of knowing if it’s just Lena’s way of chatting with the baby or if she’s so confused she can’t remember her own child’s name. Or that Grace is even hers.

These days, I can’t assume anything. All evidence seems to be pointing in the wrong direction, to the worsening of her condition rather than the stabilizing of it. However, Lena’s occasional bouts of prolonged lucidity—sometimes up to a few hours—are always just enough to allow the thin, fibrous roots of hope to take hold in me.

I know it’s a mistake to let my guard down. To hope. I know the risks, know the consequences of false hope will be devastating, but sometimes, I just can’t seem to help myself. It feels too good to cling to something positive, to think about a future with my wife and child.

It just feels good to hope. Too good.

Turning with Grace in her arms, Lena comes to an abrupt stop when she spots me lounging in the doorway. “Who is this?” she asks, tipping her chin toward the baby she cradles. “Did I forget that we are babysitting for someone?”

“That’s Grace, baby. You had a C-section a few days ago. Isn’t your stomach still sore?”

A faint frown pulls at the skin between Lena’s eyes, and I know she’s performing a self-assessment. I also know the instant it clicks into place. She smiles and tries to play it off. “Of course, I remember that, silly. My memory isn’t getting that bad.” She crosses the room to me and stretches up to kiss my cheek as she passes. “Go back to bed. I’ve got her.”

“I’m already up. Why don’t I keep you company?” I don’t give her time to argue; I just fall in behind her and follow her into the den. I can’t trust that she won’t forget something vital and accidentally hurt herself or Grace.

As I tiredly pursue my wife through the house, my gut clenches with grief. This is all Lena wanted for so long, and now she isn’t even able to really enjoy it. Such a cruel twist of fate.

As quickly as she slips into confusion, however, Lena often slips out of it just as rapidly. It’s as she’s preparing a bottle for Grace that I notice the shift.

“…won’t be around to do it with you later, maybe tomorrow we’ll get out the jar and catch some lightning bugs. I’ll save up all my energy for it so I can carry you around the yard and catch the ones you want me to get. And they can be your nightlight, like they were my nightlight when I was a little girl. And Daddy can film the whole thing so you can watch it when you’re older. You can see how much your momma loved you and how she caught your very first lightning bugs for you. Does that sound like fun?” Lena glances up at me and grins. “In case you didn’t hear that, she said, ‘Hell yeah!’”