The Empty Jar(70)

“Help me to the bathroom?”

Nodding, Nate sets the container of nutrition onto the nightstand and helps me out of bed. When I stand, I glance over at my mother, Grace asleep in her arms, and I smile. “I love you, Momma.”

Patricia Holmes simply nods. I don’t take offense. I know my mother is probably overwhelmed and incapable of speech. I knew it wouldn’t be easy for her, these last moments. They’ll be bittersweet. Momma knows what’s on the horizon for me. She’s seen it too many times before.

With the help of Nate’s sturdy presence at my side, I hobble past my mother and my daughter, pausing to kiss Grace on the top of the head. “My angel,” I whisper, inhaling deeply before I continue toward the bathroom. Once there, I shoo Nate away.

“What if you need help?”

“Then I’ll yell.”

“What if I’m not fast enough?”

“You will be.”

“What if I’m not?”

“You always are. I’ll be fine. I promise.” To emphasize my words, I pull myself up onto my toes as much as I can and I plant a kiss onto my husband’s perfect mouth. I can’t sustain the position long, the muscles in my legs trembling with that small effort. “Now go, you handsome hunk of man, before I take advantage of you with my mom right out there and embarrass us both.”

“I honestly don’t give a shit,” he replies with a grin. “I’d take you anywhere, anytime.” Even though he takes the bait and responds to my taunt as he would at any other time in our life, I see only a sad awareness on Nate’s face. He knows that I don’t feel like having sex. And I know that he knows. Yet neither of us acknowledges it. It seems easier somehow to pretend that things are as they have always been.

Even though everything has changed.

With a sweet kiss to my forehead, Nate backs toward the door. “I’ll be right outside if you need me.”

“I’ll let you know if I do.”

When the door is closed firmly between us, I lean against the sink and let my heavy head sag down between my arms. I take several cleansing breaths before I lift my eyes to a face that I hardly recognize reflected in the mirror.

What happened to the woman who stared back at me a few months before? When had I become this ghostly, sunken shell of Lena Grant?

Blonde tresses that used to hang in shimmering waves to just below my shoulders are dry and brittle and look more like hay than hair. Skin that used to hold a youthful glow looks sallow and paper-thin. Eyes that used to sparkle with life look dull and haunted.

I catalog everything from the dark circles under my eyes to the hollow cheeks, from the prominent collarbones to the bony shoulders poking out under my shirt. When did I lose so much weight? When had I begun to waste away? How has all this happened without me noticing?

Impulsively, I grab the nasogastric tube and pull it out, gagging as it passes the back of my throat. Without looking, I toss it into the trashcan and begin stripping off my clothes. I feel an almost frantic need to see my new reality while I’m still alert and oriented. I want to see what Nate sees, what my mother sees.

Less than a minute later, I stand naked in front of the full-length mirror that rests in one corner of the bathroom. In the shiny glass, I see the clawfoot tub behind me, luxuriously deep and inviting. I see the chandelier that Nate had rolled his eyes over when I pointed it out in a magazine. I see the pile of baggy clothes lying in a puddle beside the toilet, hastily discarded.

And then I see a body, a sick woman’s body.

My lackluster eyes travel over the gaunt image. I see translucent skin stretched thinly over my chest, every rib visible. I take in the skinny arms that hang by my sides, the wrist bones protruding grossly. I see breasts that are still full and round from pregnancy, although I wonder why I’m not engorged and hurting since I’m neither pumping nor breastfeeding. At least I don’t think I am. I can’t remember if I am.

Or maybe, considering my condition, I’m taking medicine that I don’t remember taking, to dry up my milk. Or maybe it’s a side effect of one of the other medications I’m on. At this point, I can’t keep anything straight.

Regardless, the one thing I do know is that I’m missing out on quite a few details of my life.

My gaze continues, on to the belly that is still swollen from pregnancy. I touch my stomach with trembling fingers, tracing the incision, pressing into the flesh above and below it. I feel the wave-like give of fluid just beneath the skin.

Ascites.

Despite the fact that my mind often swims with delirium these days, my years of nursing experience tell me what’s going on. Gathering of fluid in the abdomen is common in people with liver disease. And I have the ultimate liver disease—stomach cancer with liver metastases.

Warm tears leave wet tracks down my cheeks as I evaluate the rest of my body. Legs that I’ve always thought were a bit too thick are now thin, the skin hanging loosely around the insides of my thighs. I turn to one side and note the disappearing butt that I’d been self-conscious of once upon a time. Funny how that works, because now I’d give almost anything to have them back, to be that very healthy woman again. Not this…this…shadow.

I don’t know why Nate still looks at me as though I’m the most beautiful woman in the world. It’s far from true, and yet that’s what I see in his eyes. Every day.