The Empty Jar(74)

I watch as my mother places the tiny insect into the jar Nate holds then he closes the lid quickly so that none can escape. Pointing out which ones for my husband and mother to catch, I watch the jar fill until the glass appears to be a sparkling beacon of sun in an otherwise sunless sky.

When the jar is becoming too full to contain the insects as they add new ones, I walk to the last low-flying lightning bug I can see, and I let it settle on the tip of my finger. I hold it to my little girl’s face and murmur, “Don’t go to bed with dirty feet or an empty jar. Say your prayers every night, and never stop chasing the lightning bugs. Never stop. I love you, Grace. Always.”

I pull my daughter in close and kiss her forehead, her eyes, her cheeks, the tip of her perfect little nose. I inhale, smiling at the way the sweet baby scent makes even the fresh night air smell better. I know that if it were possible to carry the memory of aromas with me to heaven, I’d take this one and Nate’s. They’re the two best scents in the world.

Just as my knees begin to feel weak and strangely numb, I feel the big hands of my husband cup my shoulders from behind. So perceptive. So caring.

“How about we take these inside with our little one?” He bends to brush his lips over the shell of my ear and chills break out, pebbling the flesh of my arms and legs. I know there’s one more thing I want from this night—to watch my child fall asleep in the glow of the lightning bugs.

“Yeah, I’m ready.” I let Nate turn me back toward the house. I glance at my mother who’s standing just behind me with her arms wrapped around her body. I wonder if she’s cold or if she knows, too. “You’re staying, aren’t you, Momma? For a little while longer?”

My mother nods in that closed-off way that she has. I can’t expect my mom to be one hundred percent the person she once was; I’m just happy that I get to see this much of the woman who raised me.

“We’ll put Grace to bed and then be back out. Why don’t you and Nissa wait in the living room?”

Again she nods, this time following quietly along behind us, as though she’s afraid to move too fast.

Content that my mother is being included, that she isn’t going to demand that Nate take her back to the institution right away, I will my tired legs to move forward.

Steadily, I make my way across the yard, over the patio and through the house, cradling my daughter tightly against my chest. I’m determined not to let her go, not to give this last bit of care over to my husband. I need this.

One last time.

When I bypass Grace’s room, Nate asks, “Where are we going?”

“I want to hold her so we can watch the lightning bugs together. All three of us,” I answer simply, my voice breathy with my exertion.

Once in our room, I hear Nate close the door. I walk to the bed and sit on its edge until my husband comes around to hold Grace while I situate myself on my side. When I’m comfortable, I hold out one arm, and Nate lays our daughter next to my chest. I curl around Grace, enveloping her with a mother’s love and warmth.

I watch as Nate sets the glowing jar onto the nightstand and then positions the phone where he can record us all in the bed. When he’s finished, he climbs in behind us and pulls me and Grace into the curve of his body.

“Take her to church, Nate. Promise me you’ll take her to church. Don’t let her be bitter like I was.”

There is no hesitation in his response. “I promise.”

“I want you both to be able to understand.”

“Understand what?”

“This kind of love,” I explain. “It changes everything. It’s why my father prayed like he did. It was for love, for me. I understood it the moment I knew I was pregnant with Grace. Instantly, I knew the kind of love my father had for our family and for me. That’s what’s in the jar. Not bugs or light, but tradition. Family. Love. My father wasn’t just playing with me or keeping up a summer ritual. He was filling my jar with his love.” I pause, sighing in relief, basking in the very love of which I speak, the magnitude of it. “That kind of love…it’s the kind that sends people in search of a God they stopped believing in. It’s the kind of love that keeps us going, makes us pray, gives us hope. The kind of love that saves us. You’ve given me that, Nate. You and Grace. You saved me. My jar was empty after my father died. Until I met you. You filled it up again. And I need to know that you’ll let Grace fill yours. I need to know that you’ll be okay when I’m gone.”

When I’m gone.

“Lena, I…” Nate’s voice is low and hoarse, like his throat is as bloody and inflamed as his heart.

I wait wordlessly for him to finish. I can almost hear the battle taking place. He wants to argue that this isn’t the end, but he knows he can’t. He can’t argue the truth. This is the end. And we both know it. It’s in the air. In the calm. In the acceptance.

What he chooses to say instead makes me smile.

“You’re my peanut butter and waffles.”

“Your what?”

He nuzzles the back of my neck as he repeats his words. “My peanut butter and waffles. Only the most delicious breakfast creation since French toast. But I didn’t know that until I tried them. I had no idea what I was missing. But then, after that first bite, I didn’t know how I’d ever lived so long without them. Or how I could possibly live without them again. You’re the peanut butter and waffles of my life. I don’t know how I ever lived without you. Or how…” His words trail off as though he can’t get them out, as though some part of him still can’t bear to speak the words aloud.