Dear John

Sixteen

She was in love with someone else.

I knew that even before I finished reading the letter, and all at once the world seemed to slow down. My first instinct was to ram my fist into a wall, but instead I crumpled up the letter and threw it aside. I was incredibly angry then; more than feeling betrayed, I felt as if she’d crushed everything that had any meaning in the world. I hated her, and I hated the nameless, faceless man who’d stolen her from me. I fantasized what I would do to him if he ever crossed my path, and the picture wasn’t pretty.

At the same time, I longed to talk to her. I wanted to fly home immediately, or at least call her. Part of me didn’t want to believe it, couldn’t believe it. Not now, not after everything we’d been through. We had only nine more months left—after almost three years, was that so impossible?

But I didn’t go home, and I didn’t call. I didn’t write her back, nor did I hear from her again. My only action was to retrieve the letter I’d crumpled. I straightened it as best I could, stuffed it back in the envelope, and decided to carry it with me like a wound I’d received in battle. Over the next few weeks, I became the consummate soldier, escaping into the only world that still seemed real to me. I volunteered for any mission regarded as dangerous, I barely spoke to anyone in my unit, and for a while it took everything I had not to be too quick with the trigger while out on patrol. I trusted no one in the cities, and although there were no unfortunate “incidents”—as the army likes to call civilian deaths—I’d be lying if I claimed to have been patient and understanding while dealing with Iraqis of any kind. Though I barely slept, my senses were heightened as we continued our spearhead to Baghdad. Ironically, only while risking my life did I find relief from Savannah’s image and the reality that our relationship had ended.

My life followed the shifting fortunes of the war. Less than a month after I received the letter, Baghdad fell, and despite a brief period of initial promise, things got worse and more complicated as the weeks and months wore on. In the end, I figured, this war was no different from any other. Wars always come back to the quest for power among the competing interests, but this understanding didn’t make life on the ground any easier. In the aftermath of Baghdad’s fall, every soldier in my squad was thrust into the roles of policeman and judge. As soldiers, we weren’t trained for that.

From the outside and with hindsight, it was easy to second-guess our activities, but in the real world, in real time, decisions weren’t always easy. More than once, I was approached by Iraqi civilians and told that a certain individual had stolen this or that item, or committed this or that crime, and was asked to do something about it. That wasn’t our job. We were there to keep some semblance of order—which basically meant killing insurgents who were trying to kill us or other civilians—until the locals could take over and handle it themselves. That particular process was neither quick nor easy, even in places where calm was more frequent than chaos. In the meantime, other cities were disintegrating into chaos, and we were sent in to restore order. We’d clear a city of insurgents, but because there weren’t enough troops to hold the city and keep it safe, the insurgents would occupy it again soon after we cleared out. There were days when all of my men wondered at the futility of that particular exercise, even if they didn’t question it openly.

My point is, I don’t know how to describe the stress and boredom and confusion of those next nine months, except to say that there was a lot of sand. Yeah, I know it’s a desert, and yeah, I spent a lot of time at the beach so I should have been used to it, but the sand was different over there. It got in your clothes, in your gun, in locked boxes, in your food, in your ears and up your nose and between your teeth, and when I spat, I always felt the grit in my mouth. People can at least relate to that, and I’ve learned that they don’t want to hear the real truth, which is that most of the time Iraq wasn’t so bad but sometimes it was worse than hell. Did people really want to hear that I watched a guy in my unit accidentally shoot a little kid who just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time? Or that I’d seen soldiers get torn into pieces when they hit an IED—improvised explosive device—on the roads near Baghdad? Or that I’d seen blood pooling in the streets like rain, flowing past body parts? No, people would rather hear about sand, because it kept the war at a safe distance.

I did my duty as best I knew how, reupped again, and stayed in Iraq until February 2004, when I was finally sent back to Germany. As soon as I got back, I bought a Harley and tried to pretend that I’d left the war unscarred; but the nightmares were endless, and I woke most mornings drenched in sweat. During the day I was often on edge, and I got angry at the slightest things. When I walked the streets in Germany, I found it impossible not to carefully survey groups of people loitering near buildings, and I found myself scanning windows in the business district, watching for snipers. The psychologist—everyone had to see one—told me that what I was going through was normal and that in time these things would pass, but I sometimes wondered whether they ever would.

After I left Iraq, my time in Germany felt almost meaningless. Sure, I worked out in the morning and I took classes on weapons and navigation, but things had changed. Because of the hand wound, Tony was given a discharge along with his Purple Heart, and he was sent back to Brooklyn right after Baghdad fell. Four more of my guys were honorably discharged in late 2003 when their time was up; in their minds—and mine—they’d done their duty, and it was time for them to get on with the rest of their lives. I, on the other hand, had reupped again. I wasn’t sure it was the right decision, but I didn’t know what else to do.

But now, looking at my squad, I realized that I suddenly felt out of place. My squad was full of newbies, and though they were great kids, it wasn’t the same. They weren’t the friends I’d lived with through boot camp and the Balkans, I hadn’t gone to war with them, and deep down, I knew I’d never be as close to them as I’d been to my former squad. For the most part, I was a stranger, and I kept it that way. I worked out alone and avoided personal contact as much as possible, and I knew what my squad thought of me when I walked past them: I was the crusty old sergeant, the one who claimed to want nothing more than to ensure that they got back to their moms in one piece. I told my squad that all the time while we drilled, and I meant it. I would do what it took to keep them safe. But like I said, it wasn’t the same.

With my friends gone, I devoted myself to my dad as best I could. After my tour of combat, I spent an extended leave with him in spring 2004, then another leave with him later that summer. We spent more time together in those four weeks than we had in the previous ten years. Because he was retired, we were free to spend the day however we wished. I fell easily into his routines. We had breakfast, went for our three walks, and had dinner together. In between, we talked about coins and even bought a couple while I was in town. The Internet made that far easier than it had once been, and though the search wasn’t quite as exciting, I don’t know that it made any difference to my dad. I found myself talking to dealers I hadn’t spoken with in over fifteen years, but they were as friendly and informative as they’d ever been and remembered me with pleasure. The coin world, I realized, was a small one, and when our order arrived—they were always shipped via overnight delivery—my dad and I would take turns examining the coins, pointing out any existing flaws, and usually agreeing with the grade that they had been assigned by the Professional Coin Grading Service, a company that evaluates the quality of any coin submitted. Though my mind would eventually wander to other things, my dad could stare at a single coin for hours, as if it held the secret of life.

We didn’t talk about much else, but then, we didn’t really need to. He had no desire to talk about Iraq, and I had no desire to talk about it, either. Neither of us had a social life to speak of Iraq hadn’t been conducive to that—and my dad… well, he was my dad, and I didn’t even bother asking.

Nonetheless, I was worried about him. On his walks, his breathing was labored. When I suggested that twenty minutes was perhaps too long, even at his slow pace, he said that the doctor had told him that twenty minutes was just what he needed, and I knew there was nothing I could do to convince him otherwise. Afterward, he was far more tired than he should have been, and it usually took an hour for the deep color in his cheeks to fade. I spoke to the doctor, and the news wasn’t what I had hoped. My dad’s heart, I was told, had sustained major damage, and—in the doctor’s opinion—it was pretty much a miracle that he was moving as well as he was. Lack of exercise would be even worse for him.

It might have been that conversation with the doctor, or maybe it was just that I wanted an improved relationship with my dad, but we got along better on those two visits than we ever had. Instead of pressing him for constant conversation, I’d simply sit with him in his den, reading a book or doing crossword puzzles while he looked at coins. There was something peaceful and honest about my lack of expectation, and I think my dad was slowly coming to grips with the newfound change between us. Occasionally I caught him peeking at me in a way that seemed almost foreign. We would spend hours together, most of the time saying nothing at all, and it was in this quiet, unassuming way that we finally became friends. I often found myself wishing that my dad hadn’t thrown away the photograph of us, and when it was time for me to return to Germany, I knew that I would miss him in a way I never had before.

Autumn of 2004 passed slowly, as did the winter and spring of 2005. Life dragged on uneventfully. Occasionally, rumors of my eventual return to Iraq would interrupt the monotony of my days, but since I’d been there before, the thought of my return affected me little. If I stayed in Germany, that was fine. If I went back to Iraq, that was fine as well. I kept up with what was going on in the Middle East like everyone else, but as soon as I put down the newspaper or turned off the television, my mind wandered to other things.

I was twenty-eight by then, and I couldn’t escape the feeling that even though I’d experienced more than most people my age, my life was still on hold. I’d joined the army to grow up, and although a case could be made that I had, I sometimes wondered whether it was true. I owned neither a house nor a car, and aside from my dad, I was completely alone in the world. While my peers stuffed their wallets with photographs of their children and their wives, my wallet held a single fading snapshot of a woman I’d loved and lost. I heard soldiers talking of their hopes for the future, while I was making no plans at all. Sometimes I wondered what my men thought of my life, for there were times I caught them staring at me curiously. I never told them about my past or shared personal information. They knew nothing of Savannah or my dad or my friendship with Tony. Those memories were mine and mine alone, for I’d learned that some things are best kept secret.

In March 2005, my dad had a second heart attack, which led to pneumonia and another stint in the ICU. Once he was released, the medication he was on prohibited driving, but the hospital social worker helped me find someone to pick up the groceries he needed. In April, he went back to the hospital, where he learned he’d have to give up his daily walks as well. By May, he was taking a dozen different pills a day, and I knew he was spending most of his time in bed. The letters he wrote became almost illegible, not only because he was weak, but because his hands had begun to tremble. After a bit of prodding and begging on the phone, I persuaded a neighbor of my dad’s—a nurse who worked at the local hospital—to look in on him regularly, and I breathed a sigh of relief while counting down the days until my leave in June.

But my dad’s condition continued to worsen over the next few weeks, and on the phone I could hear a weariness that seemed to deepen every time I spoke with him. For the second time in my life, I asked for a transfer back home. My commanding officer was more sympathetic than he had been before. We researched it—even got as far as filing the papers to get me posted at Fort Bragg for airborne training—but when I spoke to the doctor again, I was told that my proximity wouldn’t do much to help my dad and that I should consider placing him in an extended care facility. My dad needed more care than could be provided at home, he assured me. He’d been trying to convince my father of that for some time—he was eating only soup by then—but my father refused to consider it until I returned for my leave. For whatever reason, the doctor explained, my dad was determined to have me visit him at home one last time.

The realization was crushing, and in the cab from the airport, I tried to convince myself that the doctor was exaggerating. But he wasn’t. My father was unable to rise from the couch when I pushed open the door, and I was struck by the thought that in the single year since I’d seen him last, he seemed to have aged thirty years. His skin was almost gray, and I was shocked by how much weight he’d lost. With a hard knot in my throat, I put down my bag just inside the door.

“Hey, Dad,” I said.

At first, I wondered whether he even recognized me, but eventually I heard a ragged whisper. “Hey, John.”

I went to the couch and sat beside him. “You okay?”

“Okay,” was all he said, and for a long time we sat together without saying anything.

Eventually I rose to inspect the kitchen but found myself blinking when I got there. Empty soup cans were stacked everywhere. There were stains on the stove, the garbage was overflowing, and moldy dishes were piled in the sink. Stacks of unopened mail flooded the small kitchen table. It was obvious that the house hadn’t been cleaned in days. My first impulse was to storm over to confront the neighbor who’d agreed to look in on him. But that would have to wait.

Instead, I located a can of chicken noodle soup and heated it up on the filthy stove. After filling a bowl, I brought it to my father on a tray. He smiled weakly, and I could see his gratitude. He finished the bowl, scraped at the sides for every morsel, and I filled another bowl, growing even angrier and wondering how long it had been since he’d eaten. When he polished off that bowl, I helped him lie back on the couch, where he fell asleep within minutes.

The neighbor wasn’t home, so I spent most of the afternoon and evening cleaning the house, starting with the kitchen and the bathroom. When I went to change the sheets on his bed and found them soiled, I closed my eyes and stifled the urge to wring the neighbor’s neck.

After the house was reasonably clean, I sat in the living room, watching my dad sleep. He looked so small beneath the blanket, and when I reached out to stroke his hair, a few strands came out. I began to cry then, knowing with certainty that my dad was dying. It was the first time I’d cried in years, and the only time in my life I’d ever cried for my dad, but for a long time the tears wouldn’t stop.

I knew that my dad was a good man, a kind man, and though he’d led a wounded life, he’d done the best he could in raising me. Never once had he raised his hand in anger, and I began to torment myself with the memories of all those years I’d wasted blaming him. I remembered my last two visits home, and I ached at the thought that we would never share those simple times again.

Later, I carried my dad to bed. He was light in my arms, too light. I pulled the covers up around him and made my bed on the floor beside him, listening to him wheeze and rasp. He woke up coughing in the middle of the night and seemed unable to stop; I was getting ready to bring him to the hospital when the coughing finally subsided.

He was terrified when he realized where I wanted to take him. “Stay… here,” he pleaded, his voice weak. “Don’t want to go.”

I was torn, but in the end I didn’t bring him. To a man of routine, I realized, the hospital was not only foreign, but a dangerous place, one that took more energy to adjust to than he knew he could summon. It was then that I realized he’d soiled himself and the sheets again.

When the neighbor came by the following day, the first words out of her mouth were an apology. She explained that she hadn’t cleaned the kitchen for several days because one of her daughters had been taken ill, but she’d been changing the sheets daily and making sure he had plenty of canned food. As she stood before me on the porch, I could see the exhaustion in her face, and all the words of reproach I’d been rehearsing drained away. I told her that I appreciated what she’d already done more than she would ever know.

“I was glad to help,” she said. “He’s been so nice over the years. He never complained about the noise my kids made when they were teenagers, and he always bought whatever they were selling when they needed to raise money for school trips or things like that. He keeps the yard just right, and whenever I asked him to watch my house, he was always there for me. He’s been the perfect neighbor.”

I smiled. Encouraged, she went on.

“But you should know that he doesn’t always let me inside anymore. He told me that he didn’t like where I put things. Or how I clean. Or the way I moved a stack of papers on his desk. Usually I ignore it, but sometimes, when he’s feeling okay, he’s quite adamant about keeping me out and he threatened to call the police when I tried to get past him. I just don’t…”

She trailed off, and I finished for her.

“You just don’t know what to do.”

Guilt was written plainly on her face.

“It’s okay,” I said. “Without you, I don’t know what he would have done.”

She nodded with relief before glancing away. “I’m glad you’re home,” she began hesitantly, “because I wanted to talk to you about his situation.” She brushed at invisible lint on her clothing. “I know this great place that he could go where he could be taken care of. The staff is excellent. It’s almost always at capacity, but I know the director, and he knows your dad’s doctor. I know how hard this is to hear, but I think it’s what’s best for him, and I wish…”

When she stopped, letting the rest of her statement hang, I felt her genuine concern for my dad, and I opened my mouth to respond. But I said nothing. This wasn’t as easy a decision as it sounded. His home was the only place my father knew, the only place he felt comfortable. It was the only place his routines made sense. If staying in the hospital terrified him, being forced to live someplace new would likely kill him. The question came down to not only where he should die, but how he should die. Alone at home, where he slept in soiled sheets and possibly starved to death? Or with people who would feed and clean him, in a place that terrified him?

With a quiver in my voice I couldn’t quite control, I asked, “Where is it?”

I spent the next two weeks taking care of my dad. I fed him the best I could, read him the Greysheet when he was awake, and slept on the floor beside his bed. He soiled himself every evening, forcing me to purchase adult diapers for him, much to his embarrassment. He slept most of the afternoon.

While he rested on the couch, I visited a number of extended care facilities: not just the one that the neighbor had recommended, but those within a two-hour radius. In the end, the neighbor was right. The place she mentioned was clean, and the staff came across as professional, but most important, the director seemed to have taken a personal interest in my dad’s care. Whether that was because of the neighbor or my dad’s doctor, I never found out.

Price wasn’t an issue. The facility was notoriously expensive, but because my dad had a government pension, Social Security, Medicare, and private insurance to boot (I could imagine him signing on the insurance salesman’s dotted line years before without really understanding what he was paying for), I was assured that the only cost would be emotional. The director—fortyish and brown haired, whose kindly manner somehow reminded me of Tim—understood and didn’t press for an immediate decision. Instead, he handed me a stack of information and assorted forms and wished my dad the best.

That evening, I raised the subject of moving to my dad. I was leaving in a few days and didn’t have a choice, no matter how much I wanted to avoid it.

He said nothing while I spoke. I explained my reasons, my worries, my hope that he would understand. He asked no questions, but his eyes remained wide with shock, as if he’d just heard his own death sentence.

When I finished, I desperately needed a moment alone. I patted him on the leg and went to the kitchen to get a glass of water. When I returned to the living room, my dad was hunched over on the couch, downcast and trembling. It was the first time I ever saw him cry.

In the morning, I began to pack my dad’s things. I went through his drawers and his files, the cupboards and closets. In his sock drawer, I found socks; in his shirt drawer, only shirts. In his file cabinet, everything was tabbed and ordered. It shouldn’t have been surprising, but in its own way it was. My dad, unlike most of humanity, had no secrets at all. He had no hidden vices, no diaries, no embarrassing interests, no box of private things he kept all to himself. I found nothing that further enlightened me about his inner life, nothing that might help me understand him after he was gone. My dad, I knew then, was just as he’d always seemed to be, and I suddenly realized how much I admired him for that.

When I finished gathering his things, my dad lay awake on the couch. After a few days of eating regularly, he’d regained a bit of strength. There was the faintest gleam in his eyes, and I noticed a shovel leaning against the end table. He held out a scrap of paper. On it was what appeared to be a hastily scrawled map, labeled “BACKYARD” in a shaky hand.

“What’s this for?”

“It’s yours,” he said. He pointed to the shovel.

I picked up the shovel, followed the directions on the map to the oak tree in the backyard, marched off paces, and began to dig. Within minutes the shovel sounded on metal, and I retrieved a box. And another one, beneath it. And another to the side. Sixteen heavy boxes in all. I sat on the porch and wiped the sweat from my face before opening the first.

I already knew what I’d find, and I squinted at the reflection of gold coins shimmering in the harsh sunlight of a southern summer. At the bottom of that box, I found the 1926-D buffalo nickel, the one we’d searched for and found together, knowing it was the only coin that really meant anything to me.

The next day, my last day on leave, I made arrangements for the house: turning off the utilities, forwarding the mail, finding someone to keep the lawn mowed. I stored the unearthed coins in a safe-deposit box at the bank. Handling those details took most of the day. Later, we shared a

final bowl of chicken noodle soup and soft-cooked vegetables for dinner before I brought him to the extended care facility. I unpacked his things, decorated the room with items I thought he’d want, and placed a dozen years’ worth of the Greysheet on the floor beneath his desk. But it wasn’t enough, and after explaining the situation to the director, I went back to the house again to collect even more knickknacks, all the while wishing I knew my dad well enough to tell what really mattered to him.

No matter how much I reassured him, he remained paralyzed with fear, his eyes tearing me apart. More than once, I was stricken with the notion that I was killing him. I sat beside him on his bed, conscious of the few hours remaining before I had to leave for the airport.

“It’s going to be okay,” I said. “They’re going to take care of you.”

His hands continued to tremble. “Okay,” he said in a barely audible voice.

I felt the tears beginning to form. “I want to say something to you, okay?” I drew breath, focusing my thoughts. “I just want you to know that I think you’re the greatest dad ever. You had to be great to put up with someone like me.”

My dad didn’t respond. In the silence, I felt all those things I’d ever wanted to say to him forcing their way to the surface, words that had been a lifetime in the making.

“I mean it, Dad. I’m sorry about all the crappy things I put you through, and I’m sorry that I was never here for you enough. You’re the best person I’ve ever known. You’re the only one who never got angry with me, you never judged me, and somehow you taught me more about life than any son could possibly ask. I’m sorry that I can’t be here for you now, and I hate myself for doing this to you. But I’m scared, Dad. I don’t know what else to do.”

My voice sounded hoarse and uneven to my own ears, and I wanted nothing more than for him to put his arm around me.

“Okay,” he finally said.

I smiled at his response. I couldn’t help it.

“I love you, Dad.”

To this he knew exactly what to say, for it had always been part of his routine.

“I love you, too, John.”

I hugged him, then rose and brought him the latest issue of the Greysheet. When I reached the door, I stopped once more and faced him.

For the first time since he’d been there, the fear was almost gone. He held the paper close to his face, and I could see the page shaking slightly. His lips were moving as he concentrated on the words, and I forced myself to study him, hoping to memorize his face forever.

It was the last time I ever saw him alive.

Seventeen

My dad died seven weeks later, and I was granted an emergency leave to attend the funeral.

The flight back to the States was a blur. All I could do was stare out the window at the formless gray of the ocean thousands of feet below me, wishing I could have been with him in his final moments. I hadn’t shaved or showered or even changed my clothes since I’d heard the news, as if going about my daily life meant that I fully accepted the idea that he was gone.

In the terminal and on the ride back to my house, I found myself growing angry at the everyday scenes of life around me. I saw people driving or walking or heading in and out of stores, acting normal, but for me nothing seemed normal at all.

It was only when I got back to the house that I remembered I’d turned off the utilities almost two months earlier. Without lights, the house seemed strangely isolated on the street, as if it didn’t quite belong. Like my dad, I thought. Or me, I realized. Somehow that thought made it possible to approach the door.

Wedged in the door frame of our house, I found the business card of a lawyer named William Benjamin; on the back, he claimed to represent my dad. With phone service disconnected, I called from the neighbor’s house and was surprised when he showed up at the house early the following morning, briefcase in hand.

I led him inside the dim house, and he took a seat on the couch. His suit must have cost more than I earned in two months. After introducing himself and apologizing for my loss, he leaned forward.

“I’m here because I liked your dad,” he said. “He was one of my first clients, so there’s no charge for this, by the way. He came to me right after you were born to make up a will, and every year, on the same day, I’d get a certified letter in the mail from him that listed all the coins he’d purchased. I explained to him about estate taxes, so he’s been gifting them to you ever since you were a kid.”

I was too shocked to speak.

“Anyway, six weeks ago he wrote me a letter informing me that you finally had the coins in your possession, and he wanted to make sure everything else was in order, so I updated his will one last time. When he told me where he was living, I figured he wasn’t doing well, so I called him. He didn’t say much, but he did give me permission to talk to the director. The director promised that he’d let me know when or if your dad passed away so I could meet you. So here I am.”

He started rifling through his briefcase. “I know you’re dealing with the funeral arrangements, and it’s a bad time. But your dad told me you might not be here for very long and that I should handle his affairs. Those were his words, by the way, not mine. Okay, here it is.” He handed over an envelope, heavy with papers. “His will, a list of every coin in the collection, including quality and the date of purchase, and all the arrangements for the funeral—which is prepaid, by the way. I promised him that I’d see the estate all the way through probate, too, but that won’t be a problem, since the estate is small and you’re his only child. And if you want, I can find someone to haul away anything you don’t want to keep and make arrangements to sell the house, too. Your dad said you might not have time for that, either.” He closed his briefcase. “As I said, I liked your dad. Usually you have to convince people of the importance of this stuff, but not your dad. He was one methodical man.”

“Yeah.” I nodded. “He was.”

As the lawyer said, everything had been taken care of. My dad had chosen the type of graveside service he wanted, he’d had his clothing dropped off, and he’d even picked his own coffin. Knowing him, I guess I should have expected it, but it only reinforced my belief that I never really understood him.

His funeral, on a warm, rainy August day, was only sparsely attended. Two former co-workers, the director of the extended care facility, the lawyer, and the neighbor who’d helped take care of him were the only ones beside me at the graveside service. It broke my heart—absolutely broke it into a million pieces—that in all the world, only these people had seen the worthiness of my dad. After the pastor finished the prayers, he whispered to me to see if I wanted to add anything. By then my throat was tight as a drum, and it took everything I had to simply shake my head and decline.

Back at home, I sat tentatively on the edge of my dad’s bed. By then the rain had stopped, and gray sunlight slanted through the window. The house had a musty, almost moldy odor, but I could still smell the scent of my dad on his pillow. Beside me was the envelope the lawyer had brought me. I poured out the contents. The will was on top, as were some other documents. Beneath it, however, was the framed photograph that my dad had removed from his desk so long ago, the only existing photograph of the two of us.

I brought it to my face and stared at it until tears filled my eyes.

Later that afternoon, Lucy, my long-ago ex, arrived. When she first stood at my doorstep, I didn’t know what to say. Gone was the suntanned girl from my wild years; in her place was a woman dressed in a dark, expensive pantsuit and a silk blouse.

“I’m sorry, John,” she whispered, coming toward me. We hugged, holding each other close, and the sensation of her body against mine was like a glass of cool water on a hot summer day. She wore the lightest trace of perfume, one I couldn’t place, but it made me think of Paris, even though I’d never been there.

“I just read the obituary,” she said after pulling back. “I’m sorry I couldn’t make it to the funeral.”

“It’s okay,” I said. I motioned to the couch. “You want to come in?”

She sat beside me, and when I noticed she wasn’t wearing her wedding ring, she subconsciously moved her hand.

“It didn’t work out,” she said. “I got divorced last year.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I am, too,” she said, reaching for my hand. “You doing okay?”

“Yeah,” I lied. “I’m okay.”

We talked for a while about old times; she was skeptical of my claim that her final phone call had led me to join the army. I told her that it was exactly what I needed at the time. She spoke about her career—she helped design and set up retail spaces in department stores—and asked what Iraq was like. I told her about the sand. She laughed and then asked no more about it. In time, our conversation slowed to a trickle as we realized how much we both had changed. Maybe it was because we’d been close once, or maybe it was because she was a woman, but I could feel her scrutinizing me and already knew what she would ask next.

“You’re in love, aren’t you,” she whispered.

I folded my hands in my lap and faced the window. Outside, the sky was again dark and cloudy, portending even more rain. “Yes,” I admitted.

“What’s her name?”

“Savannah,” I said.

“Is she here?”

I hesitated. “No.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

No, I wanted to say. I don’t want to talk about it. I’d learned in the army that stories like ours were both boring and predictable, and though everyone asked, no one really wanted to hear them.

But I told her the story from beginning to end, in more detail than I should have, and more than once, she reached for my hand. I hadn’t realized how hard it had been to keep it inside, and by the time I trailed off, I think she knew I needed to be alone. She kissed me on the cheek as she left, and when she was gone, I paced the house for hours. I drifted from room to room, thinking of my dad and thinking of Savannah, feeling like a foreigner, and gradually coming to the realization that there was somewhere else I had to go.

Eighteen

That night, I slept in my dad’s bed, the only time I’d done that in my life. The storm had passed, and the temperature had risen to miserable levels. Even opening the windows wasn’t enough to keep me cool, and I tossed and turned for hours. When I crawled out of bed the next morning, I found my dad’s car keys on the peg-board in the kitchen. I threw my gear into the back of his car and picked out a few things from the house that I wanted to keep. Aside from the photograph, there wasn’t much. After that, I called the lawyer and took him up on his offer to find someone to haul away the rest and sell the house. I dropped the house key in the mail.

In the garage, it took a few seconds for the engine to catch. I backed the car out of the drive, closed the garage door, and locked up. From the yard, I stared at the house, thinking of my father and knowing that I’d never see this place again.

I drove to the extended care facility, picked up my dad’s things, then left Wilmington, heading west along the interstate, moving on autopilot. It had been years since I’d seen this stretch of road, and I was only dimly aware of the traffic, but the sense of familiarity came back in waves. I passed the towns of my youth and headed through Raleigh toward Chapel Hill, where memories flashed with painful intensity, and I found myself pushing the accelerator, trying to leave them behind.

I drove on through Burlington, Greensboro, and Winston-Salem. Aside from a single gas stop earlier in the day where I’d also picked up a bottle of water, I pressed forward, sipping water but unable to stomach the thought of eating. The photograph of my father and me lay on the seat beside me, and every now and then I would try to recall the boy in the picture. Eventually I turned north, following a small highway that wound its way through blue-tipped mountains spreading north and south, a gentle swell in the crust of the earth.

It was late afternoon by the time I pulled the car to a stop and checked into a shabby motel just off the highway. My body was stiff, and after taking a few minutes to stretch, I showered and shaved. I put on a clean pair of jeans and a T-shirt and debated whether or not to get something to eat, but I still wasn’t hungry. With the sun hanging low, the air had none of the sultry humid heat of the coast, and I caught the scent of conifers drifting down from the mountains. This was the place of Savannah’s birth, and somehow I knew she was still here.

Though I could have gone to her parents’ house and asked, I discarded the idea, uncertain how they’d react to my presence. Instead I drove the streets of Lenoir, passing through the retail district, complete with the assorted collection of fast-food restaurants, and began to slow the car only when I reached the less generic part of town. Here was the part of Lenoir that hadn’t changed, where newcomers and tourists were welcome to visit but would never be considered locals. I pulled into a run-down pool hall, a place that reminded me of some of my own youthful haunts. Neon signs advertising beer hung in the windows, and the parking lot was full out front. It was in a place like this that I would find the answer I needed.

I went inside. Hank Williams blared from the jukebox, and ribbons of cigarette smoke drifted in the air. Four pool tables were clustered together; every player was wearing a baseball hat, and two had obvious wads of chewing tobacco parked in their cheeks. Trophy bass had been mounted on the walls, surrounded by NASCAR memorabilia. There were photos taken at Talladega and Martinsville, North Wilkesboro and Rockingham, and though my opinion of the sport hadn’t changed, the sight put me strangely at ease. At the corner of the bar, below the smiling face of the late Dale Earnhardt, was a jar filled with cash, asking for donations to help a local victim of cancer. Feeling an unexpected pull of sympathy, I threw in a couple of dollars.

I took a seat at the bar and struck up a conversation with the bartender. He was about my age, and his mountain accent reminded me of Savannah’s. After twenty minutes of easy conversation, I took Savannah’s picture from my wallet and explained that I was a friend of the family. I used her parents’ names and asked questions that implied I’d been there before.

He was wary, and rightfully so. Small towns protect their own, but it turned out that he’d spent a couple of years in the Marine Corps, which helped. In time, he nodded.

“Yeah, I know her,” he said. “She lives out on Old Mill Road, next to her parents’ place.”

It was just after eight in the evening, and the sky was graying as dusk began to settle in. Ten minutes later, I left a big tip on the bar and made my way out the door.

My mind was curiously blank as I headed into horse country. At least, that’s how I remembered thinking of it the last time I was here. The road I drove slanted ever upward, and I began to recognize the landmarks of the area; I knew that in a few minutes I’d pass Savannah’s parents’ house. When I did, I leaned over the steering wheel, watching for the next break in the fence before turning onto a long gravel road. As I made the turn, I saw a hand-painted sign for something called “Hope and Horses.”

The crackle of my tires as they rolled over gravel was oddly comforting, and I pulled to a stop beneath a willow tree, next to a small battered pickup truck. I looked toward the house. Steep roofed and square, with flaking white paint and a chimney pointing toward the sky, it seemed to rise from the earth like a ghostly image a hundred years in the making. A single bulb glowed above the battered front door, and a small potted plant hung near an American flag, both moving gently in the breeze. Off to the side of the house was a weathered barn and a small corral; beyond that, an emerald-covered pasture enclosed by a tidy white fence stretched toward a line of massive oak trees. Another shedlike structure stood near the barn, and in the shadows I could see the outlines of aging field equipment. I found myself wondering again what I was doing here.

It wasn’t too late to leave, but I couldn’t force myself to turn the car around. The sky flared red and yellow before the sun dipped below the horizon, casting the mountains in moody darkness. I emerged from the car and began to approach the house. The dew on the grass moistened the tips of my shoes, and I caught the scent of conifers once more. I could hear the sounds of crickets chirping and the steady call of a nightingale. The sounds seemed to give me strength as I stepped onto the porch. I tried to figure out what I would say to her if she answered the door. Or what I would say to him. While I was trying to decide what to do, a tail-wagging retriever approached me.

I held out my hand, and his friendly tongue lapped against it before he turned and trotted down the steps again. His tail continued to swish back and forth as he headed around the house, and hearing the same call that had brought me to Lenoir, I left the porch and followed him. He dipped low, skimming his belly as he crawled beneath the lowest rung of the fence, and trotted into the barn.

As soon as the dog had disappeared, I saw Savannah emerge from the barn with rectangles of hay clamped beneath her arms. Horses from the pasture began to canter toward her as she tossed the hay into various troughs. I continued moving forward. She was brushing herself off and getting ready to head back into the barn when she inadvertently glanced my way. She took a step, looked again, and then froze in place.

For a long moment, neither of us moved. With her gaze locked on mine, I realized that it was wrong to have come, to have shown up without warning like this. I knew I should say something, anything, but nothing came to mind. All I could do was stare at her.

The memories came rushing back then, all of them, and I noticed how little she’d changed since I’d last seen her. Like me, she was wearing jeans and a T-shirt, smudged with dirt, and her cowboy boots were scuffed and worn. Somehow the hardscrabble look gave her an earthy appeal. Her hair was longer than I remembered, but she still had the slight gap between her front teeth that I had always loved.

“Savannah,” I finally said.

It wasn’t until I spoke that I realized she’d been as spellbound as I. All at once, she broke into a wide smile of innocent pleasure.

“John?” she cried.

“It’s good to see you again.”

She shook her head, as if trying to clear her mind, then squinted at me again. When at last she was convinced I wasn’t a mirage, she jogged to the gate and bounded through it. A moment later I could feel her arms around me, her body warm and welcoming. For a second it was as if nothing between us had changed at all. I wanted to hold her forever, but when she pulled back, the illusion was shattered, and we were strangers once more. Her expression held the question I’d been unable to answer on the long trip here.

“What are you doing here?”

I looked away. “I don’t know,” I said. “I just needed to come.”

Though she asked nothing, there was a mixture of curiosity and hesitation in her expression, as if she weren’t sure she wanted a further explanation. I took a small step backward, giving her space. I could see the shadowy outlines of the horses in the darkness and felt the events of the last few days coming back to me.

“My dad died,” I whispered, the words seeming to come from nowhere. “I just came from his funeral.”

She was quiet, her expression softening into the spontaneous compassion I’d once been so drawn to.

“Oh, John… I’m so sorry,” she murmured.

She drew near again, and there was an urgency to her embrace this time. When she pulled back, her face was half in shadow.

“How did it happen?” she asked, her hand lingering on mine.

I could hear the authentic sorrow in her voice, and I paused, unable to sum up the last couple of years into a single statement. “It’s a long story,” I said. In the glare of the barn lights, I thought I could see in her gaze traces of memories that she wanted to keep buried, a life from long ago. When she released my hand, I saw her wedding band glinting on her left finger. The sight of it doused me with a cold splash of reality.

She recognized my expression. “Yes,” she said, “I’m married.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, shaking my head. “I shouldn’t have come.”

Surprising me, she gave a small wave of her hand. “It’s okay,” she said, tilting her head. “How’d you find me?”

“It’s a small town.” I shrugged. “I asked someone.”

“And they just… told you?”

“I was persuasive.”

It was awkward, and neither of us seemed to know what to say. Part of me fully expected to continue standing there while we caught up like old friends on everything that had happened in our lives since we’d last seen each other. Another part of me expected her husband to pop out of the house any minute and either shake my hand or challenge me to fight. In the silence a horse neighed, and over her shoulder I could see four horses with their heads lowered into the trough, half in shadow, half in the circle of the barn’s light. Three other horses, including Midas, were staring at Savannah, as if wondering whether she’d forgotten them. Savannah finally motioned over her shoulder.

“I should get them going, too,” she said. “It’s their feeding time, and they’re getting antsy.”

When I nodded, Savannah took a step backward, then turned. Just as she reached the gate, she beckoned. “Do you want to give me a hand?”

I hesitated, glancing toward the house. She followed my gaze.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “He’s not here, and I could really use the help.” Her voice was surprisingly steady.

Though I wasn’t sure what to make of her response, I nodded. “I’d be glad to.”

She waited for me and shut the gate behind us. She pointed to a pile of manure. “Watch out for their droppings. They’ll stain your shoes.”

I groaned. “I’ll try.”

In the barn, she separated a chunk of hay and then two more and handed them both to me.

“Just toss those in the troughs next to the others. I’m going to get the oats.”

I did as she directed, and the horses closed in. Savannah came out holding a couple of pails.

“You might want to give them a little room. They might accidentally knock you over.”

I stepped away, and Savannah hung a couple of pails on the fence. The first group of horses trotted toward them. Savannah watched them, her pride evident.

“How many times do you have to feed them?”

“Twice a day, every day. But there’s more than just feeding. You’d be amazed at how clumsy they can be sometimes. We have the veterinarian on speed dial.”

I smiled. “Sounds like a lot of work.”

“They are. They say owning a horse is like living with an anchor. Unless you have someone else help out, it’s tough to get away, even for a weekend.”

“Do your parents pitch in?”

“Sometimes. When I really need them. But my dad’s getting older, and there’s a big difference between taking care of one horse and taking care of seven.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

In the warm embrace of the night, I listened to the steady hum of cicadas, breathing in the peace of this refuge, trying to still my racing thoughts.

“This is just the kind of place I imagined you’d live,” I finally said.

“Me too,” she said. “But it’s a lot harder than I thought it would be. There’s always something that needs to be repaired. You can’t imagine how many leaks there were in the barn, and big stretches of the fence collapsed last winter. That’s what we worked on during the spring.”

Though I heard her use of “we” and assumed she was talking about her husband, I wasn’t ready to talk about him yet. Nor, it seemed, was she.

“But it is beautiful here, even if it’s a lot of work. On nights like this, I like to sit on the porch and just listen to the world. You hardly ever hear cars driving by, and it’s just so… peaceful. It helps to clear the mind, especially after a long day.”

As she spoke, I felt for the measure of her words, sensing her desire to keep our conversation on safe footing.

“I’ll bet.”

“I need to clean some hooves,” she announced. “You want to help?”

“I don’t know what to do,” I admitted.

“It’s easy,” she said. “I’ll show you.” She vanished into the barn and walked out carrying what looked to be a couple of small curved nails. She handed one to me. As the horses were eating, she moved toward one.

“All you have to do is grab near the hoof and tug while you tap the back of his leg here,” she said, demonstrating. The horse, occupied with his hay, obediently lifted his hoof. She propped the hoof between her legs. “Then, just dig out the dirt around the shoe. That’s all there is to it.”

I moved toward the horse beside her and tried to replicate her actions, but nothing happened. The horse was both exceedingly large and stubborn. I tugged again at the foot and tapped in the right place, then tugged and tapped some more. The horse continued to eat, ignoring my efforts.

“He won’t lift his foot,” I complained.

She finished the hoof she was working on, then bent next to my horse. A tap and tug later, the hoof was in place between her legs. “Sure he will. He just knows you don’t know what you’re doing and that you’re uncomfortable around him. You have to be confident about this.” She let the hoof drop, and I took her place, trying again. The horse ignored me once more.

“Watch what I do,” she said carefully.

“I was watching,” I protested.

She repeated the drill; the horse lifted his foot. A moment later I mimicked her exactly, and the horse ignored me. Though I couldn’t claim to read the mind of a horse, I had the strange notion that this one was enjoying my travails. Frustrated, I tapped and tugged relentlessly until finally, as if by magic, the horse’s foot lifted. Despite the minimal nature of my accomplishment, I felt a surge of pride. For the first time since I’d arrived, Savannah laughed.

“Good job. Now just scrape the mud out and go to the next hoof.”

Savannah had finished the other six horses by the time I finished one. When we were done, she opened the gate and the horses trotted into the darkened pasture. I wasn’t sure what to expect, but Savannah moved toward the shed. She had two shovels in hand.

“Now it’s time to clean up,” she said, handing me a shovel.

“Clean up?”

“The manure,” she said. “Otherwise it can get pretty rank around here.”

I took the shovel. “You do this every day?”

“Life’s a peach, isn’t it?” she teased. She left again and returned with a wheelbarrow.

As we began scooping the manure, the sliver of a moon began its rise over the treetops. We worked in silence, the clink and scrape of her shovel a steady rhythm that filled the air. In time we both finished, and I leaned on my shovel, inspecting her. In the shadows of the barnyard, she seemed as lovely and elusive as a wraith. She said nothing, but I could feel her evaluating me.

“Are you okay?” I finally asked.

“Why are you here, John?”

“You already asked me that.”

“I know I did,” she said. “But you didn’t really answer.”

I studied her. No, I hadn’t. I wasn’t sure I could explain it myself and shifted my weight from one foot to the other. “I didn’t know where else to go.”

Surprising me, she nodded. “Uh-huh,” she acknowledged.

It was the unqualified acceptance in her voice that made me go on.

“I mean it,” I said. “In some ways, you were the best friend I’ve ever had.”

I could see her expression soften. “Okay,” she said. Her response reminded me of my father, and after she answered, perhaps she realized it as well. I forced myself to survey the property.

“This is the ranch you dreamed of starting, isn’t it?” I asked. “Hope and Horses is for autistic kids, isn’t it?”

She ran a hand through her hair, tucking a strand behind her ear. She seemed pleased that I remembered. “Yes,” she said. “It is.”

“Is it everything you thought it would be?”

She laughed and threw up her hands. “Sometimes,” she said. “But don’t think for a second it earns enough to pay the bills. We both have jobs, and every day I realize that I didn’t learn as much in school as I thought I did.”

“No?”

She shook her head. “Some of the kids who show up here, or at the center, are difficult to reach.” She hesitated, trying to find the right words. Finally she shook her head. “I guess I thought they’d all be like Alan, you know?” She looked up. “Do you remember when I told you about him?”

When I nodded, she went on. “It turns out that Alan’s situation was special. I don’t know—maybe it was because he’d grown up on a ranch, but he adapted to this a lot more easily than most kids.”

When she didn’t continue, I gave her a quizzical look. “That’s not the way I remember you telling it to me. From what I remember, Alan was terrified at first.”

“Yeah, I know, but still… he did get used to it. And that’s the thing. I can’t tell you how many kids we have here who never adapt at all, no matter how long we work with them. This isn’t just a weekend thing; some kids have come here regularly for more than a year. We work at the developmental evaluation center, so we’ve spent a lot of time with most of the kids, and when we started the ranch, we insisted on opening it up to kids no matter how severe their condition. We felt it was an important commitment, but with some kids… I just wish I knew how to get through to them. Sometimes it feels like we’re just spinning our wheels.”

I could see Savannah cataloging her memories. “I don’t mean that we feel like we’re wasting our time,” she went on. “Some kids really benefit from what we’re doing. They come out here and spend a couple of weekends, and it’s like… a flower bud slowly blossoming into something beautiful. Just like it did with Alan. It’s like you can sense their mind opening up to new ideas and possibilities, and when they’re riding with a great big smile on their faces, it’s like nothing else matters in the world. It’s a heady feeling, and you want it to happen over and over with every child who comes here. I used to think it was a matter of persistence, that we could help everyone, but we can’t. Some of the kids never even get close to the horse, let alone ride it.”

“You know that’s not your fault. I wasn’t too thrilled with the idea of riding, either, remember?”

She giggled, sounding remarkably girlish. “Yeah, I remember. The first time you got on a horse, you were more scared than a lot of the kids.”

“No, I wasn’t,” I protested. “And besides, Pepper was frisky.”

“Ha!” she cried. “Why do you think I let you ride him? He’s just about the easiest horse you can imagine. I don’t think he’s ever so much as shimmied when someone rode him.”

“He was frisky,” I insisted.

“Spoken like a true rookie,” she teased. “But even if you’re wrong, I’m touched that you still remember it.”

Her playfulness summoned a tidal wave of memories.

“Of course I remember,” I said. “Those were some of the best days of my life. I won’t ever forget them.” Over her shoulder, I could see the dog wandering in the pasture. “Maybe that’s why I’m still not married.”

At my words, her gaze faltered. “I still remember them, too.”

“Do you?”

“Of course,” she said. “You might not believe it, but it’s true.”

The weight of her words hung heavy in the air.

“Are you happy, Savannah?” I finally asked.

She offered a wry smile. “Most of the time. Aren’t you?”

“I don’t know,” I said, which made her laugh again.

“That’s your standard answer, you know. When you’re asked to look into yourself for the answer? It’s like a reflex with you. It always has been. Why don’t you ask me what you really wanted to ask.”

“What did I really want to ask?”

“Whether or not I love my husband. Isn’t that what you mean?” she asked, looking away for a moment.

For an instant I was speechless, but I realized her instincts were correct. It was the real reason I was here.

“Yes,” she said at last, reading my mind again. “I love him.”

The unmistakable sincerity in her tone stung, but before I could dwell on it, she turned to face me again. Anxiety flickered in her expression, as if she were remembering something painful, but it passed quickly.

“Have you eaten yet?” she asked.

I was still trying to make sense of what I’d just seen. “No,” I said. “Actually, I didn’t have breakfast or lunch, either.”

She shook her head. “I’ve got some leftover beef stew in the house. Do you have time for dinner?”

Though I wondered again about her husband, I nodded. “I’d like that,” I said.

We started toward the house and stopped when we reached a porch lined with muddy and worn cowboy boots. Savannah reached for my arm in a way that struck me as being remarkably easy and natural, using me for balance as she slipped off her boots. It was, perhaps, her touch that emboldened me to really look at her, and though I saw the mysteriousness and maturity that had always made her attractive, I noticed a hint of sadness and reticence as well. To my aching heart, the combination made her even more beautiful.

Nineteen

Her small kitchen was what one would expect from an old house that had probably been remodeled half a dozen times over the last century: ancient linoleum floors that were peeling slightly near the walls; functional, unadorned white cabinets—thick with countless paint jobs—and a stainless-steel sink set beneath a wood-framed window that probably should have been replaced years ago. The countertop was cracking, and against one wall stood a woodstove as old as the house itself. In places, it was possible to see the modern world encroaching: a large refrigerator and dishwasher near the sink; a microwave propped kitty-corner near a half-empty bottle of red wine. In some ways, it reminded me of my dad’s place.

Savannah opened a cupboard and removed a wineglass. “Would you like a glass of wine?”

I shook my head. “I’ve never been much of a wine drinker.”

I was surprised when she didn’t return the glass. Instead, she retrieved the half-empty bottle of wine and poured a glass; she set the glass on the table and took a seat before it.

We sat at the table as Savannah took a sip.

“You’ve changed,” I observed.

She shrugged. “A lot of things have changed since I last saw you.”

She said nothing more and set her glass back on the table. When she spoke again, her voice was subdued. “I never thought I’d be the kind of person who looked forward to a glass of wine in the evenings, but I do.”

She began rotating the glass on the table, and I found myself wondering what had happened to her.

“You know the funny thing?” she said. “I actually care how it tastes. When I had my first glass, I didn’t know what was good or what was bad. Now when it comes to buying, I’ve become pretty selective.”

I didn’t fully recognize the woman who sat before me, and I wasn’t sure how to respond.

“Don’t get me wrong,” she went on. “I still remember everything my folks taught me, and I hardly ever have more than a glass a night. But since Jesus himself turned water into wine, I figured that it can’t be much of a sin.”

I smiled at her logic, recognizing how unfair it was to cling to the time-capsule version I held of her. “I wasn’t asking.”

“I know,” she said. “But you were wondering.”

For a moment, the only sound in the kitchen was the low hum of the refrigerator. “I’m sorry about your dad,” she said, tracing a crack in the tabletop. “I really am. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve thought about him in the past few years.”

“Thank you,” I said.

Savannah began rotating her glass again, seemingly lost in the swirl of liquid. “Do you want to talk about it?” she asked.

I wasn’t sure I did, but as I leaned back in my chair, the words came surprisingly easily. I told her about my dad’s first heart attack, and the second, and the visits we’d shared in the past couple of years. I told her about our growing friendship, and the comfort I felt with him, the walks that he began taking and then eventually gave up. I recounted my final days with him and the agony of committing him to an extended care facility. When I described the funeral and the photograph I found in the envelope, she reached for my hand.

“I’m glad he saved it for you,” she said, “but I’m not surprised.”

“I was,” I said, and she laughed. It was a reassuring sound.

She squeezed my hand. “I wish I’d have known. I would have liked to go to the funeral.”

“It wasn’t much.”

“It didn’t have to be. He was your dad, and that’s all that matters.” She hesitated before releasing my hand and took another sip of wine.

“Are you ready to eat?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” I said, flushing at the memory of her earlier comment.

She leaned forward with a grin. “How about I heat you up a plate of stew and we’ll see what happens.”

“Is it any good?” I asked. “I mean… when I knew you before, you never mentioned that you knew how to cook.”

“It’s our special family recipe,” she said, pretending to be offended. “But I’ve got to be honestmy mom made it. She brought it over yesterday.”

“The truth comes out,” I said.

“That’s the funny thing about the truth,” she said. “It usually does.” She rose and opened the refrigerator, bending over as she scanned the shelves. I found myself wondering about the ring on her finger and where her husband was as she pulled out the Tupperware. She scooped some of the stew into a bowl and placed it in the microwave.

“Do you want anything else with that? How about some bread and butter?”

“That would be great,” I agreed.

A few minutes later, the meal was spread before me, and the aroma reminded me for the first time of how hungry I actually was. Surprising me, Savannah took her place again, holding her glass of wine.

“Aren’t you going to eat?”

“I’m not hungry,” she said. “Actually, I haven’t been eating much lately.” She took a sip as I took my first bite and I let her comment pass.

“You’re right,” I said. “It’s delicious.”

She smiled. “Mom’s a good cook. You’d think I would have learned more about cooking, but I didn’t. I was always too busy. Too much studying when I was young, and then lately, too much remodeling.” She motioned toward the living room. “It’s an old house. I know it doesn’t look like it, but we’ve done a lot of work in the past couple of years.”

“It looks great.”

“You’re just being polite, but I appreciate it,” she replied. “You should have seen the place when I moved in. It was kind of like the barn, you know? We needed a new roof, but it’s funnyno one ever thinks of roofs when they’re imagining what to remodel. It’s one of those things that everyone expects a house to have but never thinks might one day need replacing. Almost everything we’ve done falls into that category. Heat pumps, thermal windows, fixing the termite damage… there were a lot of long days.” She wore a dreamy expression on her face. “We did most of the work ourselves. Like with the kitchen here. I know we need new cabinets and flooring, but when we moved in, there were puddles in the living room and bedrooms every time it rained. What were we supposed to do? We had to prioritize, and one of the first things we did was to tear all the old shingles from the roof. It must have been a hundred degrees and I’m up there with a shovel, scraping shingles off, getting blisters. But… it just felt right, you know? Two young people starting out in the world, working together and repairing their home? There was such a sense of… togetherness about it. It was the same thing when we did the floor in the living room. It must have taken a couple of weeks to sand it down and get it level again. We stained it and added a layer of varnish, and when we finally walked across it, it felt like we’d laid the foundation for the rest of our lives.”

“You make it sound almost romantic.”

“It was, in a way,” she agreed. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “But lately it’s not so romantic. Now, it’s just getting old.”

I laughed unexpectedly, then coughed and found myself reaching for a glass that wasn’t there.

She pushed back from her chair. “Let me get you some water,” she said. She filled a glass from the faucet and placed it before me. As I drank, I could feel her watching me.

“What?” I asked.

“I just can’t get over how different you look.”

“Me?” I found it hard to believe.

“Yeah, you,” she insisted. “You’re… older somehow.”

“I am older.”

“I know, but it’s not that. It’s your eyes. They’re… more serious than they used to be. Like they’ve seen things they shouldn’t have. Weary, somehow.”

To this, I said nothing, but when she saw my expression, she shook her head, looking embarrassed. “I shouldn’t have said that. I can only imagine what you’ve been through lately.”

I ate another bite of stew, thinking about her comment. “Actually I left Iraq in early 2004,” I said. “I’ve been in Germany ever since. Only a small part of the army is ever there at any one time, and we rotate through. I’ll probably end up going back, but I don’t know when. Hopefully things will have calmed down by then.”

“Weren’t you supposed to be out by now?”

“I reupped again,” I said. “There wasn’t any reason not to.”

We both knew the reason why, and she nodded. “How long now?”

“I’m in until 2007.”

“And then?”

“I’m not sure. I might stay in for a few more years. Or maybe I’ll go to college. Who knows—I might even pick up a degree in special education. I’ve heard great things about the field.”

Her smile was strangely sad, and for a while, neither of us said anything. “How long have you been married?” I asked.

She shifted in her seat. “It’ll be two years next November.”

“Were you married here?”

“As if I had a choice.” She rolled her eyes. “My mom was really into the whole perfect wedding thing. I know I’m their only daughter, but in hindsight, I would have been just as happy with something a lot smaller. A hundred guests would have been perfect.”

“You consider that small?”

“Compared with what we ended up with? Yeah. There weren’t enough seats in the church for everyone, and my dad keeps reminding me that he’ll be paying it off for years. He’s just teasing, of course. Half the guests were friends of my parents, but I guess that’s what you get when you get married in your hometown. Everyone from the mailman to the barber gets an invitation.”

“But you’re glad to be back home?”

“It’s comfortable here. My parents are close by, and I need that, especially now.”

She didn’t elaborate, content to let her comment stand. I wondered about that—and a hundred other things—as I rose from the table and brought my plate to the sink. After rinsing it, I heard her call out behind me.

“Just leave it there. I haven’t unloaded the dishwasher yet. I’ll get it later. Do you want anything else, though? My mom left a couple of pies on the counter.”

“How about a glass of milk?” I said. As she started to rise, I added, “I can get it. Just point me to the glasses.”

“In the cupboard by the sink.”

I pulled a glass from the shelf and went to the refrigerator. Milk was on the top shelf; on the shelves below were at least a dozen Tupperware containers filled with food. I poured a glass and returned to the table.

“What’s going on, Savannah?”

With my words, she came back to me. “What do you mean?”

“Your husband,” I said.

“What about him?”

“When can I meet him?”

Instead of answering, Savannah rose from the table with her wineglass. She poured the remains into the sink, then retrieved a coffee cup and a box of tea.

“You’ve already met him,” she said, turning around. She squared her shoulders. “It’s Tim.”

I could hear the spoon tapping against the cup as Savannah sat across from me again.

“How much of this do you want to hear?” she murmured, staring into her teacup.

“All of it,” I said. I leaned back in my chair. “Or none of it. I’m not sure yet.”

She snorted. “I guess that makes sense.”

I brought my hands together. “When did it start?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “I know that sounds crazy, but it didn’t happen like you probably think. It wasn’t as if either of us planned it.” She set her spoon on the table. “But to give some kind of answer, I guess it started in early 2002.”

A few months after I’d reupped, I realized. Six months before my father had his first heart attack and right around the time I noticed that her letters to me had begun to change.

“You know we’ve been friends. Even though he was a graduate student, we ended up having a couple of classes in the same building during my last year in college, and afterwards, we’d have coffee or end up studying together. It’s not like we dated, or even held hands. Tim knew I was in love with you… but he was there, you know? He listened when I talked about how much I missed you and how hard it was to be apart. And it was hard. I thought you’d be home by then.”

When she looked up, her eyes were filled with… What? Regret? I couldn’t tell.

“Anyway, we spent a lot of time together, and he was good at consoling me whenever I got down. He’d always remind me that you’d be back on leave before I knew it, and I can’t tell you how much I wanted to see you again. And then your dad got sick. I know you had to be with him—I would never have forgiven you if you hadn’t stayed by his side—but it wasn’t what we needed. I know how selfish that sounds, and I hate myself for even thinking it. It just felt like fate was conspiring against us.”

She put her spoon in the tea and stirred again, collecting her thoughts.

“That fall, right after I finished up with all my classes and moved back home to work at the developmental evaluation center here in town, Tim’s parents were in a horrible accident. They were driving back from Asheville when they lost control of their car and swerved into oncoming traffic on the highway. A semi ended up hitting them. The driver of the truck wasn’t hurt, but both of Tim’s parents died on impact. Tim had to quit school—he was trying to get his PhD—so he could come back here to take care of Alan.” She paused. “It was awful for Tim. Not only was he trying to come to terms with the loss—he adored his parents—but Alan was inconsolable. He screamed all the time, and he began pulling out his hair. The only one who could stop him from hurting himself was Tim, but it took all the energy Tim had. I guess that’s when I first started coming over here. You know, to help out.”

When I frowned, she added, “This was Tim’s parents’ house. Where Tim and Alan grew up.”

As soon as she said it, the memory came back. Of course it was Tim’s—she’d once told me that Tim lived on the ranch next to hers.

“We just ended up consoling each other. I tried to help him, and he tried to help me, and we both tried to help Alan. And little by little, I guess, we began to fall in love.”

For the first time, she met my eyes.

“I know you want to be angry with Tim or me. Probably both of us. And I guess we deserve it. But you don’t know what it was like back then. So much was going on—it was just so emotional all the time. I felt guilty about what was happening, Tim felt guilty. But after a while, it just began to feel like we were a couple already. Tim started working at the same developmental evaluation center where I did and then decided that he wanted to start a weekend ranch program for autistic kids. His parents always wanted him to do that, so I signed on to work on the ranch, too. After that, we were together almost all the time. Setting up the ranch gave us both something to focus on, and it helped Alan, too. He loves horses, and there was so much to do that he gradually got used to the fact that his parents weren’t around. It’s like we were all leaning on each other…. He proposed later that year.”

When she stopped, I turned away, trying to digest her words. We sat in silence for a while, each of us wrestling with our thoughts.

“Anyway, that’s the story,” she concluded. “I don’t know how much more you want to hear.”

I wasn’t sure, either.

“Does Alan still live here?” I asked.

“He’s got a room upstairs. Actually, it’s the same room he’s always had. It’s not as hard as it sounds, though. After he’s finished feeding and brushing the horses, he usually spends most of his time alone. He loves video games. He can play for hours. Lately I haven’t been able to get him to stop. He’d play all night long if I’d let him.”

“Is he here now?”

She shook her head. “No,” she said. “Right now he’s with Tim.”

“Where?”

Before she could answer, the dog scratched insistently at the door, and Savannah got up to open it. The dog padded in, tongue out and tail still wagging. He trotted toward me and nuzzled my hand.

“He likes me,” I said.

Savannah was still near the door. “She likes everyone. Her name’s Molly. Worthless as a guard dog, but sweeter than candy. Just try to avoid the drool. She’ll drip all over you if you let her.”

I glanced at my jeans. “I can see that.”

Savannah motioned over her shoulder. “Listen, I just realized I’ve still got to put some things away. It’s supposed to rain tonight. It shouldn’t take long.”

I noted that she hadn’t answered the question about Tim. Nor, I realized, did she plan to.

“Need a hand?”

“Not really. But you’re welcome to come. It’s a beautiful night.”

I followed her out, and Molly trotted ahead of us, completely forgetting that she’d just begged to come inside. When an owl broke from the trees, Molly galloped into the darkness and vanished. Savannah pulled on her boots again.

We walked toward the barn. I thought about everything she’d told me and wondered again why I’d come. I wasn’t sure if I was happy that she’d married Tim—since they’d seemed so perfect for each other—or upset for exactly the same reason. Nor was I glad that I finally knew the truth; somehow, I realized, it was easier not to know. All at once, I simply felt tired.

And yet… there was something I knew she wasn’t telling me. I heard it in her voice, in the hint of sadness that wouldn’t go away. As the darkness surrounded us, I was acutely aware of how close we were walking together, and I wondered whether she felt the same. If she did, she gave no sign.

The horses were mere shadows in the distance, shapes without recognizable form. Savannah retrieved a couple of bridles and brought them to the barn, hanging them on a couple of pegs. While she did, I collected the shovels we’d been using and set them with the rest of the tools. On our way out, she made sure to shut the gate.

Glancing at my watch, I saw it was nearly ten o’clock. It was late, and we were both conscious of the hour.

“I guess I should probably get going,” I said. “It’s a small town. I don’t want to start any rumors.”

“You’re probably right.” Molly wandered up, appearing from nowhere, and sat between us. When she lapped at Savannah’s leg, she stepped to the side. “Where are you staying?” she asked.

“Something or other motor court. Just off the highway.”

Her nose crinkled, if only for an instant. “I know the place.”

“It is kind of a dive,” I admitted.

She smiled. “I can’t say I’m surprised. You always did have a way of finding the most unique places.”

“Like the Shrimp Shack?”

“Exactly.”

I pushed my hands into my pockets, wondering whether this was the last time I’d ever see her. If so, it struck me as absurdly anticlimactic; I didn’t want it to end in small talk, but I couldn’t think of anything else to say.

On the road out front, the headlights of an approaching car flashed over the property as it sped past the house.

“I guess that’s it, then,” I said, at a loss. “It was good seeing you again.”

“You, too, John. I’m glad you came by.”

I nodded again. When she looked away, I took it as my cue to leave.

“Good-bye,” I said.

“Bye.”

I turned from the porch and started toward my car, dazed at the thought it was really and truly over. I wasn’t sure I’d expected anything different, but the finality brought to the surface all those feelings I’d been repressing since I’d read her last letter.

I was opening the door when I heard her call out.

“Hey, John?”

“Yeah?”

She stepped off the porch and started toward me. “Are you going to be around tomorrow?”

As she drew near, her face half in shadow, I knew with certainty that I was still in love with her. Despite the letter, despite her husband. Despite the fact that we could never be together now.

“Why?” I asked.

“I was wondering if you’d like to drop by. Around ten. I’m sure Tim would like to see you….”

I was shaking my head even before she finished. “I’m not sure that’s such a good idea—”

“Could you do it for me?”

I knew she wanted me to see that Tim was still the same man I remembered, and in a sense, I knew she was asking because she wanted forgiveness. Still…

She reached out to take my hand. “Please. It would mean a lot to me.”

Despite the warmth of her hand, I didn’t want to come back. I didn’t want to see Tim, I didn’t want to see the two of them together or sit around the table pretending that all seemed right in the world. But there was something plaintive about her request that made it impossible to turn her down.

“Okay,” I said. “Ten o’clock.”

“Thank you.”

A moment later, she turned. I stayed in place, watching her climb onto the porch before I got in the car. I turned the key and backed out. Savannah turned on the porch, waving one last time. I waved, then headed out to the road, her image growing smaller in the rearview mirror. Watching her, I felt a sudden dryness in my throat. Not because she was married to Tim, and not at the thought of seeing them both tomorrow. It came from watching Savannah as I was driving away, standing on her porch, crying into her hands.

Twenty

The following morning, Savannah was standing on the porch, and she waved as I pulled in the drive. She stepped forward as I brought the car to a stop. I half expected Tim to appear in the doorway behind her, but he was nowhere to be seen.

“Hey,” she said, touching my arm. “Thanks for coming.”

“Yeah,” I said, giving a reluctant shrug.

I thought I saw a flash of understanding in her eyes before she asked, “Did you sleep okay?”

“Not really.”

At that, she gave a wry smile. “Are you ready?”

“As I’ll ever be.”

“Okay,” she said. “Just let me get the keys. Unless you’d like to drive.”

I didn’t catch her meaning at first. “We’re leaving?” I nodded toward the house. “I thought we were going to see Tim.”

“We are,” she said. “He’s not here.”

“Where is he?”

It was as if she hadn’t heard me. “Do you want to drive?”

“Yeah, I guess so,” I said, not bothering to hide my confusion but somehow knowing she’d clear things up when she was ready. I opened the door for her and went around the driver’s side to slide behind the wheel. Savannah was running her hand over the dashboard, as if trying to prove to herself it was real.

“I remember this car.” Her expression was nostalgic. “It’s your dad’s, right? Wow, I can’t believe it’s still running.”

“He didn’t drive all that much,” I said. “Just to work and the store.”

“Still.”

She put on her seat belt, and despite myself, I wondered whether she’d spent the night alone.

“Which way?” I asked.

“At the road, take a left,” she said. “Head toward town.”

Neither of us spoke. Instead, she stared out the passenger window with her arms crossed. I might have been offended, but there was something in her expression that told me her preoccupation had nothing to do with me, and I left her alone with her thoughts.

On the outskirts of town, she shook her head, as if suddenly conscious of how quiet it was in the car. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I guess my company leaves a lot to be desired.”

“It’s okay,” I said, trying to mask my growing curiosity.

She pointed toward the windshield. “At the next corner, take a right.”

“Where are we going?”

She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she turned and gazed out the passenger window.

“The hospital,” she finally said.

I followed her through seemingly endless corridors, finally stopping at the visitors’ check-in. Behind the desk, an elderly volunteer held out a clipboard. Savannah reached for the pen and began signing her name automatically.

“You holdin’ up, Savannah?”

“Trying,” Savannah murmured.

“It’ll all turn out okay. You’ve got the whole town prayin’ for him.”

“Thanks,” Savannah said. She handed back the clipboard, then looked at me. “He’s on the third floor,” she explained. “The elevators are just down the hall.”

I followed her, my stomach churning. We reached the elevator just as someone was getting off, and stepped inside. When the doors closed, it felt as if I were in a tomb.

When we reached the third floor, Savannah started down the hallway with me trailing behind. She stopped in front of a room with a door propped open and then turned to face me.

“I think I should probably go in first,” she said. “Can you wait here?”

“Of course.”

She flashed her appreciation, then turned away. She drew a long breath before entering the room. “Hey, honey,” I heard her call out, her tone bright. “You doing okay?”

I didn’t hear any more than that for the next couple of minutes. Instead I stood in the hallway, absorbing the same sterile, impersonal surroundings I’d noticed while visiting with my father. The air reeked of a nameless disinfectant, and I watched as an orderly wheeled a cart of food into a room down the hall. Halfway up the corridor, I saw a group of nurses clustered in the station. Behind the door across the hallway, I could hear someone retching.

“Okay,” Savannah said, poking her head out. Beneath her brave appearance, I could still see her sadness. “You can come in. He’s ready for you.”

I followed her in, bracing myself for the worst. Tim sat propped up in the bed with an IV connected to his arm. He looked exhausted, and his skin was so pale that it was almost translucent. He’d lost even more weight than my father had, and as I stared at him, all I could think was that he was dying. Only the kindness in his eyes was unaffected. On the other side of the room was a young man—late teens or early twenties, maybe—rolling his head from side to side, and I knew immediately it was Alan. The room was crowded with flowers: dozens of bouquets and greeting cards stacked on every available tabletop and ledge. Savannah sat on the bed beside her husband and reached for his hand.

“Hey, Tim,” I said.

He looked too tired to smile, but he managed. “Hey, John. Good to see you again.”

“You too,” I said. “How are you?”

As soon as I said it, I knew how ridiculous it sounded. Tim must have been used to it, for he didn’t flinch.

“I’m okay,” he said. “I’m feeling better now.”

I nodded. Alan continued to roll his head, and I found myself watching him, feeling like an intruder in events I wished I could have avoided.

“This is my brother, Alan,” he said.

“Hi, Alan.”

When Alan didn’t respond, I heard Tim whisper to him, “Hey, Alan? It’s okay. He’s not a doctor. He’s a friend. Go say hello.”

It took a few seconds, but Alan finally rose from his seat. He walked stiffly across the room, and though he wouldn’t meet my eyes, he extended his hand. “Hi, I’m Alan,” he said in a surprisingly deep monotone.

“Nice to meet you,” I said, taking his hand. It was limp; he pumped once, then let go and went back to his seat.

“There’s a chair if you’d like to sit,” Tim said.

I wandered farther into the room and took a seat. Before I could even ask, I heard Tim already answering the question on my mind.

“Melanoma,” he said. “In case you’re wondering.”

“But you’ll be okay, right?”

Alan’s head rolled even faster, and he began to slap his thighs. Savannah turned away. I already knew I shouldn’t have asked.

“That’s what the doctors are for,” Tim replied. “I’m in good hands.” I knew the answer was more for Alan than me, and Alan began to calm down.

Tim closed his eyes, then opened them again, as if trying to concentrate his strength. “I’m glad to see you made it back in one piece,” he said. “I prayed for you the whole time you were in Iraq.”

“Thank you,” I said.

“What have you been up to? Still in the army, I guess.”

He nodded toward my crew cut, and I ran my hand over it. “Yeah. Seems like I’m becoming a lifer.”

“Good,” he said. “The army needs people like you.”

I said nothing. The scene struck me as surreal, like watching yourself in a dream. Tim turned to Savannah. “Sweetheart—would you walk with Alan and get him a soda? He hasn’t had anything to drink since earlier this morning. And if you can, maybe you can talk him into eating.”

“Sure,” she said. She kissed him on the forehead and rose from the bed. She stopped in the doorway. “Come on, Alan. Let’s get something to drink, okay?”

To me, it seemed as if Alan were slowly processing the words. Finally, he got up and followed Savannah; she placed a gentle hand on his back on the way out the door. When they were gone, Tim faced me again.

“This whole thing is really hard on Alan. He’s not taking it well.”

“How can he?”

“Don’t let the rolling of his head fool you, though. It’s got nothing to do with autism or his intelligence. It’s more like a tic he gets when he’s nervous. The same thing when he started slapping his thighs. He knows what’s going on, but it affects him in ways that usually make other people uncomfortable.”

I clasped my hands. “It didn’t make me uncomfortable,” I said. “My dad had his things, too. He’s your brother, and it’s obvious that he’s worried. It makes sense.”

Tim smiled. “That’s kind of you to say. A lot of people get frightened.”

“Not me,” I said, shaking my head. “I know I could take him.”

Remarkably, he laughed, although it seemed to take a lot out of him.

“I’m sure you could,” he said. “Alan’s gentle. Probably too gentle. He won’t even swat flies.”

I nodded, recognizing that all this small talk was just his way of making me feel more comfortable. It wasn’t working.

“When did you find out?”

“A year ago. A mole on the back of my calf started to itch, and when I scratched at it, it started to bleed. Of course, I didn’t think much of it then, until it bled again the next time I scratched at it. Six months ago, I went to the doctor. That was on a Friday. I had surgery on Saturday and started interferon on Monday. Now, I’m here.”

“You’ve been in the hospital all this time?”

“No. I’m here only off and on. Usually, interferon is done on an outpatient basis, but me and the interferon don’t get along. I don’t tolerate it that well, so now they do it here. In case I get too sick and become dehydrated. Like I did yesterday.”

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“I am, too.”

I looked around the room, my eyes landing on a cheaply framed bedside photo of Tim and Savannah standing with their arms around Alan. “How’s Savannah holding up?” I asked.

“Like you’d expect.” Tim traced a crease in his hospital sheet with his free hand. “She’s been great. Not only with me, but with the ranch, too. She’s had to handle everything lately, but she never complains about it. And whenever she’s around me, she tries to be strong. She keeps telling me that it’s all going to work out.” He formed the ghost of a smile. “Half the time, I even believe her.”

When I didn’t respond, he struggled to sit up higher in the bed. He winced, but the pain passed, and he became himself again. “Savannah told me you had dinner at the ranch last night.”

“Yeah,” I said.

“I’ll bet she was glad to see you. I know she’s always felt bad that it ended the way it did, and so did I. I owe you an apology.”

“Don’t.” I raised my hands. “It’s okay.”

He formed a wry grin. “You’re only saying that because I’m sick, and we both know it. If I was healthy, you’d probably want to break my nose again.”

“Maybe,” I admitted, and though he laughed again, this time I could hear the sound of sickness in it.

“I deserve it,” he said, oblivious to my thoughts. “I know you might not believe it, but I feel bad about what happened. I know you two really cared about each other.”

I leaned forward, propping myself on my elbows. “Water under the bridge,” I said.

I didn’t believe it, and he didn’t believe me when I said it. But it was enough for both of us to put it to rest. “What brought you here? After all this time?”

“My dad passed away,” I said. “Last week.”

Despite his condition, his face reflected genuine sympathy. “I’m sorry, John. I know how much he meant to you. Was it sudden?”

“At the end, it always is. But he’d been sick for a while.”

“It doesn’t make it any easier.”

I found myself wondering whether he was referring just to me or to Savannah and Alan as well.

“Savannah told me you lost both your parents.”

“A car accident,” he said, drawing out the words. “It was… unbelievable. We’d just had dinner with them a couple of nights before, and the next thing you know, I’m making arrangements for their funerals. It still doesn’t seem real. Whenever I’m at home, I keep expecting to see my mom in the kitchen or my dad puttering around the garden.” He hesitated, and I knew he was replaying those images. At last he shook his head. “Did that happen to you? When you were home?”

“Every single minute.”

He leaned his head back. “I guess it’s been a rough couple of years for both of us. It’s enough to test your faith.”

“Even for you?”

He gave a halfhearted grin. “I said test. I didn’t say that it ended it.”

“No, I don’t suppose it would have.”

I heard a nurse’s voice approaching, and though I thought she was going to enter, she passed by on her way to another room.

“I’m glad you came to see Savannah,” he said. “I know it sounds trite considering all that you two have been through, but she needs a friend right now.”

My throat was tight. “Yeah,” was all I could think to say.

He grew quiet, and I knew he would say no more about it. In time, he drifted off to sleep, and I sat there watching him, my mind curiously blank.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you yesterday,” Savannah said to me an hour later. When she and Alan had returned to the room to find Tim sleeping, she’d motioned for me to follow her downstairs to the cafeteria. “I was surprised to see you, and I knew I should have said something, but every time I tried, I just couldn’t.”

Two cups of tea were on the table, since neither of us felt like eating. Savannah lifted her cup and set it back down again.

“It had just been one of those days, you know? I’d spent hours in the hospital, and the nurses kept giving me those pitiful looks and… well, they just feel like they’re killing me little by little. I know that sounds ridiculous considering what Tim is going through, but it’s so hard to watch him get sick. I hate it. I know I have to be there to support him, and the thing is, I want to be there, but it’s always worse than I expect. He was so sick after his treatment yesterday that I thought he was dying. He couldn’t stop vomiting, and when nothing else would come up, he just kept dry heaving. Every five or ten minutes, he’d start to moan and move around the bed trying to prevent it, but there was nothing he could do. I’d hold him and comfort him, but I can’t even begin to describe how helpless it made me feel.” She lifted her bag of tea in and out of the water. “It’s like that every time,” she said.

I fiddled with the handle of my cup. “I wish I knew what to say.”

“There’s nothing you can say, and I know that. That’s why I’m talking to you. Because I know that you can handle it. I don’t really have anyone else. None of my friends can even relate to what I’m going through. My mom and dad have been great… kind of. I know they’d do anything that I ask, and they’re always offering to help, and Mom brings over our meals, but every time she drops off the food, she’s just a bundle of nerves. She’s always on the verge of crying. It’s like she’s terrified of saying or doing anything wrong, so when she’s trying to help, it’s like I have to support her, too, instead of the other way around. Added to everything else, it’s almost too much sometimes. I hate to say that about her because she’s doing her best and she’s my mom and I love her, but I just wish she’d be stronger, you know?”

Remembering her mother, I nodded. “How about your dad?”

“The same, but in a different way. He avoids the topic. He doesn’t want to talk about it at all. When we’re together, he talks about the ranch or my job—anything but Tim. It’s like he’s trying to make up for Mom’s incessant worrying, but he never asks what’s been going on or how I’m holding up.” She shook her head. “And then there’s Alan. Tim’s so good with him, and I like to think I’m getting better with him, but still… there are times when he starts hurting himself or breaking things, and I just end up crying because I don’t know what to do. Don’t get me wrong—I try, but I’m not Tim, and we both know it.”

Her eyes held mine for a moment before I looked away. I took a sip of tea, trying to imagine what her life was like now.

“Did Tim tell you what’s going on? With his melanoma?”

“A little,” I said. “Not enough to know the whole story. He told me he found a mole and that it was bleeding. He put it off for a while, then finally went to see a doctor.”

She nodded. “It’s one of those crazy things, isn’t it? I mean, if Tim spent a lot of time in the sun, maybe I could have understood it. But it was on the back of his leg. You know him—can you imagine him in Bermuda shorts? He’s hardly ever worn shorts, even at the beach, and he’s always the one who nagged us about wearing sunscreen. He doesn’t drink, he doesn’t smoke, he’s careful about what he eats. But for whatever reason, he got melanoma. They cut out the area around the mole, and because of its size, they took out eighteen of his lymph nodes. Out of the eighteen, one was positive for melanoma. He started interferon—that’s the standard treatment, and it lasts a full year—and we tried to stay optimistic. But then things started going wrong. First with the interferon, and then a few weeks after surgery, he got cellulitis near the groin incision.”

When I frowned, she caught herself.

“Sorry. I’m just so used to talking to doctors these days. Cellulitis is a skin infection, and Tim’s was pretty serious. He spent ten days in the intensive care unit for that. I thought I was going to lose him, but he’s a fighter, you know? He got through it and continued with his treatment, but last month we found cancerous lesions near the site of his original melanoma. That, of course, meant another round of surgery, but even worse, it meant that the interferon probably wasn’t working as well as it could. So he got a PET scan and an MRI, and sure enough, they found some cancerous cells in his lung.”

She stared into her coffee cup. I felt speechless and drained, and for a long time, we were quiet.

“I’m sorry,” I finally whispered.

My words brought her back. “I’m not going to give up,” she said, her voice beginning to crack. “He’s such a good man. He’s sweet and he’s patient, and I love him so much. It’s just not fair. We haven’t even been married for two years.”

She looked at me and took a few deep breaths, trying to regain her composure.

“He needs to get out of here. Out of this hospital. All they can do here is interferon, and like I said, it’s not working as well as it should. He needs to go someplace like MD Anderson or the Mayo Clinic or Johns Hopkins. There’s cutting-edge research going on in those places. If interferon isn’t doing the job like it should, there might be another drug they can add—they’re always trying different combinations, even if they’re experimental. They’re doing biochemotherapy and clinical trials at other places. MD Anderson is even supposed to start testing a vaccine in November—not for prevention like most vaccines, but for treatment—and the preliminary data has shown good results. I want him to be part of that trial.”

“So go,” I urged.

She gave a short laugh. “It’s not that easy.”

“Why? It sounds pretty clear to me. Once he’s out of here, you hop in the car and go.”

“Our insurance won’t pay for it,” she said. “Not now, anyway. He’s getting the appropriate standard of care—and believe it or not, the insurance company has been pretty responsive so far. They’ve paid for all the hospitalizations, all the interferon, and all the extras without hassle. They’ve even assigned me a personal caseworker, and believe me, she’s sympathetic to our plight. But there’s nothing she can do, since our doctor thinks it’s best that we give the interferon a little more time. No insurance company in the world will pay for experimental treatments. And no insurer will agree to pay for treatments outside the standard of care, especially if they’re in other states and are attempting new things on the off chance that they might work.”

“Sue them if you have to.”

“John, our insurer hasn’t batted an eyelash at all the costs for intensive care and extra hospitalizations, and the reality is that Tim is getting the appropriate treatment. The thing is, I can’t prove that Tim would get better in another place, receiving alternate treatments. I think it might help him, I hope it will help him, but no one knows for sure that it would.” She shook her head. “Anyway, even if I did sue and the insurance company ended up paying for everything I demanded, that would take time… and that’s what we don’t have.” She sighed. “My point is, it’s not just a money problem, it’s a time problem.”

“How much are you talking about?”

“A lot. And if Tim ends up in the hospital with an infection and in the intensive care unit—like he has before—I can’t even begin to guess. More than I could ever hope to pay, that’s for sure.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Get the money,” she said. “I don’t have a choice. And the community’s been supportive. As soon as word about Tim got out, there was a segment on the local news and the newspaper did a story, and people all over town have promised to start collecting money. They set up a special bank account and everything. My parents helped. The place we worked helped. Parents of some of the kids we worked with helped. I’ve heard that they’ve even got jars out in a lot of the businesses.”

My mind flashed to the sight of the jar at the end of the bar in the pool hall, the day I arrived in Lenoir. I’d thrown in a couple of dollars, but suddenly it felt completely inadequate.

“Are you close?”

“I don’t know.” She shook her head, as if unwilling to think about it. “All this just started happening a little while ago, and since Tim had his treatment, I’ve been here and at the ranch. But we’re talking about a lot of money.” She pushed aside her cup of tea and offered a sad smile. “I don’t even know why I’m telling you this. I mean, I can’t guarantee that any of those other places can even help him. All I can tell you is that if we stay, I know he’s not going to make it. He might not make it anyplace else, either, but at least there’s a chance… and right now, that’s all I have.”

She stopped, unable to continue, staring sightlessly at the stained tabletop.

“You want to know what’s crazy?” she asked finally. “You’re the only one I’ve told this to. Somehow, I know that you’re the only one who can possibly understand what I’m going through, without having to feel like I have to be careful about what I say.” She lifted her cup, then set it down again. “I know it’s unfair considering your dad….”

“It’s okay,” I reassured her.

“Maybe,” she said. “But it’s selfish, too. You’re trying to work through your own emotions about losing your dad, and here I am, saddling you with mine about something that might or might not happen.” She turned to look out the cafeteria’s window, but I knew she wasn’t seeing the sloping lawn beyond.

“Hey,” I said, reaching for her hand. “I meant it. I’m glad you told me, if only so you could get it off your chest.”

In time, Savannah shrugged. “So that’s us, huh? Two wounded warriors looking for support.”

“That sounds about right.”

Her eyes rose to meet mine. “Lucky us,” she whispered.

Despite everything, I felt my heart skip a beat.

“Yeah,” I echoed. “Lucky us.”

We spent most of the afternoon in Tim’s room. He was asleep when we got there, woke for a few minutes, then slept again. Alan kept vigil at the foot of his bed, ignoring my presence while he focused on his brother. Savannah alternately stayed beside Tim on the bed or sat in the chair next to mine. When she was close, we spoke of Tim’s condition, of skin cancer in general, the specifics of possible alternative treatments. She’d spent weeks researching on the Internet and knew the details of every clinical trial in progress. Her voice never rose above a whisper; she didn’t want Alan to overhear. By the time she was finished, I knew more about melanoma than I imagined possible.

It was a little after the dinner hour when Savannah finally rose. Tim had slept for most of the afternoon, and by the tender way she kissed him good-bye, I knew she believed he’d sleep most of the night as well. She kissed him a second time, then squeezed his hand and motioned toward the door. We crept out quietly.

“Let’s head to the car,” she said once we were out in the hallway.

“Are you coming back?”

“Tomorrow. If he does wake, I don’t want to give him a reason to feel like he has to stay awake. He needs his rest.”

“What about Alan?”

“He rode his bike,” she said. “He rides here every morning and comes back late at night. He won’t come with me, even if I ask. But he’ll be okay. He’s been doing the same thing for months now.”

A few minutes later, we left the hospital parking lot and turned into the flow of evening traffic. The sky was turning a thickening gray, and heavy clouds were on the horizon, portending the same kinds of thunderstorms common to the coast. Savannah was lost in thought and said little. In her face, I saw reflected the same exhaustion that I felt. I couldn’t imagine having to come back tomorrow, and the next day, and the day after that, all the while knowing there was a possibility he could get better somewhere else.

When we pulled in the drive, I looked over at Savannah and noticed a tear trickling slowly down her cheek. The sight of it nearly broke my heart, but when she saw me staring at her, she swiped at the tear, looking surprised at its appearance. I pulled the car to a stop beneath the willow tree, next to the battered truck. By then, the first few drops of rain were beginning to hit the windshield.

As the car idled in place, I wondered again whether this was good-bye. Before I could think of something to say, Savannah turned toward me. “Are you hungry?” she asked. “There’s a ton of food in the fridge.”

Something in her gaze warned me that I should decline, but I found myself nodding. “I would love something to eat,” I said.

“I’m glad,” she said, her voice soft. “I don’t really want to be alone tonight.”

We got out of the car as the rain began to fall harder. We made a dash for the front door, but by the time we reached the porch, I could feel the wetness soaking through the fabric of my clothes. Molly heard us, and as Savannah pushed open the door, the dog surged past me through the kitchen to what I assumed was the living room. As I watched the dog, I thought about my arrival the day before and how much had changed in the time we’d been apart. It was too much to process. Much the way I had while on patrol in Iraq, I steeled myself to focus only on the present yet remain alert to what might come next.

“We’ve got a bit of everything,” she called out on her way to the kitchen. “That’s how my mom’s been handling all of this. Cooking. We have stew, chili, chicken pot pie, barbecued pork, lasagna…” She poked her head out of the refrigerator as I entered the kitchen. “Does anything sound appetizing?”

“It doesn’t matter,” I said. “Whatever you want.”

At my answer, I saw a flash of disappointment on her face and knew instantly that she was tired of having to make decisions. I cleared my throat.

“Lasagna sounds good.”

“Okay,” she said. “I’ll get some going right now. Are you super hungry or just hungry?”

I thought about it. “Hungry, I guess.”

“Salad? I’ve got some black olives and tomatoes I could add. It’s great with ranch dressing and croutons.”

“That sounds terrific.”

“Good,” she said. “It won’t take long.”

I watched as Savannah pulled out a head of lettuce and tomato from the bottom drawer of the fridge. She rinsed them under the faucet, diced the tomatoes and the lettuce, and added both to a wooden bowl. Then she topped off the salad with olives and set it on the table. She scooped out generous portions of lasagna onto two plates and popped the first into the microwave. There was a steady quality to her movements, as if she found the simple task at hand reassuring.

“I don’t know about you, but I could use a glass of wine.” She pointed to a small rack on the countertop near the sink. “I’ve got a nice Pinot Noir.”

“I’ll try a glass,” I said. “Do you need me to open it?”

“No, I’ve got it. My corkscrew is kind of temperamental.”

She opened the wine and poured two glasses. Soon she was sitting across from me, our plates before us. The lasagna was steaming, and the aroma reminded me of how hungry I actually was. After taking a bite, I motioned toward it with my fork.

“Wow,” I commented. “This is really good.”

“It is, isn’t it?” she agreed. Instead of taking a bite, however, she took a sip of wine. “It’s Tim’s favorite, too. After we got married, he was always pleading with my mom to make him a batch. She loves to cook, and it makes her happy to see people enjoying her food.”

Across the table, I watched as she ran her finger around the rim of her glass. The red wine trapped the light like the facet of a ruby.

“If you want more, I’ve got plenty,” she added. “Believe me, you’d be doing me a favor. Most of the time, the food just goes to waste. I know I should tell her to bring less, but she wouldn’t take that well.”

“It’s hard for her,” I said. “She knows you’re hurting.”

“I know.” She took another drink of wine.

“You are going to eat, aren’t you?” I gestured at her untouched plate.

“I’m not hungry,” she said. “It’s always like this when Tim’s in the hospital… I heat something up, I look forward to eating, but as soon as it’s in front of me, my stomach shuts down.” She stared at her plate as if willing herself to try, then shook her head.

“Humor me,” I urged. “Take a bite. You’ve got to eat.”

“I’ll be okay.”

I paused, my fork halfway up. “Do it for me, then. I’m not used to people watching me eat. This feels weird.”

“Fine.” She picked up her fork, scooped a tiny wedge onto it, and took a bite. “Happy now?”

“Oh yeah,” I snorted. “That’s exactly what I meant. That makes me feel a whole lot more comfortable. For dessert, maybe we can split a couple of crumbs. Until then, though, just keep holding the fork and pretending.”

She laughed. “I’m glad you’re here,” she said. “These days, you’re the only one who would even think of talking to me like that.”

“Like what? Honestly?”

“Yes,” she said. “Believe it or not, that’s exactly what I meant.” She set down her fork and pushed her plate aside, ignoring my request. “You were always good like that.”

“I remember thinking the same thing about you.”

She tossed her napkin on the table. “Those were the days, huh?”

The way she was looking at me made the past come rushing back, and for a moment I relived every emotion, every hope and dream I’d ever had for us. She was once again the young woman I’d met on the beach with her life ahead of her, a life I wanted to make part of my own.

Then she ran a hand through her hair, causing the ring on her finger to catch the light. I lowered my eyes, focusing on my plate.

“Something like that.”

I shoveled in a bite, trying and failing to erase those images. As soon as I swallowed, I stabbed at the lasagna again.

“What’s wrong?” she asked. “Are you mad?”

“No,” I lied.

“You’re acting mad.”

She was the same woman I remembered—except that she was married. I took a gulp of wine—one gulp, I noticed, was equivalent to all the sips she’d taken. I leaned back in my chair. “Why am I here, Savannah?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” she said.

“This,” I said, motioning around the kitchen. “Asking me in for dinner, even though you won’t eat. Bringing up the old days. What’s going on?”

“Nothing’s going on,” she insisted.

“Then what is it? Why did you ask me in?”

Instead of answering the question, she rose and refilled her glass with wine. “Maybe I just needed someone to talk to,” she whispered. “Like I said, I can’t talk to my mom or dad; I can’t even talk to Tim like this.” She sounded almost defeated. “Everybody needs somebody to talk to.”

She was right, and I knew it. It was the reason I’d come to Lenoir.

“I understand that,” I said, closing my eyes. When I opened them again, I could feel Savannah evaluating me. “It’s just that I’m not sure what to do with all this. The past. Us. You being married. Even what’s happening to Tim. None of this makes much sense.”

Her smile was full of chagrin. “And you think it makes sense to me?”

When I said nothing, she set aside her glass. “You want to know the truth?” she asked, not waiting for an answer. “I’m just trying to make it through the day with enough energy to face tomorrow.” She closed her eyes as if the admission were painful, then opened them again. “I know how you still feel about me, and I’d love to tell you that I have some secret desire to know everything you’ve been through since I sent you that awful letter, but to be honest?” She hesitated. “I don’t know if I really want to know. All I know is that when you showed up yesterday, I felt… okay. Not great, not good, but not bad, either. And that’s the thing. For the last six months, all I’ve done is feel bad. I wake up every day nervous and tense and angry and frustrated and terrified that I’m going to lose the man I married. That’s all I feel until the sun goes down,” she went on. “Every single day, all day long, for the past six months. That’s my life right now, but the hard part is that from here on in, I know it’s only going to get worse. Now there’s the added responsibility of trying to find some way to help my husband. Of trying to find a treatment that might help. Of trying to save his life.”

She paused and looked closely at me, trying to gauge my reaction.

I knew there were words to comfort Savannah, but as usual, I didn’t know what to say. All I knew was that she was still the woman I’d once fallen in love with, the woman I still loved but could never have.

“I’m sorry,” she said eventually, sounding spent. “I don’t mean to put you on the spot.” She gave a fragile smile. “I just wanted you to know that I’m glad you’re here.”

I focused on the wood grain of the table, trying to keep my feelings on a tight leash. “Good,” I said.

She wandered toward the table. She added some wine to my glass, though I’d yet to drink more than that one gulp. “I pour out my heart and all you do is say, ‘Good’?”

“What do you want me to say?”

Savannah turned away and headed toward the door of the kitchen. “You could have said that you’re glad you came, too,” she said in a barely audible voice.

With that, she was gone. I didn’t hear the front door open, so I surmised that she had retreated to the living room.

Her comment bothered me, but I wasn’t about to follow her. Things had changed between us, and there was no way they could be what they once were. I forked lasagna into my mouth with stubborn defiance, wondering what she wanted from me. She was the one who’d sent the letter, she was the one who’d ended it. She was the one who got married. Were we supposed to pretend that none of those things had happened?

I finished eating and brought both plates to the sink and rinsed them. Through the rainsplattered window, I saw my car and knew I should simply leave without looking back. It would be easier that way for both of us. But when I reached into my pockets for the keys, I froze. Over the patter of the rain on the roof, I heard a sound from the living room, a sound that defused my anger and confusion. Savannah, I realized, was crying.

I tried to ignore the sound, but I couldn’t. Taking my wine, I crossed into the living room.

Savannah sat on the couch, cupping the glass of wine in her hands. She looked up as I entered.

Outside, the wind had begun to pick up, and the rain started coming down even harder. Beyond the living room glass, lightning flashed, followed by the steady rumble of thunder, long and low.

Taking a seat beside her, I put my glass on the end table and looked around the room. Atop the fireplace mantel stood photographs of Savannah and Tim on their wedding day: one where they were cutting the cake and another taken in the church. She was beaming, and I found myself wishing that I were the one beside her in the picture.

“Sorry,” she said. “I know I shouldn’t be crying, but I can’t help it.”

“It’s understandable,” I murmured. “You’ve got a lot going on.”

In the silence, I listened to the sheets of rain batter the windowpanes.

“It’s quite a storm,” I observed, grasping for words that would fill the taut silence.

“Yeah,” she said, barely listening.

“Do you think Alan’s going to be okay?”

She tapped her fingers against the glass. “He won’t leave until it stops raining. He doesn’t like lightning. But it shouldn’t last long. The wind will push the storm toward the coast. At least, that’s the way it’s been lately.” She hesitated. “Do you remember that storm we sat out? When I took you to the house we were building?”

“Of course.”

“I still think about that night. That was the first time I told you that I loved you. I was remembering that night just the other day. I was sitting here just like I am now. Tim was in the hospital, Alan was with him, and while I watched the rain, it all came back. The memory was so vivid, it felt like it had just happened. And then the rain stopped and I knew it was time to feed the horses. I was back in my regular life again, and all at once, it felt like I had just imagined the whole thing. Like it happened to someone else, someone I don’t even know anymore.”

She leaned toward me. “What do you remember the most?” she asked.

“All of it,” I said.

She looked at me beneath her lashes. “Nothing stands out?”

The storm outside made the room feel dark and intimate, and I felt a shiver of guilty anticipation about where all this might be leading. I wanted her as much as I’d ever wanted

anyone, but in the back of my mind, I knew Savannah wasn’t mine anymore. I could feel Tim’s presence all around me, and I knew she wasn’t really herself.

I took a sip of wine, then set the glass back on the table.

“No.” I kept my voice steady. “Nothing stands out. But that’s why you always wanted me to look at the moon, right? So that I could remember all of it?”

What I didn’t say was that I still went out to stare at the moon, and despite the guilt I was feeling about being here, I wondered whether she did, too.

“You want to know what I remember most?” she asked.

“When I broke Tim’s nose?”

“No.” She laughed, then turned serious. “I remember the times we went to church. Do you realize that they’re still the only times I ever saw you in a tie? You should get dressed up more often. You looked good.” She seemed to reflect on that before turning her eyes to me again.

“Are you seeing anyone?” she asked.

“No.”

She nodded. “I didn’t think so. I figured you would have mentioned it.”

She turned toward the window. In the distance, I could see one of the horses galloping in the rain.

“I’m going to have to feed them in a little while. I’m sure they’re wondering where I am already.”

“They’ll be okay,” I assured her.

“Easy for you to say. Trust me—they can get as cranky as people when they’re hungry.”

“It must be hard handling all this on your own.”

“It is. But what choice do I have? At least our employer’s been understanding. Tim’s on a leave of absence, and whenever he’s in the hospital, they let me take however much time I need.” Then, in a teasing tone, she added, “Just like the army, right?”

“Oh yeah. It’s exactly the same.”

She giggled, then became sober again. “How was it in Iraq?”

I was about to make my usual crack about the sand, but instead I said, “It’s hard to describe.”

Savannah waited, and I reached for my glass of wine, stalling. Even with her, I wasn’t sure I wanted to go into it. But something was happening between us, something I wanted and yet didn’t want. I forced myself to look at Savannah’s ring and imagine the betrayal she would no doubt feel later. I closed my eyes and started with the night of the invasion.

I don’t know how long I talked, but it was long enough for the rain to have ended. With the sun still drifting in its slow descent, the horizon glowed the colors of a rainbow. Savannah refilled her glass. By the time I finished, I was entirely spent and knew I’d never speak of it again.

Savannah had remained quiet as I spoke, asking only the occasional question to let me know she was listening to everything I said.

“It’s different from what I imagined,” she remarked.

“Yeah?” I asked.

“When you scan the headlines or read the stories, most of the time, names of soldiers and cities in Iraq are just words. But to you, it’s personal… it’s real. Maybe too real.”

I had nothing left to add, and I felt her hand reach for mine. Her touch made something leap inside me. “I wish you’d never had to go through all that.”

I squeezed her hand and felt her respond in kind. When she finally let go, the sensation of her touch lingered, and like an old habit rediscovered, I watched her tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. The sight made me ache.

“It’s strange how fate works,” she said, her voice almost a whisper. “Did you ever imagine that your life would turn out like it did?”

“No,” I said.

“I didn’t either,” she said. “When you first went back to Germany, I just knew that you and I would be married one day. I was more sure of that than anything in my life.”

I stared into my glass as she went on.

“And then, on your second leave, I was even more sure. Especially after we made love.”

“Don’t…” I shook my head. “Let’s not go there.”

“Why?” she asked. “Do you regret it?”

“No.” I couldn’t bear to look at her. “Of course not. But you’re married now.”

“But it happened,” she said. “Do you want me to just forget it?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe.”

“I can’t,” she said, sounding surprised and hurt. “That was my first time. I’ll never forget it, and in its own way, it will always be special to me. What happened between us was beautiful.”

I didn’t trust myself to respond, and after a moment, she seemed to collect herself. Leaning forward, she asked, “When you found out that I had married Tim, what did you think?”

I waited to answer, wanting to choose my words with care. “My first thought was that in a way, it made sense. He’s been in love with you for years. I knew that from the moment I met him.” I ran a hand over my face. “After that, I felt… conflicted. I was glad that you picked someone like him, because he’s a nice guy and you two have a lot in common, but then I was just… sad. We didn’t have that long to go. I would have been out of the army for almost two years now.”

She pressed her lips together. “I’m sorry,” she murmured.

“I am, too.” I tried to smile. “If you want my honest opinion, I think you should have waited for me.”

She laughed uncertainly, and I was surprised by the look of longing on her face. She reached for her glass of wine.

“I’ve been thinking about that, too. Where we would have been, where we’d be living, what we’d be doing in our lives. Especially lately. Last night after you left, that’s all I could think about. I know how terrible that makes me sound, but these past couple of years, I’ve been trying to convince myself that even if our love was real, it never would have lasted.” Her expression was forlorn. “You really would have married me, wouldn’t you?”

“In a heartbeat. And I still would if I could.”

The past suddenly seemed to loom over us, overwhelming in its intensity.

“It was real, wasn’t it?” Her voice had a tremor. “You and me?”

The gray light of dusk was reflected in her eyes as she waited for my answer. In the moments that elapsed, I felt the weight of Tim’s prognosis hanging over both of us. My racing thoughts were morbid and wrong, but they were there nonetheless. I hated myself for even thinking about life after Tim, willing the thought away.

Yet I couldn’t. I wanted to take Savannah in my arms, to hold her, to recapture everything we had lost in our years apart. Instinctively, I began to lean toward her.

Savannah knew what was coming but didn’t pull away. Not at first. As my lips neared hers, however, she turned quickly and the wine she was holding splashed onto both of us.

She jumped to her feet, setting her glass on the table and pulling her blouse away from her skin.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“It’s okay,” she said. “I’m going to change, though. I’ve got to get this soaking. It’s one of my favorites.”

“Okay,” I said.

I watched as she left the living room and went down the hall. She turned into the bedroom on the right, and when she was gone, I cursed. I shook my head at my own stupidity, then noticed the wine on my shirt. I stood and started down the hall, looking for the bathroom.

Turning a random doorknob, I came face-to-face with myself in the bathroom mirror. In the reflected background, I could see Savannah through the cracked door of the bedroom across the hall. She was topless with her back to me, and though I tried, I couldn’t turn away.

She must have sensed me staring at her, for she looked over her shoulder toward me. I thought she would suddenly close the door or cover herself, but she didn’t. Instead, she caught my eyes and held them, willing me to continue watching her. And then, slowly, she turned around.

We stood there facing each other through the reflection in the mirror, with only the narrow hallway separating us. Her lips were parted slightly, and she lifted her chin a bit; I knew that if I

lived to be a thousand, I would never forget how exquisite she looked at that moment. I wanted to cross the hallway and go to her, knowing that she wanted me as much as I wanted her. But I stayed where I was, frozen by the thought that she would one day hate me for what we both so obviously wanted.

And Savannah, who knew me better than anyone else, dropped her eyes as if suddenly coming to the same understanding. She turned back around just as the front door crashed open and I heard a loud wail pierce the darkness.

Alan…

I turned and rushed to the living room; Alan had already vanished into the kitchen, and I could hear the cupboard doors being opened and slammed while he continued to wail, almost as if he were dying. I stopped, not knowing what to do. A moment later, Savannah rushed past me, tugging her shirt back into place.

“Alan! I’m coming!” she shouted, her voice frantic. “It’s going to be okay!”

Alan continued to wail, and the cupboards continued to slam shut.

“Do you need help?” I called to her.

“No.” She gave a hard shake of her head. “Let me handle this. It happens sometimes when he gets home from the hospital.”

As she rushed into the kitchen, I could barely hear her beginning to talk to him. Her voice was almost lost in the clamor, but I heard the steadiness in it, and moving off to the side, I could see her standing next to him, trying to calm him. It didn’t seem to have any effect, and I felt the urge to help, but Savannah remained calm. She continued to talk steadily to him, then placed a hand on top of his, following along with the slamming.

Finally, after what seemed like forever, the slamming began to slow and become more rhythmic; from there it slowly faded away. Alan’s cries followed the same pattern. Savannah’s voice was softer now, and I could no longer hear distinct words.

I sat on the couch. A few minutes later, I rose and went to the window. It was dark; the clouds had passed, and above the mountains was a swirl of stars. Wondering what was going on, I moved to a spot in the living room that afforded a glimpse into the kitchen.

Savannah and Alan were sitting on the kitchen floor. Her back was leaning against the cupboards, and Alan rested his head on her chest as she ran a tender hand through his hair. He was blinking rapidly, as if wired to always be in motion. Savannah’s eyes gleamed with tears, but I could see her look of concentration, and I knew she was determined not to let him know how much she was hurting.

“I love him,” I heard Alan say. Gone was the deep voice from the hospital; this was the aching plea of a frightened little boy.

“I know, sweetie. I love him, too. I love him so much. I know you’re scared, and I’m scared, too.”

I could hear from her tone how much she meant it.

“I love him,” Alan repeated.

“He’ll be out of the hospital in a couple of days. The doctors are doing everything they can.”

“I love him.”

She kissed the top of his head. “He loves you, too, Alan. And so do I. And I know he’s looking forward to riding the horses with you again. He told me that. And he’s so proud of you. He tells me all the time what a good job you do around here.”

“I’m scared.”

“I am, too, sweetie. But the doctors are doing everything they can.”

“I love him.”

“I know. I love him, too. More than you can ever imagine.”

I continued to watch them, knowing suddenly that I didn’t belong here. In all the time I stood there, Savannah never looked up, and I felt haunted by all that we had lost.

I patted my pocket, pulled out my keys, and turned to leave, feeling tears burning at the back of my eyes. I opened the door, and despite the loud squeak, I knew that Savannah wouldn’t hear anything.

I stumbled down the steps, wondering if I’d ever been so tired in my life. And later, as I drove to my motel and listened to the car idle as I waited for the stoplights to change, I knew that passersby would see a man crying, a man whose tears felt as if they would never stop.

I spent the rest of the evening alone in my motel room. Outside, I could hear strangers passing by my door, wheeled luggage rolling behind them. When cars pulled into the lot, my room would be illuminated momentarily by headlights casting ghostly images against the walls. People on the go, people moving forward in life. As I lay on the bed, I was filled with envy and wondered whether I would ever be able to say the same.

I didn’t bother trying to sleep. I thought about Tim, but oddly, instead of the emaciated figure I’d seen in the hospital room, I saw only the young man I’d met at the beach, the clean-cut student with an easy smile for everyone. I thought about my dad and wondered what his final weeks were like. I tried to imagine the staff listening to him as he talked about coins and prayed that the director had been right when he told me that my dad had passed away peacefully in his sleep. I thought about Alan and the foreign world his mind inhabited. But mostly I thought about Savannah. I replayed the day we’d spent, and I dwelled endlessly on the past, trying to escape an emptiness that wouldn’t go away.

In the morning, I watched the sun come up, a golden marble emerging from the earth. I showered and loaded the few belongings I’d brought into the room back in the car. At the diner across the street, I ordered breakfast, but when the plate arrived steaming before me, I pushed it aside and nursed a cup of coffee, wondering if Savannah was already up, feeding the horses.

It was nine in the morning when I showed up at the hospital. I signed in and rode the elevator to the third floor; I walked the same corridor I’d walked the day before. Tim’s door was halfway open, and I could hear the television.

He saw me and smiled in surprise. “Hey, John,” he said, turning off the television. “Come in. I was just killing time.”

As I took a seat in the same chair I’d sat in the day before, I noticed that his color was better. He struggled to sit up higher in the bed before focusing on me again.

“What brings you here so early?”

“I’m getting ready to head out,” I said. “I’ve got to catch a flight tomorrow back to Germany. You know how it is.”

“Yeah, I know.” He nodded. “Hopefully I’ll be getting out later today. I had a pretty good night last night.”

“Good,” I said. “I’m glad to hear it.”

I studied him, looking for any sign of suspicion in his gaze, any inkling of what had nearly happened the night before, but I saw nothing.

“Why are you really here, John?” he asked.

“I’m not sure,” I confessed. “I just felt like I needed to see you. And that maybe you wanted to see me, too.”

He nodded and turned toward the window; from his room, there was nothing to see except a large air-conditioning unit. “You want to know what the worst thing about all this is?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “I worry about Alan,” he said. “I know what’s happening to me. I know the odds aren’t good and that there’s a good chance I won’t make it. I can accept that. Like I told you yesterday, I’ve still got my faith, and I know—or at least I hope—there’s something better waiting for me. And Savannah… I know that if something does happen to me, she’ll be crushed. But you know what I learned when I lost my parents?”

“That life isn’t fair?”

“Yeah, that, of course. But I also learned that it’s possible to go on, no matter how impossible it seems, and that in time, the grief… lessens. It may not ever go away completely, but after a while it’s not overwhelming. That’s what’s going to happen to Savannah. She’s young and she’s

strong, and she’ll be able to move on. But Alan… I don’t know what’s going to happen to him. Who’s going to take care of him? Where’s he going to live?”

“Savannah will take care of him.”

“I know she would. But is that fair to her? To expect her to shoulder that responsibility?”

“It won’t matter whether it’s fair. She won’t let anything happen to him.”

“How? She’s going to have to work—who watches Alan then? Remember, he’s still young. He’s only nineteen. Do I expect her to take care of him for the next fifty years? For me, it was simple. He’s my brother. But Savannah…” He shook his head. “She’s young and beautiful. Is it fair to expect that she’ll never get married again?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Would her new husband be willing to take care of Alan?”

When I said nothing to that, he raised his eyebrows. “Would you?” he added.

I opened my mouth to answer, but no words came out. His expression softened.

“That’s what I think about when I’m lying here. When I’m not sick, I mean. Actually, I think about a lot of things. Including you.”

“Me?”

“You still love her, don’t you?”

I kept my expression steady, but he read me anyway. “It’s okay,” he said. “I already know. I’ve always known.” He looked almost wistful. “I can still remember Savannah’s face the first time she talked about you. I’d never seen her like that. I was happy for her because there was something about you that I trusted right away. That whole first year you were gone, she missed you so much. It was like her heart was breaking a little bit every single day. You were all she could think about. And then she found out you weren’t coming home and we ended up in Lenoir and my parents died and…” He didn’t finish. “You always knew I was in love with her, too, didn’t you?”

I nodded.

“I thought so.” He cleared his throat. “I’ve loved her since I was twelve years old. And gradually, she fell in love with me, too.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Because,” he said, “it wasn’t the same. I know she loves me, but she’s never loved me the way she loved you. She never had that burning passion for me, but we were making a good life together. She was so happy when we started the ranch… and it just made me feel so good that I could do something like that for her. Then I got sick, but she’s always here, caring for me the same way I’d care for her if it was happening to her.” He stopped then, struggling to find the right words, and I could see the anguish in his expression.

“Yesterday, when you came in, I saw the way she was looking at you, and I knew that she still loved you. More than that, I know she always will. It breaks my heart, but you know what? I’m still in love with her, and to me that means that I want nothing more than for her to be happy in life. I want that more than anything. It’s all I’ve ever wanted for her.”

My throat was so dry that I could barely speak. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying don’t forget Savannah if anything happens to me. And promise that you’ll always treasure her the same way I do.”

“Tim…”

“Don’t say anything, John.” He raised a hand, either to stop me or in farewell. “Just remember what I said, okay?”

When he turned away, I knew our conversation was over.

I stood then and walked quietly out of the room, shutting the door behind me.

Outside the hospital, I squinted in the harsh morning sunlight. I could hear birds chirping in the trees, but even though I searched for them, they remained hidden from me.

The parking lot was half full. Here and there, I could see people walking to the entrance or back to their cars. All looked as weary as I felt, as if the optimism they showed to loved ones in the hospital vanished the moment they were alone. I knew that miracles were always possible no matter how sick a person might be, and that women in the maternity ward were feeling joy as they held their newborns in their arms, but I sensed that, like me, most of the hospital visitors were barely holding it together.

I sat on the bench out front, wondering why I’d come and wishing that I hadn’t. I replayed my conversation with Tim over and over, and the image of his anguish made me close my eyes. For the first time in years, my love for Savannah felt somehow… wrong. Love should bring joy, it should grant a person peace, but here and now, it was bringing only pain. To Tim, to Savannah, even to me. I hadn’t come to tempt Savannah or ruin her marriage… or had I? I wasn’t sure I was quite as noble as I thought I was, and the realization left me feeling as empty as a rusted paint can.

I removed the photograph of Savannah from my wallet. It was creased and worn. As I stared at her face, I found myself wondering what the coming year would bring. I didn’t know whether Tim would live or die, and I didn’t want to think about it. I knew that no matter what happened, the relationship between Savannah and me would never be what it once was. We’d met at a carefree time, a moment full of promise; in its place now were the harsh lessons of the real world.

I rubbed my temples, struck by the thought that Tim knew what had almost happened between Savannah and me last night, that maybe he’d even expected it. His words made that clear, as did his request that I promise to love her with the devotion he felt. I knew exactly what he was suggesting that I do if he died, but somehow his permission made me feel even worse.

I finally stood and began the slow walk to my car. I wasn’t sure where I wanted to go, other than that I needed to get as far away from the hospital as I could. I needed to leave Lenoir, if only to give myself a chance to think. I dug my hands into my pockets and fished out my keys.

It was only when I got close to my car that I realized Savannah’s truck was parked next to mine. Savannah was sitting in the front seat, and when she saw me coming, she opened the door and got out. She waited for me, smoothing her blouse as I drew near.

I stopped a few feet away.

“John,” she said, “you left without saying good-bye last night.”

“I know.”

She nodded slightly. We both understood the reason.

“How did you know I was here?”

“I didn’t,” she said. “I went by the motel and they told me you’d checked out. When I came here, I saw your car and decided to wait for you. Did you see Tim?”

“Yeah. He’s doing better. He thinks he’ll be getting out of the hospital later today.”

“That’s good news,” she said. She motioned to my car. “Are you leaving town?”

“Gotta get back. My leave’s up.”

She crossed her arms. “Were you going to come say good-bye?”

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “I hadn’t thought that far ahead.”

I saw a flash of hurt and disappointment on her face. “What did you and Tim talk about?”

I looked over my shoulder at the hospital, then back at her. “You should probably ask him that question.”

Her mouth formed a tight line, and her body seemed to stiffen. “So this is good-bye?”

I heard a car honk on the road out front and saw a number of cars suddenly slow. The driver of a red Toyota veered into the other lane, doing his best to get around the traffic. As I watched, I knew I was stalling and that she deserved an answer.

“Yes,” I said, slowly turning back to her. “I think it is.”

Her knuckles stood out white against her arms. “Can I write to you?”

I forced myself not to look away, wishing again that the cards had fallen differently for us. “I’m not so sure that’s a good idea.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Yes, you do,” I said. “You’re married to Tim, not me.” I let that sink in while gathering my strength for what I wanted to say next. “He’s a good man, Savannah. A better man than me, that’s for sure, and I’m glad you married him. As much as I love you, I’m not willing to break up a marriage for it. And deep down, I don’t think you are, either. Even if you love me, you love him, too. It took me a little while to realize that, but I’m sure of it.”

Left unspoken was Tim’s uncertain future, and I could see her eyes beginning to fill with tears.

“Will we ever see each other again?”

“I don’t know.” The words burned in my throat. “But I’m hoping we don’t.”

“How can you say that?” she asked, her voice beginning to crack.

“Because it means that Tim’s going to be okay. And I have a feeling that it’s all going to turn out the way it should.”

“You can’t say that! You can’t promise that!”

“No,” I said, “I can’t.”

“Then why does it have to end now? Like this?”

A tear spilled down her face, and despite the fact that I knew I should simply walk away, I took a step toward her. When I was close, I gently wiped it away. In her eyes I could see fear and sadness, anger and betrayal. But most of all, I saw them pleading with me to change my mind.

I swallowed hard.

“You’re married to Tim, and your husband needs you. All of you. There’s no room for me, and we both know there shouldn’t be.”

As more tears started flowing down her face, I felt my own eyes fill up. I leaned in and kissed Savannah gently on the lips, then took her in my arms and held her tight.

“I love you, Savannah, and I always will,” I breathed. “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. You were my best friend and my lover, and I don’t regret a single moment of it. You made me feel alive again, and most of all, you gave me my father. I’ll never forget you for that. You’re always going to be the very best part of me. I’m sorry it has to be this way, but I have to leave, and you have to see your husband.”

As I spoke, I could feel her shaking with sobs, and I continued to hold her for a long time afterward. When we finally separated, I knew that it would be the last time I ever held her.

I backed away, my eyes holding Savannah’s.

“I love you, too, John,” she said.

“Good-bye.” I raised a hand.

And with that, she wiped her face and began walking toward the hospital.

Saying good-bye was the hardest thing I ever had to do. Part of me wanted to turn the car around and race back to the hospital, to tell her that I would always be there for her, to confide in her the things Tim had said to me. But I didn’t.

On the way out of town, I stopped at a small convenience store. I needed gas and filled the tank; inside, I bought a bottle of water. As I approached the counter, I saw a jar that the owner had set out to collect money for Tim, and I stared at it. It was filled with change and dollar bills; on the label, it listed the name of an account at a local bank. I asked for a few dollars in quarters, and the man behind the counter obliged.

I was numb as I made my way back to the car. I opened the door and began fishing through the documents that the lawyer had given me, looking also for a pencil. I found what I needed, then went to the pay phone. It was located near the road, with cars roaring past. I dialed information and had to press the receiver hard against my ear to hear the computerized voice give me the number I’d requested. I scrawled it on the documents, then hung up. I dropped some coins into the slot, dialed the long-distance number, and heard another computer-generated voice request even more money. I dropped in a few more coins. Soon I could hear the phone ringing.

When it was answered, I told the man who I was and asked if he remembered me.

“Of course I do, John. How are you?”

“Fine, thanks. My dad passed away.”

There was a short pause. “I’m sorry to hear that,” he said. “You doing okay?”

“I don’t know,” I said.

“Is there anything I can do?”

I closed my eyes, thinking of Savannah and Tim and hoping somehow that my dad would forgive me for what I was about to do. “Yes,” I said to the coin dealer, “actually there is. I want to sell my dad’s coin collection, and I need the money as quickly as you can get it to me.”