"Daniel?"
My head hurts. I try to sit up but that arthritic shoulder hurts too much. My arm doesn't want to move up and backwards onto the pillow. Getting old is not for sissies, as former Israeli Prime Minister Golda Meir opined years ago, when I was still in the golden glow of youth. I thought it was funny then.
The Captain's sitting at the desk, I can tell from the muted tapping noises coming from the computer's keyboard. Nobody surfs – an appropriate verb -- the Internet like that man. He deletes "history" so I can't tell exactly which sites he's visiting. That started the day I gently made fun of his obsession with Tetris sites. I'm pretty sure he now hangs out on chat sites for world-class sailors. He writes his own blog, too, and actually gets quoted "anonymously" from time to time in newspapers and yachting magazines. "The Captain's Tale" is off best-seller lists now, but still does reasonably well thanks to Amazon. Daniel also manages this literary "brand" and online business finances. All in all, he's not doing too badly for someone over 180 years old, if you count his birth date. The Internet has transformed him into something Jonathan, Candy and I never could: A very modern man and a savvy marketer. Well, we don't care about the marketer part. Just the 2009 part!
These thoughts race across my mind until the wave hits me again, ending my brief reverie. In a flash it all comes back. I can see the angle of the sun, the cocky posturing of my nocturnal visitor. The enjoyment he feels at the terror on my face. Panic rises in my throat. "Daniel?" I thought I was awake, but I must have slid back into the void, into the reality of that day, when I was so paralyzed by fear I couldn't even call for him.
I must sit up and deal with it, even if I can't sit up. But Daniel's there now, before I ask or think again, sitting beside me on the bed. He is so handsome, my Captain, dressed in his contemporary Chinos and white Polo shirt. From LL Bean, of course.
"You are so young, my love," I say sadly, reaching out for his hand.
He gazes back at me, a tender look on his face. The Captain can say more with those blue eyes and eyebrows than I can in 1,000 words on my laptop. He waits, knowing I will be annoyed if he too easily guesses I need help just to move – because then I will be upset that I know that he knows that I think I am too old. That's the foolish old-woman logic, anyway, and Daniel tries to abide by the unwritten rules of my declining years. I am ashamed of myself, but before I can even apologize for what I thought and I might have said, he leans forward and kisses my lips.
"And so very, very fortunate, my dear," he whispers softly into my mouth before gathering me in his arms and settling the pillows comfortably behind my back.
"Am I too old to ravish?"
"Hold that thought," Daniel smiles, and vanishes momentarily before reappearing – as he has for 40 years now – with fresh-brewed coffee. It was always Folger's until Martha died, because that's what she drank. My true love switched me to a very stout French roast in the mid-80s. When coffee became vogue thanks to Starbucks, he had Candy import an espresso machine from Italy. They laughingly claim the machine actually cuts my coffee consumption in half. But what does Admiral Muir know? She drinks rotgut at the Academy and worse on sailing vessels.
"Were you reading my mind?" I feign casualness, not really thinking about the coffee.
"No, your thoughts found mine," he replies gently. "You are most welcome for the coffee, but I know what today is. We will get through this -- together, Mrs. Muir."
Such playful use of my truly legal name suggests I am still young to him, still an equal and not a doddering old blonde with a bad case of osteoporosis. Does that make sense, I wonder? Ordinarily he refers to me as "me dear, my dear, my love, Carolyn, and the perennial favorite, 'Madame.'" I twitch involuntarily. The therapist Daniel and Jonathan sent me to calls it trauma-twitching, a sub-conscious attempt to avoid unconscious feelings. Daniel takes the cup from and sets it on the nightstand before gathering my hands in his.
"The dream came back, very early this morning. You were restless, and said it hurt to move, so I gave you a pill, remember? I couldn't leave you there, even in slumber. I've been brooding over you all night." Actually, he doesn't say this. I feel it, sense it in my more limited mortal mind. His choice of thoughts is appropriate. Ghosts cannot remain solid for prolonged periods of time. Nor do they sleep very deeply. No doubt he left our bed once I truly fell asleep, pacing the widow's walk, the balcony, still blaming himself for everything that happened that horrible day. Brooding. His choice of words is not descriptive. Obsessing. Tormenting. Despairing. This is what he feels. I know my words well.
I know my husband better.
Daniel pinches the bridge of his nose and closes his eyes but it doesn't work. I see the tears anyway. Before I can do anything about them, the blasted phone rings. Usually he just ignores it, a firm believer in caller ID. The 212 area code is a dead giveaway. This is a call neither of us would wish to miss.
"Elissa?!" The sadness instantly vanishes from his voice. She does that to him. No matter what else.
"No, I had to wake her up with the Espresso," he jokes. "The usual, for a morning here. You can't even cut it with a knife. Next I'll have to cart her down the stairs and into the blasted sailboat!"
"And you away from the computer," I hear a chuckle from 300 miles away. "I know you won't cart your precious laptop within 10 feet of water."
"Alas, my darling, there are some problems technology cannot master nor time erase. Just a minute, I'll put her on."
He hands me the cordless, kissing my forehead.
"Mom! Happy birthday!"
I gaze at Daniel as my hand entwines with his. He winks and wipes a tear from his eye.