July 31st
Roz woke from a dream, aware something was wrong. She rolled on her side a bit and reached out to find the other half of the bed empty. Slowly she sat up and turned on the light. Greg's side was untouched, the sheets still smooth.
He wasn't in the living room; the tv was off, though the set of empty beer bottles on the coffee table told their own story. She collected them for the recycle bin and went into the kitchen. The air conditioning didn't quite reach into this part of the house, and it was possible to feel the humidity outside as it pressed to get in. A storm was on the way, and about time too. This heat wave had lasted far too long, they needed the rain and a few cool days.
As she rinsed the bottles, Roz caught a faint edge of tobacco smoke in the sultry, saturated air. She finished her task, wiped her hands and crossed over to the pantry, where she took out an oil lamp. She placed it on the counter by the sink and went on to the back porch. The heat and moisture slapped at her as she opened the door; it was like hot soup. She made her way over to the adirondack chairs they'd bought at a yard sale a couple of weeks ago. Greg occupied one of them. In the semi-gloom she could just make out an ashtray with several butts by a pack of smokes on the stand next to his chair. She took the other seat and settled in, and hoped she wouldn't be eaten alive by mosquitoes before she went back inside.
"What do you want?" he said after a time.
"Woke up and you weren't there," she said quietly.
The red tip of Greg's cigarette traced an arc in the blackness. "Couldn't sleep."
Roz said nothing. After a few moments she reached out, touched his arm, found his hand and took it in hers. He didn't resist or pull away, but he didn't return her clasp either.
"You don't have to go with us tomorrow," he said eventually. "It'll just mean you'll sit in a waiting room for hours and then sit in a hospital room and watch me sleep for hours. Total definition of boring."
She didn't reply, just squeezed his hand. After a moment he returned the gesture. His lean fingers trembled. He's scared, she thought. Her heart ached for him but she knew better than to display her feelings openly, it would only push him away.
"Got a big storm coming in," she said instead. "We'll probably lose power. That transformer down by the county road bridge always gets fried."
"Don't be such a hick," he said, and she laughed softly. The tremor in his hand decreased a little. In the distance the storm gave a low, rumbling mutter.
"Nana used to say thunder was a cook in God's kitchen dropping a bowl of potatoes."
"Mom said it was giants bowling." He stubbed out the cigarette and exhaled slowly. "Seriously, you don't have to go."
"I know." She paused. "If you don't want me there . . ."
"It's not—" He stopped, went on. "It's not life or death. You don't have to go through this. I'll be home in a few days."
"I'd like to stay with you," she said softly. "This might not be life or death, but it's important to you. That means it's important to me. All right?"
"All right," he said after a pause. He sounded uncertain, but with an edge of pleased surprise behind it. She gave his hand another squeeze and felt him relax a bit more.
They sat in companionable silence for a time, as they watched flickers of lightning illuminate the clouds. The thunder grew louder and more persistent.
"Front's about three miles out," Greg said. "Moving fast."
"I just hope no one's place gets hit," Roz said. "Rewiring some decrepit old farmhouse takes all the enjoyment out of a good electrical storm."
Greg chuckled. "That's the same sentiment you have for squirrels."
"You'd feel that way too if you ever had to deal with some stupid bushy-tailed rat who ended up as fricassee because it chewed through a power line." Roz smiled when he laughed. "There's nothing more disgusting than electrocuted rodent."
The front came through a few minutes later, a cool, sustained gust of humid air followed by the first splatters of rain. A few drops hit Roz's feet, but the porch overhang protected them from the worst of the downpour.
"We should probably go in," she said just as brilliant light flashed. There was a loud snap, the smell of ozone, and an immediate clap of thunder that shook the ground. A moment later every light in the neighborhood went out.
"Shit," Greg said. He let go of her hand and got to his feet. Roz followed him into the house and found the oil lamp. She removed the glass chimney.
"Can I borrow your lighter?"
Greg watched as she brought the old lamp to life. "It was my great-grandmother's," she said in answer to his unspoken question. "Made it through the Depression and the war and everything after that, including three kids and eight grandkids." She adjusted the flame to create a pool of golden light around them. She wasn't prepared for Greg's kiss, swift and harsh. It grew more gentle as his arms slipped around her, brought her close. He tasted of tobacco and beer and himself, a potent combination. She held him in turn, delighted in the feel of his lean body pressed to hers. Rain pattered against the window as the kiss deepened, grew searching and tender. When it ended she rested her forehead against his neck.
"I really do want to come with you," she said softly. His hands moved up and down her back, a gesture she always found a comfort.
"'kay," he said. She heard doubt and something else she couldn't define.
"Whatever happens, we face it together," she said. He was silent a long time. When he did speak it was low and rough as the words spilled out.
"I couldn't do it when you got hurt. I couldn't." He sounded raw, as if he was in pain. "I can't expect you—can't-"
She stopped him with her fingers against his lips. "That was then," she said quietly. "Now is what matters. Anyway, I don't keep scorecards. You did the best you could. That's what I'll do too. I want to help."
He brought her close and kissed her forehead as another peal of thunder shook the house.
They went to the bedroom. The lamp shed a wavering glow before them to momentarily dispel the warm darkness. They undressed and climbed into bed by its soft light; they made love by it too, every move and sigh gilded, doubly precious. Afterward they lay together, and listened to the rain and the occasional faint rumble of thunder.
"Do you think it'll work?" she asked after a while.
"Don't know." Greg stroked her hair. "Think so. The results are promising."
"I hope . . ." The words caught in her throat. "I hope it works." She couldn't bear the thought of him hurt or disappointed.
"Hey." He tipped her face up to his. "I'm doing enough worrying for both of us. Stop it and go to sleep. You have to be my alarm clock anyway, otherwise we'll never get to the airport on time."
She smiled, though it was hard. "Okay." She turned away from him for a moment, took the lamp, blew out the flame, and replaced it on the stand. "Good night," she said softly, and kissed his shoulder before she settled in once more. She fell asleep to the sound of his even breaths, as the rain fell soft and gentle on the parched earth outside.
August 1st
"It all looks so simple from up here."
Sarah stopped reading and put the bookmark in place. Greg stared out the window, his gaze intent. She could just see patches of green between the clouds; they were probably over the Laurel Highlands at this point.
"It does," she said. She spoke softly so she wouldn't wake Roz, who dozed in the aisle seat. "Clean and pure, no messy human emotions."
He nodded and tipped his head back. Sarah set her book aside and turned to face him a little. "Do you want to talk? Almost everyone else is watching the movie or listening to music."
Greg gave her an amused look tinged with anxiety. "Captive audience."
"No way," she said. "It's up to you."
"There's a lot riding on this," he said eventually.
"What do you mean?" She understood the remark, but wanted to draw him out.
"Expectations," he said. It was something of a cryptic answer, but Sarah nodded, pleased that she'd surmised correctly.
"Okay, let's break it down. First there are yours," she said. "Regaining what was lost, at least to some degree. Finding physical wholeness."
Greg turned his gaze back to the window. "Continue."
"Then you have Roz," she went on. "She wants this to succeed because she doesn't want to see you hurt or disappointed. And you have my and Gene's hopes as well." She paused as she tried to find the right words. "It isn't your responsibility to carry all of that, son. Those feelings are a natural consequence of having people in your life who want the best for you. But that still means the only thing you need to do is enter the trial and let your body heal."
"Only," he said.
"Yes, only," she said, and let her hand come to rest on his arm. "Make it a simple goal. Have the surgery done, follow the instructions for recovery, and allow yourself to find wholeness no matter what happens."
"How do I do that if this fails?" he said. "How do I find anything good then? All this effort will have been a total waste of time."
"Not a waste," Sarah said. "You'll learn things you couldn't have discovered any other way, no matter what happens. This journey is a gift. It is," she said when he snorted and rolled his eyes. "Everything that happens to us, good, bad or indifferent, is an opportunity to learn and grow if you make it so." She moved her hand down to his. "Heaven or hell, your choice."
He was silent a long time. "I don't know how Gene puts up with you," he said finally. "You're sickening."
"Thanks," she said, and gave his hand a squeeze. "Keep throwin' compliments at me and you'll swell my head."
Greg said nothing but she saw him gradually settle into the chair, his vivid gaze once more on the scenery outside the window.
August 2nd
"Greg. Time to wake up."
He rises through dark waters toward the sound of the voice. It's hard to open his eyes; he feels like he's stuck in molasses. "C'mon, son. You've been asleep long enough."
Someone holds his hand. Not Sarah; these fingers are too callused, and the little finger is crooked. He struggles to lift his lids and succeeds, blinks against the light. The first thing he sees is Roz. "Hey," she says softly. "All done, amante. The surgeon said you came through with flying colors."
"Welcome back," Sarah says from his other side; he hears the smile in her voice. He wants to ask questions, but the remnants of the anesthesia in his system pull him back into sleep.
When he wakes again, it's to find the room darkened and quiet. He turns his head just a little, expects to find Sarah there. Instead it's Roz. She still holds his hand, curled up in the chair asleep, her face turned toward him. What little makeup she wears has worn off, and her hair is in dire need of a good brush; she looks worn out, but despite the ravages of the trip and the waiting room, there is a peacefulness in her expression that tells its own story. In that moment he knows with a sudden, absolute and piercing clarity that she's there solely because she loves him.
The power of the knowledge overwhelms him. Yet he doesn't feel panic or fear, only a sort of bewildered joy that he will never admit to anyone else, not even her. He gives Roz's hand a squeeze. Almost immediately she's awake. She sits up and smiles. "How are you?" she asks quietly. "What do you need?"
After a few ice chips and a quick wash of face and hands, he folds back the sheet. "I want to see," he says.
"Okay," Roz says, to his surprise. "Sare and I thought you would. We cleared it with the nurse earlier this evening."
She helps him with the bedclothes and washes her hands before she opens the simple gauze pad and paper tape bandage. There it is, an incision about an inch long in the middle of the ugly gully of his scar, held closed with two butterfly strips. He stares at it as hope wars with fear.
"The surgeon said it'll take," Roz says. "He's done all the surgeries for the trial. He said you have more to work with than a couple of the other patients, and they're all regrowing muscle really well."
He swallows on a dry throat and closes the gauze bandage. Once everything's back in place he brings the sheet back up. His hands shake.
"Listen to me," Roz says. She waits until he looks at her to continue. "I know you'll have excellent results."
"So now you're psychic." He fights with annoyance at her attempt to reassure him and his need to believe her. "And not a single lottery number all this time."
"I just know." She says it simply. "You'll see. All you have to do is let things happen the way they're supposed to." She pauses. A look of mischief crosses her face. "Besides, I had Poppi light a candle for you after mass last Sunday." At his groan she laughs, the tiredness fled for a few moments as her face brightens with tender amusement. Her love for him spills out around the edges. In that moment his mind's eye flashes to a memory of Sarah and Gene in the back yard under the shade tree. Heaven, he thinks, a little ashamed of the sentiment but still willing to feel it. He reaches out to bring Roz to him, savors the sweetness of her kiss, the feel of her warmth under his hands, her breath on his skin. She's still there when he falls asleep. Her touch eases him into the healing darkness.