A Forty Year Kiss

31

He was released from the hospital just before noon. Vivian was right there waiting for him and drove him over to Walmart to get his truck.

Sure you’re okay to drive? she asked.

Absolutely, he said, nodding.

I wish I could come home with you, she said, but Melissa has a busy few days coming up, and I offered to stay in Saint Paul and help with the girls. But I’ll check in with you. Please watch your phone. I don’t want to get worried. I just want to know that you’re okay. And if you’re not, let me know. I’ll be there as soon as I can.

I’m fine, I’m fine, he said. Go on. Give everyone my love.

That first night, he slept deeply. So deeply in fact, that it was Blueberry who woke him up, whining to be let outside. Charlie took the stairs slowly and let the dog out into the sunlight, then checked his phone for messages. There were two texts, already, from Vivian.

You still alive? the first one read.

Then, after an hour had passed without a reply, Seriously, let me know you’re still alive.

He smiled and typed, I’m still here.

Instantly, his phone dinged: Thank god. You had me worried for a second. I wouldn’t have to worry about this sort of thing with a younger boyfriend.

He laughed, then typed, When will I see you again?

Thursday morning , she replied. Can’t hardly wait.

But Thursday was three days away. They hadn’t spent that long away from each other in weeks.

***

By Wednesday night he was still recovering, still a bit sore. Still taking naps when normally he might be out, doing chores. He should have been exhausted, but he hadn’t let himself fall asleep. Would not allow it. He had been waiting for this moment for years, maybe decades, even if he hadn’t quite known it.

To keep himself awake, he had written her a letter. The words did not come freely, even though he had been rehearsing and rehearsing in different iterations exactly that which he now sat at the kitchen island, desperately trying to record. Blueberry trotted over and set his muzzle on Charlie’s thigh, aimed his eyes up and at Charlie’s face.

Dear Vivian,

I know the doctors would be furious. They’d want me to be resting. But I can’t sleep. Because I hope that by this coming morning, we will be engaged. I was thinking about it, and no one gets engaged in the morning. It seems to always happen in the evening. At dinner, say. Or after dinner, when both people have surely had a drink. But I want you to know that when I ask you to become my wife, I am not in the least bit drunk. I haven’t touched alcohol in many days. My mind is clear and excited. Even before this recent episode, this heart attack, I was thinking about time. How much time I’ve wasted. And what I want to do with the time I have remaining, however long that is. What regrets I have. What mistakes I’ve made. How I might still make things right. Everything that I think about comes back to you. How much I love you. I’ve never looked forward to a sunrise as much as I’ve looked forward to my next one. And the one after. And the one after that.

Love,

Charlie

It had taken him five hours to write less than a page. He had filled a garbage bag with balled-up drafts. It was important to him that the letter was handwritten. That this was his handwriting. His cursive. He tucked the letter into an envelope and licked the flap. Wrote her name on the flap of the envelope.

Two hours until dawn. He could not chance sleep, but now he was tired. And sore. His chest was sore but so were his knees, hips, and shoulders from that fall in the Walmart. When he closed his eyes, he thought of that moment: the panic of losing Jessie. Of disappointing Vivian. When he imagined himself dying, he imagined his bedroom, his heavy blankets, simply slipping away. Forced to choose his own ending, that is what he would choose. Home, his dog beside him, the window open, the radio on. Maybe classical music. And maybe the moon, big and yellow and low outside his window, shining his way forward. The last place he wanted to die was on the floor of the women’s clothing department in a Walmart, with strangers looking on, like he’d just fallen through the roof.

Fresh air, he thought, let’s get some fresh air.

A week or two ago, he might’ve grabbed a pack of cigarettes from the cupboard, but now, he just wrapped himself in a thick blanket, opened the door for the dog, and they went out onto the back porch. The night was very still. A fog clung close to the ground, like a congregation of ghosts. Near the pond, he could see the dim forms of two cranes, nosing their beaks slowly through the silty shallow water. The air felt vaporous in his nose, in his lungs, and he settled into a teak chair. Blueberry flopped down beside him. Close enough that Charlie could reach down and rest his hand on the dog’s skull or backbone. He allowed his eyelids to close, and he fell asleep.

He dreamed he was riding the train again. Somewhere in New Mexico or western Texas. He leaned out of the locomotive and the wind was in his hair, rustling his clothing. The air smelled of sage and pinon pine and clean, dry dust. The sun was setting over the flatlands, and it did not matter where he was, only that he was traveling in the right direction. Someone was calling his name, repeatedly, a sweet voice, and now the dream fragmented and seemed to dissolve, and he was aware that he was between sleep and reality.

When he opened his eyes, dawn had come and gone, and Vivian was kneeling in front of him, the letter in one hand, her other hand resting on the dog’s head.

Good morning, he said, attempting to sit up but suddenly feeling incredibly stiff along with slightly nauseous. He groaned and rubbed his eyes. Was aware that his breath was awful. That he had overslept on the most important morning of his life. He rested his head against the back of the chair.

This is not how I imagined it, he said, closing his eyes against the disappointment. This morning. You were supposed to show up, and maybe we’d take a walk or something, and I would be there, by your side, and then we’d come back here, and I’d make you breakfast… He sighed. Never mind. Did you read the letter?

She nodded and smiled. My name was on the envelope, so…

Well, okay. What do you think?

Is that your proposal?

No. Well. I mean. Oh, Vivian. Can we—

But she was already sitting in his lap, and they were quiet, holding each other. Not quite swaying, but—rocking. The way he imagined you might rock a baby to sleep. He had never actually held a baby. The only children he had ever held were Ainsley and Addison, mostly as he carried their sleeping forms into their beds.

He allowed himself a moment to breathe in the scent of this morning. The flowers and dewy grass. The spice of the meadow. The coffee in her kiss.

Did you already make coffee? he asked.

Of course, she said. I couldn’t find you. I tried your phone, but it was up in the bedroom. I thought it was a little strange that you’d leave a declaration of love on the counter and then leave, but then it occurred to me maybe you were afraid of what I’d say.

I love you, he said. Would you like to get married, Vivian Ann Peterson? Would you marry me, Vivian, please?

Again? she smiled.

An encore, he suggested. Then he frowned. Shoot, I don’t have your ring. I mean, I have it, but it’s upstairs.

I’m not worried about it, she replied. Anyway, I’ve got the first one. She held up her hand to show him.

But—how? he asked. You never got rid of it? And how’d you know? That I’d ask?

I kept it, she said simply. Honestly, I hadn’t thought about it in years, thought I’d lost it. But then, when we were cleaning out my house, I found it. In the girl’s room, of all places. I must have given it to one of them, as play jewelry, and then forgotten all about it. There it was, on the floor. I almost vacuumed it up. Anyway, I’ve been carrying it around with me for weeks. I don’t know why. Like a good-luck charm, I guess.

Unbelievable, he said, holding her hand. But still, I’d like to give you a new ring. I don’t know. That ring wasn’t much of a good-luck charm at all. Or maybe I bought a lemon.

Or maybe it was, she said, looking at her fingers. Because here we are.

Near the pond, out in the fenced-off meadow, the horse was running freely. Shelby. As if playing. In the air, low over and around the pond, dragonflies were flitting, their gossamer-thin wings glinting in the early slanting sunlight.

Maybe it was, he admitted.