Chapter 12
Twelve
EMBER
I can't sleep.
Every time I close my stupid eyes, I see Felix.
Naked.
Standing there by his bed, panting, eyes glazed over and staring down at me with an expression that…I don't have the words to capture the way he looked at me after I finished blowing him. Reverent. In awe. Stunned speechless. Those are all close, but not good enough.
Good girl. Taking every last drop.
Apparently I have a praise kink, suddenly? That's new, unexpected, and fucking weird.
I also can't sleep because this couch is all springs and no cushion. I tried the floor a few hours ago, but that was worse. Sort of like when it's torrentially downpouring so hard it seems like the wipers aren't doing a damn thing, so you turn them off and it does, in fact, get much worse.
The trip out here to LA with Faye was one for the ages. It took us just shy of three days, and those days were some of the most memorable of my life. Faye is endlessly hysterical. Turns out she brought her stash of pot and decided to get stoned and stay that way, and god, is she funny when she's high. Full of wild stories, twisted and crude jokes, and the occasional nugget of wisdom.
We actually got busted once, on I-80 somewhere, late at night. We got pulled over, and the state we were in—I forget which—wasn't a legal state. But I guess Faye has a medical card and a magical ability to talk even the most hard-ass of cops into letting us go with a warning. She actually, legitimately asked the cop, "You're not really going to arrest a little old lady on her way to see her grandkids one last time before she dies, are you?"
No, he was not.
We laughed our asses off, ate a toxic amount of shitty fast food, smoked a ton of pot, listened to great music, slept in shitty motels, and talked about everything and nothing. We stayed away from touchy and painful subjects like our dead husbands, and I stayed away from talking about Felix, even though he was on my mind constantly.
Tina lives in a decent but not great part of LA in a three-bedroom apartment on the fourth floor, no elevator. When we got there, Faye stood at the bottom of those stairs with dread in her eyes.
"Guess I’ll be staying home more, huh?" she'd said to me.
Tina is a darling—sharp-tongued like Faye and dryly funny. She works as a hospice care nurse; and in the two days I've been here, I've never seen her out of scrubs. Ben is an adorable kid who developed an immediate crush on me—I don't play into it or encourage him to think anything inappropriate is gonna happen, but I do pay him attention because growing boys need attention. Alaina is a precocious little thing with a truly wild vocabulary and a penchant for sass that does her grandmother proud.
Faye and I spend the days with Ben and Alaina while Tina works—we take them out for lunch and ice cream, to the nearby park where Ben at first pretends to be too old and cool to play, but when his sister begs him to push her on the merry-go-round, he can't help but end up having fun. We watch TV and movies, and Ben makes me play Mario Kart with him—I suck horribly, but he thinks it’s hysterical.
The only less-than-stellar part is Faye's health. It's like now that we've made it to California, her grip on life is just…slipping. She hides it behind a facade of bravado, hilarity, and orneriness, but I see it and Tina does, too. Faye just seems thinner and paler every day, has to take longer and more frequent breaks from walking, and eats very little.
Eventually, I decided to just get up. The small apartment is quiet and still in the pre-dawn gray. I set a pot of coffee to brewing and once there's enough, I sneak a cup and take it out onto the landing outside the door, where Tina has set up a folding camp chair for smoking her cigarettes—a habit which she and Faye have already fought about twice since we arrived.
I sip black coffee and watch the horizon above the LA skyline ombre from gray to pink to orange as the sun rises, and I cautiously pick apart the shield behind which I've hidden my feelings.
Mom always said I'm a freak of nature for my ability to compartmentalize like that—I can put my feelings aside and focus on something else entirely, pretending whatever bad thing I don’t want to feel doesn't exist. It's not healthy, I'm aware of that. But it's just what I do. I like to process my feelings in my own time, when I'm ready.
With this, I'll never be entirely ready. But I have to go back to Michigan soon, and I need to face the mess that is my life.
Dutchie.
His face fills my mind's eye—his sandy blond hair that was always messy and sticking up in every direction, no matter how much he tried to comb it. His puppy dog brown eyes. His lips.
I remember his kisses. The softness of them—sweet and tender, as if I was the most precious thing in the world, delicate and fragile and priceless. He'd frame my face in his hands and move in slowly, eyes open and searching me as if my face somehow held the answers to everything. His lips would touch mine and he'd breathe out as if in relief, as if he'd been longing to kiss me.
He was subtle about wanting sex. He'd kiss me like that and his hands would slowly wander to my waist, find the hem of my shirt and hesitantly wander to my chest. I thought his hesitancy was sweet, although it also frustrated me at times, especially later in our marriage. Even though I literally never turned him down unless I was on my period or legitimately sick, he was always a little shy about it. I didn't know how to talk to him about it, though, and never really did. I wanted him to initiate it more—I was almost always the one to start things. Which I didn't mind, most of the time.
There were just times when I wanted to be…taken. Dominated a little. Treated like I wasn't a delicate flower. I was hesitant to show him the true depths of my need—the real intensity of my desires. I tempered my responses to things because it seemed like it made him uncomfortable when I went too crazy.
I was holding back.
Fuck.
Our whole marriage, I was holding back. I never gave Dutchie all of me. I didn't think he could handle it. There were times when I wanted sex and he was…I don't know. Not indifferent, just…not as eager for it as I was. Not as excited. I learned to recognize when he wasn't in the mood and I'd keep it to myself. Sometimes I'd wake up in the middle of the night and masturbate as silently as possible. And let me tell you, that's tough. You know how much it sucks having to tamp down your orgasm?
But how could I be mad at him about it? I couldn't. He was just so fucking loving. He lived to take care of me. He cooked for me all the time. Opened doors. Held my hand everywhere we went. Constantly asked me what he could do for me and never so much as blinked at my requests, even when they were odd or inconvenient for him.
Snuggling with Dutchie was the greatest. He loved to snuggle more than just about anything—I think that was his real love language. Laying in bed in Pumpkin, watching a show on our laptop, my head on his chest, his arm around my shoulders—that’s when Dutchie was the happiest.
He never raised his voice to me, even in our worst argument.
He had the most incredible sense of direction of anyone I've ever met, as if he had an internal compass as accurate as a Canadian goose's.
He could be uproariously funny, especially stoned. He would do these crazy impressions of famous actors—they weren't necessarily accurate impressions, but they were funny as hell and you knew who it was.
My thoughts turn dark, then.
To that night.
He'd been feeling under the weather for a while. Weird back pain. Loss of appetite that meant he was dropping weight when he was already a pretty slender guy. He was tired all the time all of a sudden. Stomach issues.
And then, that day, I noticed a yellowish tinge to his skin, and that really worried me. And then he started vomiting.
I drove us to the nearest ER. We waited. And waited. He got examined, got blood drawn, poked, prodded, x-rayed, MRI'd…the works.
Then came the results. A nurse guiding us to a different part of the hospital. A placard outside an office with the doctor's name and that awful word: oncologist. All I really remember is the scan results on a computer screen turned to face us. A mass over his pancreas. A big one. But not just the one—lots of them, as if the big mass had spawned a horde of little ones.
It was everywhere—stomach, lungs, bones, brain.
I remember the phrase “weeks at most" being uttered.
Palliative care. Make him comfortable. Get your affairs in order. Do you want to speak with a social worker? We have clergy available.
Dutchie fought it like a warrior—he was calm. Talked about what we'd do after he beat it…even though we both knew there was no fucking hope.
And then, at some point, there was no more fight. There was a skeleton in the hospital bed, wrapped in jaundiced skin, all sunken eyes and wheezy breath. There were the endless hours of silence broken only by the beep and hiss and whirr of the support machinery. His eyes cracking open to find mine. That small, cheerful, loving smile would light up his face, no matter how he felt.
I lost time in that hospital room. Hours, days, and weeks jumbled together. There was no sun, no clouds, no moon, no stars, no soil, no wind. Just that room with the generic wallpaper and the machines and the bed and man I loved wasting away to nothing before my eyes, in agony even the strongest of drugs couldn’t entirely mask.
Then there was the end.
His hand curling around mine with sudden strength. His last words that I've never been able to repeat, in my own head or out loud.
The monitor beep-beep-beep ing…then beep—beep—beep ing, and then beep…beep…beep ing…
And then… beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee….
The endless beep.
Flatline.
Eyes gone vacant. Staring at me but seeing nothing.
The body an empty shell—a husk.
A hand touches my shoulder, shocking me. "Ember, honey? Are you alright?" Faye, her voice thin and shaky.
I nod. "Just…grieving." I realize I'm weeping.
"You want company or you want to be alone?"
"Alone," I whisper. "But I love you, Faye."
She presses a kiss to the crown of my head. "Love you too, missy."
I hear the door close and I'm alone again—alone with Dutchie stuck in that moment of death like an air bubble encased in ice.
I think about his last words to me again, but they skitter away from my mind. I just…I can't go there.
I'm still not ready.
I think about all the good times—which was pretty much all of it. Even the handful of arguments we got into I remember with happiness, because our best sex was after those arguments.
He once accused me of picking a fight just so we could have makeup sex. He was right, but I wasn't about to admit that, which turned into a whole other fight, which led to some seriously hot makeup sex. Oh, the irony of that. We laughed about it later.
The only stain on the joy of my memory of our life together is the reality of his death—the sudden and abrupt nature of it.
"I miss you so fucking much, Dutchie," I whisper out loud.
I feel his hand squeezing mine. The noise of LA waking up fades, and honking horns become the beep of the monitor.
"Em…ber." His voice was a file rasping over a cinder block.
"Dutchie-baby," I whispered—my favorite pet-name for him. "I love you."
He squeezed my hand again, shockingly hard. "Listen…Emmy." That was his nickname for me—Emmy. No one before or since has or will call me that. That was his and his alone.
"I'm listening." I scooted my chair closer to the bed and put my face as close to his as I could.
"You're a light in the dark.” His voice strengthened a little. "You can't hide it. Can't let it go out."
"I won't," I whispered, my voice wet with tears. "I promise."
" Listen ." Another hard squeeze. "Your love is fire. A big bonfire. The sun itself."
"Dutchie—"
He spoke over me, his voice intense as he strove to get his point across with the last of his life. "When I'm gone, Emmy, you can't let your light go out." He squeezed my hand. "Ember. You can't let your light go out."
"I won't."
"Yes, you will." He was crying. "I want you to love again."
I shook my head. "No. No. Dutchie, no ."
" Yes , Ember." He touched his clammy forehead to mine. "Your love is your light. Don't let it go out. You're gonna hide. Run. Bury it. But you gotta…" a wheeze, a cough, a groan of pain. "You have to love again. You won't want to, but you have to."
"I can't, Dutch. I can't. I can't do this without you."
"Have to."
"I won't."
He tried to laugh. "Not sure…I have time for a fight…or—or the strength for…for makeup…sex."
My laugh was a sob. "How can you joke, Dutchie?"
"How can I not?" He struggled to pull my hand to his lips. "Promise me."
"No—no."
"Emberly James. I've never asked you for a promise."
I wept bitterly, nodded. "Okay. Okay."
"Don't placate me. I want your vow—" he kissed my wedding band, and then moved his hand to my lips, "on our wedding rings."
"Damn you, Dutchie. I love you. I need you. I can't do this without you."
"No choice. And not…the point."
"Goddammit, Richard."
"Oh…shit. The real…name." He was weakening. Fading. "Vow. On our rings. You'll let yourself love again. You'll give him your light. You have to. The world needs your light. And out there somewhere is a man who will need the love you have to give. Swear it."
I shook my head. "Dutch."
" Swear it , goddammit!”
I stared at him, stunned by the ferocity in his gentle voice. "Dutchie—"
"Emberly. Please. I'm begging you." He’d looked at me with such desperation that I'd dissolved into helpless sobs.
"Okay, okay." I kissed his ring and then mine. "I swear to you on our rings that I'll…" I couldn't finish it. Swallowed hard. "That I will love again, someday."
He nodded. "The world needs your light. He needs it." His eyes closed. "Love you, Emmy."
"I love you, Dutchie-baby."
His grip on my hand weakened. His eyes opened. Saw me. He smiled.
For a moment, then, it seemed like he was seeing something else. His eyes brightened, and he smiled faintly.
And then…he was still, and his body was empty, and Dutchie was gone.
My husband was dead.
And he'd extracted a vow on our rings—which he knew damned well I held more sacred than any other possession—that I would love again.
Except I don't know how to keep that promise.
I fucking miss him.
It hurts.
I'm angry at him for leaving me.
I don't want to love again. I want Dutchie back. I want his soft kisses and tender snuggles. I want his hesitant hand reaching for my breast as he kisses me, as if we're sixteen and it's our first time instead of adults who've had a lot of sex together. I want his goofy humor. I want his irrational hatred of celery. His odd fondness for spiders. I want his ability to drive for hours on end without a break. His eyes glittering in the dark of our bus in a rest area somewhere in Kansas, listening to a couple in the RV next to us fucking loudly for hours on end. I want his weird ass taste in music—the most obscure indie folk you can imagine, and the more obscure the better.
He's gone, though.
He's gone.
Our rings are in that jewelry box he made for me—the one in a safe in Felix Crowe's garage back in Three Rivers, Michigan.
And I vowed that I'd love again.
I just never thought it would ever happen. Or if it did, I figured it'd be years from now, when my grief is a scar rather than a crusty, multi-colored scab on a barely healing wound.
How do you love again after loss? Faye never did. I know, I know what she'd say. What she did say—she had a whole life with Tommy.
I had not even eight short years.
Felix.
I see him in my mind, too. My heart pitter-patters in my chest at the thought of him, and even that hurts like a punch to the gut. How can I have butterflies for a man when Dutchie hasn't even been dead a year? What's wrong with me?
I sucked his cock.
He made me come— so hard, so many times.
I want it again. I want that again. I want him again.
I want to race back to Three Rivers right now and climb into his bed with him and fuck him until he sees his ancestors.
That's not love—that's lust; I lust for Felix.
He's fucking hot as hell—what red-blooded, straight female wouldn't lust after him? I mean, shit, Faye lusts after him and she's an eighty-year-old widow.
But…there is more, isn't there?
Deep down, I know there is.
We didn't fuck, we messed around. Why? Because I knew, instinctively, that if and when I sleep with Felix, it'll be over. I'll not be able to get away. I won't want to.
Because there's something there. Something real and big and deep and absolutely terrifying. I've only caught hints of it—in those few precious moments of emotional intimacy with him afterward, when I told him things I’ve never told anyone, not even Dutchie. The safety I felt—the ease in his presence when I let my walls down a little bit, the knowledge that he'd protect me, take care of me.
I saw it most of all in the way he let me go.
In some ways, I'm a wild animal. You can never totally domesticate me. I'll always, always have blacktop highway in my blood and the hum of tires in my veins. It's all I've ever known. If he'd tried to keep me there, I'd have left for good, bus be damned. Or, probably, I’d have raised almighty hell until I could leave with Pumpkin.
But he didn't. He understood and he released me. He has collateral, sure, but I know he didn't want me to leave.
Even though he's just as scared and fucked up as I am.
I also know he feels the connection between us. The seed of love.
I don't know what to do about it. About him.
I don't know how to let him in. I don't know how to let myself love him.
The door creaks open behind me and a little hand touches my shoulder. "Ember?"
I dash away tears and offer Alaina a little smile. "Hey there, honey. What's up?"
"Do you know how to make pancakes?"
I poke her ribs, eliciting a giggle. "Why, yes I do. Why do you ask?"
She rolls her eyes at me. "Because I want pancakes, silly lady."
"Ohhhh. I see." I pretend to think really hard. "I can do that. But I have two conditions."
She eyes me warily. "I don't got any money."
I laugh. "No, I don't want money. The first condition is that you have to help me make 'em. Can you do that?”
“YES!” she screams.
I laugh and cover her mouth. “Hey, now, people are still sleeping.” I narrow my eyes at her. “The second condition…" I lean close to her and act like I have a secret. "This is the big one. You ready?"
She nods seriously. "Yes."
It's so hard not to laugh. "We have to make enough to share with everyone ."
She lets out a disgusted sigh. "Well, duh! You can't just make one pancake. That's stupid!"
I dissolve into laughter, tickling her. "It is? Weird!"
I carry the howling, kicking Alaina back inside and we make a huge plate of thick, fluffy pancakes.
And we share them.
Even though Faye only nibbles at hers and then claims she needs to lie down, even though it's only eight in the morning.