7. I Will Wait
I WILL WAIT
MUMFORD AND SONS
JORDAN
Not much could have made me feel worse than the realization that Emory’s number hasn’t changed in the last ten years. That at any point, if I could have managed to save myself up from the ocean of grief I’d been drowning in for so long, I might have been able to reach out and help her with hers.
If he were here, right now, James would punch me in the nose and then hug me. He’d tell me to pull myself out of the self-pitying pit and to change course. Easier said than done. Forgiveness was never hard for him. Forgiving myself is the problem.
If I called Mom or Bill—who’ve become my unexpected confidantes—they would tell me to pray on it. They’ve reminded me more than once over the years, during my more honest moments of regret, that Emory needed the Lord far more than she ever needed me for her healing.
My therapist would call me out for ruminative thinking. That I should “catch, check, and change” my thought process.
So all night, between the blood samples, stool samples, ultrasound, a phone call with Mom and Bill to discuss Pamela’s case, and observing her through the night, I’ve prayed for Emory and Molly, for this alpaca and the farm, and for ways to help heal what I broke.
And I’ve practiced my three “Cs.”
Catch the unhelpful thoughts. The ones where I know I should have been here.
I shouldn’t have left Emory when she needed someone the most. That I shouldn’t have run from my home and grief, trying to make sense of the fact that my best friend went to sleep one night and never woke up.
How he’d had a family, life, dreams, hopes, a baby on the way—the luckiest guy I knew—all while I’d had nothing going for me.
I’d been wait-listed for med school, no income or plans, no girlfriend or responsibilities. Nothing.
And yet, he was dead, and I wasn’t.
I check those thoughts. They’re how I feel.
Though less so as time passes and that deep wound, that won’t ever quite heal, has turned into a tender scar I’ll always carry.
But I know I can’t change the past. Nothing I could have done would have saved James’ life.
No amount of schooling or medical training would have picked up on a heart condition he didn’t know he carried.
He died. I didn’t.
He’s gone. I’m not.
It’s a painful truth, but it’s reality.
Then, I change those thoughts to a more balanced perspective.
I can’t change how I responded to his loss.
I can’t change the past or any of my actions since.
But I can change my future. I can show up now and live everyday.
Show up for the people in my life who matter, because I am alive and have the ability to do so.
I’ll live, reminding myself that if James were here, he wouldn’t waste any more of his precious time on what ifs.
And, I will do everything now for Emory and Molly that I should have done then.
Which is why I’ve been working on Emory’s front porch steps since just before sunrise.
Pulling out the pieces of wood that I noticed the other day have eroded over the years, then measuring and cutting the wood I scrapped from Bill’s woodshop in the middle of the night to replace them.
Only when I hear the first signs of life from inside the house, namely what I’m assuming are Saturday morning cartoons playing in the living room, do I start making my first dent into replacing the boards.
Nailing them into place, piece by piece.
Only making it through two of the steps before the screen door opens with a twang.
“Dr. Romance?” Molly’s hair is tousled from sleep, half a bun hanging low on one side and her cheeks rosy pink like she just woke up. “What are you doing down there?”
“I thought we agreed on Dr. Doolittle?”
She lets the door slam behind her before tiptoeing closer in her pajamas, a shorts and T-shirt set with a rabbit’s face printed all over it. As she comes to sit on the top step, I now see she holds that very same rabbit, a cinnamon-colored Holland Lop, peeking from her arms.
“We did,” she says, taking her seat and snuggling the rabbit in her lap. “But Dr. Love has so much potential. We’re workshopping.”
I can’t help but laugh. She’s gonna give Emory a run for her money. “And who is this?”
Slipping off my work gloves, I let the rabbit sniff my knuckles for a minute before giving it a soft pet down one of its impossibly soft ears.
“This is Buttercup,” Molly says, holding the fluffball out so I might see her better, giving me a glimpse of the tiny, rabbit T-shirt Buttercup is wearing with Molly’s face printed all over it. “She’s a Holland Lop.”
“I see that. She’s beautiful.” Buttercup’s hindquarters kick as if she’s ready to hop away, so I take her gently from Molly and place her against my chest, rubbing both ears down firmly until she’s purring into my shirt.
“Did you know this color is rare for a Lop? Buttercup here is really something special. How long have you had her?”
“Miss Chloe, she’s like Mama’s only friend aside from Aunt Dinah…
and me of course… well, she brought us a whole bag of bunnies a couple years ago, because she knows we love rescues.
She kept one. His name is Roman, which is super weird since that’s also her husband’s name. Mama only let me keep Buttercup.
“My boyfriend, Theo… I told you about him yesterday… He has one, too. His rabbit’s name is Peter.
Not like Peter Rabbit, though. It’s for Peter Parker, who is technically Spiderman.
I know little kids like Spiderman, but Theo says that everyone likes Spiderman these days so it’s not just a kids’ cartoon. Do you like Spiderman?”
Spiderman? Never thought much about him. My brain is still caught on the word boyfriend coming out of James’ daughter’s mouth. I don’t like that.
“Sure. Sure. He’s great.” I literally have never cared less about Spiderman.
“But who’s this Theo kid? He kind to you?
Come from a nice family? Does he love Jesus and football and…
” I clearly don’t know the right questions to ask, but something inside of me needs to know every detail Molly will provide—and, yeah, whether he has any tattoos.
I wonder what the laws are on running a background check on a minor?
Molly perks up, smiling wide and flitting her eyelashes like there’s something stuck in them. Man, this girl stuff starts young apparently. “Theodore Lovett. Theo for short. He’s twelve years old. That’s two years older than me.”
Cool. So, probably a no on the tattoo thing.
“Lovett? Do you know his dad’s name?”
“Mr. Griffin. He’s real nice. So is Theo’s mama, Mrs. Caroline.
Sometimes we do crafts together, and she lets me use as many sparkles as I want.
But we have to keep the sparkles, and especially the scissors, away from Oli.
That’s Theo’s little brother. Mrs. Caroline is serious about who uses her scissors. ”
I can’t help but smile. I played ball with Griffin and his brothers in high school.
We were on different teams, of course, but small towns tend to commingle.
I remember them sort of being trouble makers back then, but it sounds like Griffin has settled down with a wife and a family.
It’s crazy how time changes everything. It doesn’t mean I’ll trust his kid with Molly, but at least I know where this Theo character comes from.
“Theo has dark brown hair and beautiful eyes, and we’re gonna get married one day,” Molly announces with a flip of her hair.
I think I need to sit down. Buttercup must feel my stress levels rising, because she moves up my chest, nibbling just the slightest bit against the collar of my shirt. The emotional support I’m currently receiving from this tiny mammal cannot be overstated.
“Hey,” Molly says, twisting the bottom hem of her shirt in her hands.
“I’m real sorry about touching your tattoos last night.
Mama always says that when we see stuff we really like…
like handsome boys… we can look for a minute, appreciate what the good Lord made, and then look away.
And definitely never touch. Not that I think you’re handsome. You’re too old. No offense.”
“None taken.”
She seems satisfied, sucking in a quick breath before continuing her monologue, “And I do really like your tattoos. They’re pretty, but I shouldn’t have stared so long. Or poked them.”
“I don’t mind, Little Red. Not at all.” I put my fist out for a bump, which she reciprocates and then picks up my hammer. “We’re pals.”
And not a single person has ever described my tattoos as pretty. I think I might like Molly to have a nice conversation with Mrs. Cotten about their aesthetics at some point.
“Cool cucumbers.” Molly’s momentary uncertainty disappears. “Can I help you with your project?”
I hand her a nail and point to the next piece I intend on mending.
“Sure. We’re fixin’ this old porch, so I need you to hold the nail between your thumb and your pointer like this.
” I demonstrate, one-handed, mindful of the rabbit still nibbling away at my shirt.
“And then choke up on the hammer a bit, holding it near the head before ya take aim.”
“Like a bat!”
“That’s right. You’re a natural.”
Molly gives the nail a tentative tap. Not enough to push it through, but it does manage to bend the nailhead at an unnatural angle.
Before I can encourage her to try again, she rips the nail out with her fingers, grabs a spare from the pile at my side, and tries again.
Her face adorably contorts with concentration when she hits the nail a bit harder and manages to push through the wood more than before.
“Like that?” she asks proudly, her crooked smile so much like James’ my chest feels like it might crack in two.
“Yeah, Red.” I give her errant bun a little tug. “You did great.”