42
“Hold your horses there, Foster,” I call to Ben as he wheels himself across the pedestrian bridge.
Normally I’m the one to guide him, but today he has a surge of energy post-nap and wants to lead. I give him these small victories,
still glimpsing a bit of the competitor in there.
“Gotta keep up, Swanson. No excuses,” he calls breathlessly over his shoulder. His bony arms tremble with the effort.
I jog to catch up. He finally slows as he bumps across the wooden planks. I point to a bench at the end. “Want to stop for
a sec?” I have to talk to him about the show, and today seems like a good day.
Ben does not want a nurse at home, but he has been open to pain medication and a wheelchair. As the weeks have passed, his
symptoms have worsened, his appetite has all but vanished, and yet he’s still managing to take it all in stride the best he
can. He still has dark days, and I feel like, deep down, he is waiting for something, some sign, some sense of permission,
to let go. And selfishly, I just can’t tell him it’s okay yet.
When we are situated, we take a moment to soak in the sun before I launch in. “So now that we have found our rhythm with this whole ‘Ben on wheels thing,’ I wanted to see if you’re okay with me still doing my show in August.” I’m nervous as I say it, because part of me feels selfish for even thinking about doing the show, but the other part recognizes it’s all for him. I need to do this; I need him to see it.
“Harper.” He rotates to look completely at me, his hands resting comfortably on the chair rails. I can see the bones in his
face, his skin almost translucent in the sun. “I would literally pay you at this point just to get you out of the condo. Yes,
please do the show.”
“Okay.” I laugh. “But who will change your bedpan?”
He gives me a look. We’ve set up a separate bed with a bedpan, because sometimes he can’t make it to the toilet. The jokes
have been endless, and Jenna and Wren delight in bringing him bulk boxes of adult diapers. Though we are lighthearted, it’s
a fact that Ben’s identity has been entirely stripped: his strength, his weight, his movement, his energy, even his work with
the cancer foundations has slowed to a crawl. It amazes me how he’s coping. I glance at the water, tamping down my emotion.
“So,” Ben says, “after all the dust settles, what are you going to do first?”
I know what he means by dust . The dust is the aftermath: after his passing, after the grief has lessened its hold on me, after I’m supposedly “back to
normal,” whatever that means. I shrug. “A threesome, maybe?”
“Good one.” He bursts into a laugh, which causes him to cough. He waits until it subsides and sighs. “Seriously. Have you
thought about it?”
I cock a shoulder, then let it drop. “I’ll probably sell the condo, like we talked about. I don’t think I can be there...” After you’re gone.
The condo has now transformed into its own version of a hospital, and every time I step through the door, I feel physically
ill, which I’ve learned is quite normal with caretakers. But lately my appetite seems as lackluster as his, and I can’t seem
to shake this exhaustion.
“And what about this show of yours? Going to take it on the road, you think?”
“If Wren thinks it’s ready, then who knows?” Ben doesn’t know the show is a tribute to him. I already know I’m not selling
any of the originals. Wren has discussed doing reprints so I can make some extra money besides the original ticketed price,
but I can’t imagine people, beyond Ben’s friends, family, and fans, wanting to purchase anything, even though, thanks to Liam’s
article, Ben has become internet famous. We both have. However it goes, perhaps it can still be a launching pad to something
new.
“What about a cat?”
I scrunch my nose. “Too conditional.”
“Dog?”
“Too much work.”
He laughs again. “Goldfish?”
“Typical life span?”
“Like a day if you forget to feed it.”
I smile. “Perfect.”
Truthfully, I can’t imagine taking care of anything else, not even a home. Part of me has thought about traveling for a while, just selling everything I own and hitting the road, kind of like Ben did in that other life. But that sounds exhausting too, and I know I can’t simply outrun the pain. I need to sit with it, feel it, go through it, even if I don’t want to.
We fall into amicable silence, and for some reason, my heart begins to pound. I can feel myself emotionally preparing for
the end. Until recently, deep down I still held out hope for a miracle. That image of him in Brooklyn is forever seared in
my memory. I still remember the weight of him when we hugged, the mischief in his eyes. Watching him decline in front of me
has been the most brutal part of this entire experience.
“I’ve got all the time in the world.”
After a few more minutes, we continue on and sit in the park. I’m reminded of the day we got tattoos and rode the carousel.
Was that only a couple of months ago? It seems like years. I thought that had been the worst of it, that we were facing something
hard, but I had no idea how hard it would get.
Ben perches on the edge of the grass and tips his face to the sun. He closes his eyes, and I watch his shallow breathing.
He doesn’t know that I watch him sleep most nights, absolutely terrified that he will go and I will miss it. I memorize him
now, as my heart leaps wildly in my chest. The silence stretches between us, its own private conversation.
It’s okay to let go.
Please hang on.
Don’t leave me.
Find your peace.
The sentiments clash for space in my tired brain, battling for top position. I close my eyes too, attempting to regulate my breathing, even though I constantly feel drained yet wired, always hovering on the edge of sleep. I know I need to take better care of myself, but I can’t. I am so tethered to this situation, I don’t know where Ben ends and I begin.
Before I know it, Ben is fast asleep. This happens a lot, though rarely when we are out. I situate myself in the grass beside
him and lie back, staring at the bright blue sky. I close my eyes and listen to the children squeal and play, their heavy
footsteps ripping through the grass. I think about my suggestion that we should have a baby and what that would mean for both
of us, especially now. When I broached the topic, Ben hadn’t yet taken a turn for the worse. Has he forgotten about it?
Regardless, life thrums all around, a beautiful melody. A few tears drain from my eyes onto the ground beneath me. I roll
my head to check on Ben, but he is fast asleep. I know I will need to get him out of the sun soon so he doesn’t get burned,
but he’s not getting enough fresh air lately, unless it’s on our balcony. Sometimes he sits there for hours, staring at nothing.
The deepest edges of grief burrow their way in, filling my heart, body, and mind until there’s no more space. I hold my breath,
suck it all in, and then swallow it down because I have to. Before I can stop myself, my mind slips back to the ritual. I
could easily concoct a new dream or a new wish. That Ben and I are together. That he is perfectly healthy. That we live happily
ever after. Could it be that easy? My heart begins to beat even faster as I consider such a simple wish. If I get the wording
just right, then maybe it could all work out for everyone in the end?
After a little longer, I wake him, and we move silently back to the apartment. That burst of energy has leaked out of him like a deflated balloon. I can already tell he will sleep for the rest of the day. We’ve made more than a few jokes about him sleeping as much as a cat, except that he can’t clean himself. Today is not a day for jokes.
Once I tuck him into his bed, kiss his cheek, and turn on his white noise machine, I busy myself with chores. I do a load
of laundry, scrub the countertops and floors. I put a chicken in the Crock-Pot. I stand out on the balcony until nightfall,
thinking of nothing and everything; then I eat alone at our dining room table as tears mix with my food. I cry as I chew,
trying to muffle my anguish so Ben won’t hear me in the other room.
My appetite gone, I attempt watching a movie to take my mind off the fact that tonight is the full moon and that I could probably
make all this go away if I really wanted to.
When it’s after eleven and I am still wide-awake, my phone buzzes. It’s Wren.
Harp, you’re not going to do that ritual tonight, right?
I sigh as more tears leak down my cheeks. I want to be able to tell her no. I understand that I can’t just escape into another
world when things get hard. But what if that is the ultimate lesson I’m here to learn? That there is another way out where
everyone can be happy?
I just need more time with him, Wren , I type back. I can’t lose him. I’m not ready.
The text bubbles appear, then disappear before one simple sentence steals my breath.
You’re never going to be ready, Harper.
I know she’s right, but before I can stop myself, I find a scrap piece of paper and write down my new wish.
I want to be happy with Ben. I want Ben to be healthy. I want to have as many years with him as I can.
I consider the language, wondering if the universe could interpret this in some strange way where it won’t give me exactly what I want, just like the first time. I have to be precise with my words, this I know. I scribble out those sentences and try again. Before I get anything new written down, Wren is calling. I sigh but pick up.
“You’re writing down a new wish, aren’t you?”
“Maybe.”
“Harper, listen. If this is what you really want to do, I’ll support you. I’ll go grab the book, we can wait until midnight,
and you can disappear again. But I think you should stay.”
I scoff. “Why?”
She’s so quiet, I fear I’ve lost the connection. “Because this Ben needs you. This life needs you. This is where you belong, Harper. You said so yourself: you went away, and when you came back, you changed things somehow. What
if this is the place you need to be, right here, right now?”
I want to tell her that it was so much easier in the other life. No real life-threatening dramas to attend to, no emergencies—just
a relationship to maintain and a gallery to save. After a year of hardship, I want it to be easy. For me. For Ben. Don’t we
both deserve that?
“I don’t want to be here anymore,” I say. “It’s too painful.”
“It won’t always be this hard,” she says.
I sigh. “How do you know that?”
“Because grief doesn’t last forever. Because time really does help. Because you can’t outrun pain. Or avoid it. I’m telling
you, Harper. The braver thing to do is to stay. Face it. Face it all the best you can.”
“I just want it to stop,” I finally whisper. “I can’t keep pretending it’s all okay. I just can’t.”
“So stop pretending,” she says. “No one is asking you not to feel your feelings. Channel them. Use them. Paint them.”
I roll my eyes, because leave it to Wren to always turn it back to painting somehow. “I’m not sure I can this time.”
“Well, I know you can. You are Harper Swanson Foster. You can do anything, even time-hop.”
Despite the sadness, I laugh. “This is true,” I sniff.
“But just because you can doesn’t mean you should, okay? Look, you’ve seen a glimpse of what your future could have been.
You’re back now, and you have most of what you wanted, right? But no one gets their happily ever after, Harper. Life isn’t
a fairy tale, no matter how much you want it to be.”
“I don’t want a fairy tale,” I whisper. “I just don’t want my husband to die.”
“I know, babe,” she says. “I know.”
She stays on the phone with me as I watch the living room clock inch closer to midnight. When it’s five until twelve, she
clears her throat.
“So what’s the verdict, sis?”
I stare at the blank piece of paper. I could write down three new sentences, grab a candle, and convince her to take me through
the ritual. I know I could. Instead, I stand and walk to the edge of the bedroom to check on Ben. I can hear the shallow whoosh
of air moving in and out of his lungs, mixing with the noise machine. I move closer to him, stroke his angular cheek, and
move a hand through his hair that has grown back long enough to style. Here, in this bed, is my whole world. My whole heart,
as if beating outside my chest, hangs by a thread, and there’s a very tangible way I could help him. There’s an actual solution to make this all go away.
“I want him to stop hurting,” I whisper now into the phone.
“Him or you?”
I know she’s right. I want us both to stop hurting. Right now. I stand there, on the precipice of making it all better or
sticking it out. I don’t know what to do.
“It’s midnight,” Wren finally whispers. I can hear the relief in her voice. “Get some rest, Harper. I love you both.” The
call disconnects, and I begin to cry all over again, smothering the sound behind my fist.
I don’t want to stay here, but it seems I’ve made my choice. This man, this version of Ben, needs me. I can’t walk away. I
can’t take the easy way out.
Maybe that means there’s still a miracle in store. Or maybe not.
Either way, it seems I’m destined to find out.