One Summer

3

Jack awoke from a nap late the next day in time to see his daughter opening the front door, guitar case in hand. He motioned to her to come see him. She closed the door and dutifully trudged to his room.

Mikki had auburn hair like her mother’s. However, she had dyed it several different colors, and Jack had no idea what it would be called now. She was shooting up in height, her legs long and slender and her hips and bosom filling out. Though she acted like she was totally grown up now, her face was caught in that time thread that was firmly past the little-girl stage but not yet a woman. She would be a junior in high school next year. Where had the time gone?

“Yeah, Dad?” she said, not looking at him.

He thought about what to say. In truth, they didn’t have much to talk about. Even when he’d been healthy, their lives lately had taken separate paths. That was my fault, he thought. Not hers.

“Your A.” He took a long breath, tried to smile.

She smirked. “Right. Music theory. My only one. I’m sure Mom told you that too. Right?”

“Still an A.”

“Thanks for mentioning it.” She looked at the floor, an awkward expression on her features. “Look, Dad, I gotta go. People are waiting. We’re rehearsing.”

She was in a band, Jack knew, though he couldn’t recall the name of it just now.

“Okay, be careful.”

She turned to leave, and then hesitated. Her fingers fiddled with the guitar case handle. She glanced back but still didn’t meet his gaze. “Just so you know, when you were asleep I duct taped your oxygen line onto the converter so it can’t be pulled off again. Jackie didn’t know what he was doing. Mom didn’t have to give him such a hard time.”

Jack gathered more oxygen and said, “Thanks.”

A part of him wanted her to look at him, and another part of him didn’t. He didn’t want to see pity in her eyes. Her big, strong father reduced to this. He wondered whom she would marry. Where would they live? Would it be far from Cleveland?

Will she visit my grave?

“Mikki?”

“Dad, I really got to go. I’m already late.”

“I hope you have a great... day, sweetie.”

He thought he saw her lips quiver for a moment, but then she turned and left. A few moments later, the front door closed behind her. He peered out the window. She hopped across the snow and climbed into a car that one of her guy friends was driving. Jack had never felt more disconnected from life.

After dinner that night, Cory, in full costume, performed his Grinch role for his father. Cory was a chunky twelve-year-old, though his long feet and lanky limbs promised height later. His hair was a mop of brown cowlicks, the same look Jack had had at that age. Lizzie’s parents had come over for dinner and to watch the show and had brought Lizzie’s grandmother. Cecilia was a stylish lady in her eighties who used a walker and had her own portable oxygen tank. She’d grown up and lived most of her life in South Carolina. She’d come to live with her daughter in Cleveland after her husband died and her health started failing. Her laugh was infectious and her speech was mellifluous, like water trickling over smooth rocks.

Cecilia joked that Jack and she should start their own oxygen business since they had so much of the stuff. She was dying too, only not quite as fast as Jack. This probably would also be her last Christmas, but she had lived a good long life and had apparently made peace with her fate. She was uniformly upbeat, talking about her life in the South, the tea parties and the debutante balls, sneaking smokes and drinking hooch behind the local Baptist church at night. Yet every once in a while Jack would catch her staring at him, and he could sense the sadness the old lady held in her heart for his plight.

After Cory finished his performance, Cecilia leaned down and whispered into Jack’s ear. “It’s Christmas. The time of miracles.” This was not the first time she’d said this. Yet for some reason Jack’s spirits sparked for a moment.

But then the doctor’s pronouncement sobered this feeling.

Six months, eight if you’re lucky.

Science, it seemed, always trumped hope.

At eleven o’clock he heard the front door open, and Mikki slipped in. Jack thought he saw her glance his way, but she didn’t come into the den. When Jack was healthy they had kept a strict watch over her comings and goings. And for months after he’d become ill, Lizzie had kept up that vigil. Now she barely had time to shower or snatch a meal, and Mikki had taken advantage of this lack of oversight to do as she pleased.

When everyone was asleep, Jack reached under his pillow and took out his pen. This time he wasn’t crossing off dates on a calendar. He took out the piece of paper and carefully unfolded it. He spread it out on a book he kept next to the bed. Pen poised over the paper, he began to write. It took him a long time, at least an hour to write less than one page. His handwriting was poor because he was so weak, but his thoughts were clear. Eventually there would be seven of these letters. One for each day of the last week of his life, the date neatly printed at the top of the page — or as neatly as Jack’s trembling hand could manage. Each letter began with “Dear Lizzie,” and ended with “Love, Jack.” In the body of the letter he did his best to convey to his wife all that he felt for her. That though he would no longer be alive, he would always be there for her.

These letters, he’d come to realize, were the most important thing he would ever do in his life. And he labored to make sure every word was the right one. Finished, he put the letter in an envelope, marked it with a number, and slipped it in the nightstand next to his bed.

He would write the seventh and last letter on Christmas Eve, after everyone had gone to bed.

Jack turned his head and looked out the window. Even in the darkness he could see the snow coming down hard.

He now knew how a condemned man felt though he had committed no crime. The time left to him was precious. But there was only so much he could do with it.