The Last Day

EIGHTEEN

After leaving Ward at the dinner table, Natasha took a long warm shower, brushed her teeth, and toweled off her hair.

She was still upset-more upset than angry- and mostly because she'd blown an opportunity to really talk with Ward and resolve their problems. Her psychiatrist had suggested that she give Ward an ultimatum of sorts, force him to understand what he was about to throw away. Barney was dead, and she'd accepted that. She knew Ward knew it as well, but he couldn't put it aside and move on with what was left of his life-of their life together.

She often wondered how she, Barney's mother, was trying so hard to come to terms with Barney's loss and her husband wasn't. She had carried him in her womb, had given birth to him, nursed him, and loved him beyond rationality or description. Yes, Ward had seen him die, had held his cooling body as he waited in immeasurable anguish and pain for the ambulance to arrive. Yes, Ward alone had suffered that, but she certainly felt the same horror and grief even so.

Due to the demands of her career, Ward had spent more time with Barney than she had, and in the last years had been closer. She couldn't compete with the father/son contact and shared interests that became more and more important to them both. As a woman she'd been the odd one out, and she'd accepted that-had welcomed watching their bond strengthen, even at the expense of her own. She knew she loved Barney every bit as much and missed him every bit as deeply. How could it be otherwise?

Ward appeared to be in more pain, and it most bothered her that there was a wall between them that kept them from sharing the pain, the grief, from talking about their lives, and how they would go forward together. She wanted nothing more than to be in Ward's arms, to feel him against her, his warmth to fight away the cold, his strengths to shore her weaknesses, to lessen her fears, maybe even somehow mute their emptiness.

Natasha climbed into bed and turned off the lamp. She reached for the familiar stuffed bear, and after not finding it where she'd left it, ran her hands top to bottom and side to side over the bed, seeking it. Turning on the lamp she got on all fours and, from the bed, looked around the floor. Panicked, Natasha slid off the bed to peer under it, but the bear was not there.

She climbed back into bed, cut the light off, and tried to decide what to do. She didn't want to confront Ward and demand the toy's return. That was impossible after she'd made the point about him taking the little blue car to Las Vegas to be close to something Barney had treasured above all of his other possessions, even the bear.

At Ward's insistence, she had recorded the bear's short message for her child's ears alone. She had imagined that anytime he needed to be comforted by his mother, and she wasn't there, he would have her assurance that her love was constant and he was safe.

Ward had obviously taken it, and if he had, it was maybe because he had needed it as an anchor, since his own line to his dead child-the metal car-had been stolen from him. If he needed Buildy more than she did at the moment, she only prayed that if he pressed the bear's hand, her message would comfort him.

Through everything, Natasha had fought to believe in God, and to believe that He had their son in His arms and loved him-as she had been taught since childhood-more than his parents possibly could. Hugging a pillow to her, she prayed to God to keep Barney in His arms so that he was never afraid, and that God would make sure the boy knew how deeply his parents loved him.