Firefly Summer (22 page)

C
HAPTER
48

R
emy stood in the late afternoon sunshine, reading “The Secret Sits”—one of several poems posted along the Robert Frost Trail.

“What do you think he means?” John asked, slipping his hand into Remy's.

Remy felt the warmth of his skin and felt her heart race. “I think,” she said, trying to focus, “he means that we humans are too busy running in circles and thinking we know everything . . . but if we slowed down long enough to reflect and look inward, we'd have a better chance of understanding ourselves and the world.”

John nodded. “So he's saying we should slow down, let go of what we think we know, and just let things unfold.”

“Yes,” Remy agreed, daring to look at him.

John searched her eyes. “Do you think that's what
we
should do?”

“Hmm?” she murmured, her heart beating out of her chest.

“You know, let go of what we think we know . . . and let things unfold?”

She swallowed. “Is that what
you
think we should do?”

“I do,” he said, smiling the smile that was stealing her heart.

“If you think so . . .” she said softly.

“Do
you
think so?” he asked again.

She nodded and he held her face in his hands and softly kissed her.

Remy felt her mind racing like a horse that had just been released from the gate.
Oh my, oh my . . . oh my!

John leaned back and searched her eyes again. “What do you think?” he asked.

She smiled. “Oh my!”

“Oh my, too,” he said, his eyes sparkling . . . and then he pulled her close and kissed her again. “I think I'm falling for you, Remy Landon,” he whispered.

“I think I'm falling for you, too, John Sanders,” she murmured, gently pushing away all the memories she'd been clinging to like a lifeline—for a lifetime.

“I know I'm not Jim. . . .” he said softly, as if reading her mind.

“I don't want you to be Jim,” she whispered.

“We'll just let things unfold. . . .”

She nodded and he took her hand. “How long is this trail?” he asked.

“It's as long as it takes,” she said, smiling.

“You're so right,” he said, chuckling.

They walked across streams, through meadows and forest, stopping to read the other Frost poems posted along the way, and debated their meaning.

“I always thought ‘Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening' was a contemplation of suicide,” John said, “and Frost's use of the word
sleep
really means death.”

“I've heard that, too,” Remy said, “but I think it's an awfully dark interpretation. I think the poem is simply about taking the time to enjoy the beauty of the snow in the silent woods before rushing back to the responsibilities of this world.”

“Maybe ... but why, then, does he repeat that last line, ‘... and miles to go before I sleep'?”

“ ‘Miles to go' simply means he has plenty of life ahead of him.”

“And what about the ‘sleep' part?”

Remy smiled. “Before he goes to bed, silly,” she said, refusing to believe that her favorite poet hid anything ominous in the lovely poem.

“Ever the optimist,” John teased.

“I try to be,” Remy said with a smile. “Life's hard enough without being downtrodden all the time.”

“How come your good nature doesn't rub off on your sister?”

Remy smiled, knowing immediately which sister he meant. “I don't know,” she said with a sad smile. “Birdie has had a lot of heartache and disappointment in her life.”

“So have you ...”

“I guess we deal with it our own way. It's true I lost my husband, but I was also blessed with three wonderful children.”

“And Birdie's been blessed with a wonderful husband her whole life.”

“Birdie wanted children more than anything, and she's never been able to let go of what happened to Easton. The past haunts her.”

“It's a shame,” John said. “Life is too short—you only get one wonderful, amazing, precious life....”

“I couldn't agree more,” Remy said as they reached the trailhead.

They walked back to her car. “What's next?”

“Hmm ... it's getting late. Are you hungry?”

“I
am
a little hungry ... and I'm sort of craving pizza.”

Remy laughed. “Actually, pizza sounds good.”

“Do you want to go back to the reunion?”

Remy shook her head. “No, I've had enough. I'm pretty sure it's the last one I'll attend.”

“Why's that?” John asked, turning the key.

“Oh, it was fun to see everyone, but that time in my life and the people I knew then—it's just not the same.” She searched for the right words. “It's not that they're not important. It's just that they're not relevant to my life now. A reunion is like traveling back in time for a brief recap, but I think, instead of telling your story over and over to everyone who asks, each person should take a turn at a podium and give a brief update of their life—it would be so much easier.”

“I can just see you standing at a podium,” John teased.

Remy laughed. “Ha! That right there would be a reason to
not
go!”

C
HAPTER
49

A
s soon as Birdie pulled in, Bailey limped over to the car, wiggling her whole hind end. Birdie looked up to see if David was on the porch. The night before, they'd talked about making sure someone was always outside with Bailey—no more unsupervised freedom. Birdie opened the door and the old dog put her front paws on her lap and licked her cheek. “Hello, old pie,” Birdie whispered, her voice still choked with emotion. Bailey kissed her again and then sniffed the air and realized her favorite food was in the car.

Birdie held her close for a minute, smiling. “What do you smell?” she whispered and Bailey wagged her tail even faster. Birdie gently lifted her down and then climbed out and pulled several shopping bags out of her trunk.

“Need help?” David called.

“Want to grab the pizza?” she said, trudging toward the house.

“You said you were going to the mall,” David teased, eyeing all the bags as they passed each other. “But you didn't say you were bringing the mall home with you.”

“Very funny,” Birdie said, smiling as she went into the house and straight up the stairs.

Earlier that afternoon, David had announced he was going to the library, and Birdie had reminded him to take his house key because she might go to the mall. He'd reminded her it was Saturday—knowing she hated to go anywhere on a Saturday in the summertime, never mind all the way to Hyannis—but she'd told him she just wanted to look around a bit.

As soon as he'd pulled away, she'd hustled up the stairs, pulled the garbage bag and her laptop out of the back of her closet, and thrown them in the car. She'd let Bailey out to get busy, called her back inside, given her a treat, and locked the house. On the way to the mall, she'd stopped and thrown the garbage bag with her slacks, wine-soaked towel, bottle, and broken glass in the Dumpster behind Stop&Shop, and then opened her laptop. The keyboard was splattered with red wine—dry now, for the most part—but when she tapped her finger on the touch pad, nothing happened. She'd closed it, shaking her head, and as she'd driven to the mall, she'd tried to think of how she might explain buying a new one.

Back home and upstairs now, though, she quickly cut the tags off the white slacks she'd bought at Chico's—a store she'd never been in before, but when she'd inquired about the slacks in the window, the store clerk had handed her a size two . . . and she'd just about fallen over. When she'd tried them on, she was swimming in them. A size two was too big? This had never happened before—even when she was a teenager! She'd decided, right then and there—as she purchased a size one and a half—that Chico's was her favorite new store, and she couldn't wait to tell Remy about it. She'd also decided that all the other stores—L.L.Bean especially—whose size sixteen jeans cut her in half—could really take some lessons in resizing from Chico's. It would only be good for their business.

She hung the pants in her closet alongside two new blouses, and then pulled the box containing her new laptop out of the second bag. As she opened it, she wondered whether David would even notice. She'd had no choice—when she'd opened her old laptop to show the tech support fellow behind the genius bar, he'd just shaken his head. He'd plugged it in, tapped some keys to prove it was dead, and she'd nodded resignedly, and then she'd told him she didn't want it back. He'd summoned someone in sales, and a half hour later, she'd seamlessly slipped back onto the grid with a new laptop . . . paid for with cash. She leaned the laptop next to her bedside table—where she'd often left her old one—and tucked the box in the back of her closet. She looked around the room, turned off the light, and went downstairs.

“Wine?” David asked, holding out a glass.

She shook her head. “No, no thanks.”

He raised his eyebrows, watching as she ran the tap and filled a glass with cold water. “Are you feeling okay?”

“I just think wine's been the reason I've been getting so many headaches lately,” she said, trying to sound nonchalant and knowing full well that this part of her elaborate cover-up would be the hardest part to pull off. “I also think it makes my face puffy,” she added for good measure. She didn't mention her nose, though, which she'd begun to think—to her horror—was looking a little purple.

David nodded and put the glass near his place at the table. “Pepperoni or cheese?”

“Cheese, please,” she said with a smile.

He slid a slice of pizza onto a plate and set it in front of her, and then served his own. “Lie down, Bay,” he said softly and the old Lab clunked to the floor between them.

“She's too funny,” Birdie said as she took a bite and nodded in the old dog's direction.

“She is,” David agreed. “I think she must've been really dehydrated—I've filled her water bowl three times today.”

“She's probably still hungry, too.”

“She probably is—Labs are always hungry. If you left her food bag open, she'd eat the whole thing!”

Birdie laughed, knowing it was true. She took a sip of her water and felt oddly at peace—it was as if someone had given her a drug curbing her desire for alcohol. She took another sip and was amazed by how good and refreshing the water tasted.

David cleared his throat and she looked up, expecting him to say he knew the real reason she wasn't having wine, but instead, he announced, “I have a little surprise.”

Birdie tried to swallow the bite she'd just taken, but it seemed to be blocked by the lump in her throat. “What?” she croaked.

He reached into his pocket, pulled a small bottle of pills out, and put them on the table. “John gave me these to try.”

Birdie looked at the bottle and frowned, and David cleared his throat again. “It's Cialis.”

“It's . . . oh!” Birdie said.

“I've had it for a while, but the timing has never seemed right.”

Birdie bit her lip, not knowing what to say. “I'm sorry. I'm sorry the timing never seemed right. I guess I've just had a lot on my mind.”

“Birdie, I know it's been a while since we've . . . been intimate,” he said awkwardly, “and it's all my fault . . . but I wondered if you might like to give it a try.”

“Of course,” she said, trying to muster some enthusiasm for his unexpected invitation . . . because now—now that the prospect of having sex with her husband again was very much in her future, her desire—much like her desire for alcohol—was very much waning. “When do you want to try?”

“Tonight,” David said, smiling.

“Tonight?” she repeated, trying not to sound alarmed. “Are you sure? Aren't you a little tired from all the excitement we've had this weekend?”

“Oh, I think I could handle a little more excitement,” he said, smiling.

“Well, how soon beforehand should you take it?”

“I already took it.”

“You did? And?” she asked uncertainly.

“Well, it's my understanding that it doesn't automatically happen. There is some physical stimulation involved.”

“Oh,” Birdie said, feeling her face turn red. She looked away, broke off a piece of pizza crust, and held it out to Bailey, who took it ever so politely.

“Want another slice?” David asked.

“No, no, thanks,” Birdie said, finishing her water.

“They say high-fat foods might slow things down a little,” he said, taking a bite of his second slice, “and I'm sorry about that—but I'm starving.”

Birdie smiled and looked out the window at the late day sunlight streaming across the yard, wondering how—after nearly forty-five years of marriage—talking about sex with her husband could still feel so awkward. She stood up to clear her plate, and as she washed the few dishes that were in the sink, she felt David come up behind her. He reached around her to put his plate in the sink, and then he wrapped his arms around her. “I've missed you,” he murmured softly. “And I've missed making love to you.”

Birdie turned off the water and turned to face him. “I've missed you, too,” she said softly. She felt him press against her and smiled. “I think it's working.”

“I think so, too,” he said, grinning like a schoolboy. He leaned down and softly kissed her, but just as their lips touched, he pulled back, frowning.

“What's the matter?” she asked.

“I don't know . . . all of a sudden, I have this weird sensation,” he said, pressing his fist against his chest.

Birdie's eyes grew wide as she watched him wincing with pain. “David, are you okay?” she asked in alarm.

“I do . . . don't know,” he stammered, his face turning white. “I don't feel very well.”

“Do you think we should go to the hospital?”

He looked at her, trying to focus. “I don't know . . . maybe . . .”

“Okay,” she said, trying to not panic as she reached for his arm. “Can you make it to the car?”

David leaned against the counter and put his hand on his chest, and then, grimacing, collapsed.

“David!” Birdie cried. She knelt next to him and Bailey pulled herself up and nudged his hand. When he didn't respond, the big Lab lay down right next to him and put her head on his chest. “Oh, David!” Birdie cried again. “I don't want to be alone.” Her heart pounded as she tried to dial her cell phone, but her hands were shaking so hard she couldn't even slide her finger across the screen. She threw it on the counter, picked up the home phone, and dialed 911 and then waited for what felt like an eternity for someone to answer.

She heard a distant voice. “Nine-one-one. What is your emergency?”

“My husband's having a heart attack,” she cried. “Please send someone right away.” She gave them the address and David's age and then listened to the calm voice on the other end asking her if she knew CPR.

She shook her head. “No . . . not well—I mean, I've never had to use it.”

“Well, you're going to use it now,” the voice said calmly and clearly, “so put your phone on speaker.”

“Please send help,” Birdie pleaded, trying to find the button. “I really don't think I can do this.”

“You can do it. Help is on the way.”

Birdie knelt down next to David, tears streaming down her cheeks as she tried to focus on the dispatcher's calm voice. “Tilt your husband's head back, make sure his airway is clear, and then give him two quick breaths.”

Birdie gently tilted David's head back and tried to see inside his mouth. “Oh God,” she cried. “I think it's clear.”

“Give him two quick breaths.”

Birdie leaned forward and put her mouth over the lips she'd just kissed and breathed out, suddenly wondering how exhaled breath—carbon dioxide—could possibly help. “Okay,” she said.

“Now find the vee under his sternum, and with the heel of your palm, give his chest thirty compressions.”

“You have to move your head, Bay,” she sobbed, gently pushing Bailey's head off his chest. She found the sternum and counted as she pressed down thirty times, all the time praying she wasn't doing more harm than good. “Okay,” she said breathlessly, wiping the perspiration and tears from her face.

“Give him two more breaths.”

Birdie leaned forward, gave David two more breaths, and when she lifted her head, she heard the sound of sirens wailing in the distance. “Oh, hurry,” she cried. “Please hurry!”

“Ma'am, are you still there?”

“Yes,” Birdie cried.

“Give his chest thirty compressions.”

Birdie leaned over her husband and with tears streaming down her cheeks, pumped his chest thirty more times.

Suddenly, there was banging on the door. “Come in! Come in!” she called and two EMTs rushed in and took over, asking her a myriad of questions as they worked, but the one that made her heart stop was: “Has he taken any new medications?”

“No . . . I mean, yes.”

“What was it?” the EMT asked, looking up.

“Cialis?”

“Do you know when?”

“About an hour ago?”

“Does he take anything for angina?”

“No,” Birdie said, feeling a wave of nausea wash over her. Could this be all
her
fault, too? Did David have a heart attack because he'd sensed she was unhappy about their lack of intimacy?

Five minutes later, Birdie watched the EMTs load David's eerily still body into the back of the ambulance. One of the EMTs climbed in beside the stretcher while the other one closed the door. “Ma'am, are you able to drive or have someone bring you to the hospital?”

Birdie looked utterly confused and then realized she was being left alone. “Yes, my sister . . .” she said.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, go!”

He nodded, climbed into the driver's seat, and pulled away.

Birdie listened to the haunting sound of the siren and watched as the lights filled the heavens. “Oh, Lord, You've let me down so many times when I've prayed, but I'm trusting You again
now
. Please don't take David . . . please don't take my husband!”

She hurried back into the house and found Bailey curled up in the spot where David had just been lying, the poor Lab's eyes filled with sadness. “Oh, Bay,” she said, sitting down next to her. “It's going to be okay,” she whispered tearfully. She lifted the dog's head onto her lap. “We've been through so much these last few days, but everything's going to be okay.” The comforting words she spoke were as much for herself as they were for her sweet, old dog.