shouldn’t have come here.”
He put his hand on hers. She raised her head, and then her eyes, to meet his. “Aww, Macy girl? Come on now. This is your thing,” he said, patting her hand. It felt like a child’s under his. Small and delicate.
“It’s not the same without him. Nothing’s the same. I can’t do this. I don’t want to.”
“You can—and you will,” Jack said. He ducked under Gounda’s neck and tugged on Macy’s sleeve to get her to step down off the stool. Like a drugged puppy, she let Jack guide her down, and he put an arm around her, leading her to the tack trunk just outside Gounda’s stall.
He knew these bouts. Oh, how he knew them. He knew how fast they hit, how they seemed so deep and impossible to crawl out of. They could be brought on by a song, or a smell, or, as he had experienced at Festival Foods only a few weeks before, seeing Nash’s favorite childhood cereal—Count Chocula—on a walk down aisle five. He had left that day with Magda’s shopping list in shreds, and his dignity in a similar way after a concerned fellow patron, and then a stock boy, were unable to rouse him from where he had crumpled, unable to catch his breath or cease his sobbing. After that, he and Magda had arranged to have their groceries delivered.
It was an impossible feeling to deal with, that kind of loss. It was impossible to predict what might trigger the flood of memories. And it was equally impossible to understand—the finality of someone who always was, suddenly being nothing. Nowhere.
One early morning, not long ago, he had woken suddenly from a dream about Nash. He and Nash had been in a white room with no decorations and no furniture except for the orange, molded-plastic chairs they were sitting on. There was one slim door in the far wall.
“What took you so long, Pops?” Nash asked.
“What took me so long for what?” Jack asked back.
“To get here. I’ve been waiting for you.”
“I should’ve called,” Jack said. “Sorry to make you wait, Nashville.”
Nash laughed lightly at the mention of this long-forgotten nickname.
“Did I ever tell you why we named you that?” Jack asked. Nash shook his head, still smiling. “Your mom and I went there—to Nashville—on our honeymoon. Drove down there. We didn’t have a penny to our names then. We were opening up envelopes and cards people gave us for the wedding every time we had to get gas or eat. And there was something about that place—the lushness of it and the energy of it—that was just like fairy dust. And when you were born, almost nine months later exactly, and you were lying there all purple in your mother’s arms, and we still didn’t have a name picked out for you, she looked up at me, radiating joy, and told me that the only time she had ever felt as happy was with me on our honeymoon. There were three of us, now, she said, and we should include this little guy in all our happy times, even the ones he wasn’t quite present for. I smiled down at her and she looked up at me and said, ‘Nash.’ And I agreed. Nash it was.” Jack looked up to see Nash tying his shoes. “Where are you going?”
Nash turned to face him. “I have to leave now, Pops.”
Jack could feel the light in the room getting brighter and brighter. “No, not yet. Please don’t go, Nash. Just a little longer. We could talk, like before.”
“Sorry, Pops,” Nash said. He was smiling as he walked toward the skinny door. Like he used to do when Jack asked him to go one more round in cribbage and Nash had had somewhere else to be. “It’s time for me to go. Have to. I love you, Pops. And I’ll be around; don’t worry.”
Jack found himself in the room alone suddenly, and he woke with a start to see the red digits on the alarm clock glaring at him: 4:11. The empty darkness had startled him, pressed hard into him with its nothingness. He so desperately wanted to stay in that light-filled room with Nash.
He had gotten up then, wandering
He put his hand on hers. She raised her head, and then her eyes, to meet his. “Aww, Macy girl? Come on now. This is your thing,” he said, patting her hand. It felt like a child’s under his. Small and delicate.
“It’s not the same without him. Nothing’s the same. I can’t do this. I don’t want to.”
“You can—and you will,” Jack said. He ducked under Gounda’s neck and tugged on Macy’s sleeve to get her to step down off the stool. Like a drugged puppy, she let Jack guide her down, and he put an arm around her, leading her to the tack trunk just outside Gounda’s stall.
He knew these bouts. Oh, how he knew them. He knew how fast they hit, how they seemed so deep and impossible to crawl out of. They could be brought on by a song, or a smell, or, as he had experienced at Festival Foods only a few weeks before, seeing Nash’s favorite childhood cereal—Count Chocula—on a walk down aisle five. He had left that day with Magda’s shopping list in shreds, and his dignity in a similar way after a concerned fellow patron, and then a stock boy, were unable to rouse him from where he had crumpled, unable to catch his breath or cease his sobbing. After that, he and Magda had arranged to have their groceries delivered.
It was an impossible feeling to deal with, that kind of loss. It was impossible to predict what might trigger the flood of memories. And it was equally impossible to understand—the finality of someone who always was, suddenly being nothing. Nowhere.
One early morning, not long ago, he had woken suddenly from a dream about Nash. He and Nash had been in a white room with no decorations and no furniture except for the orange, molded-plastic chairs they were sitting on. There was one slim door in the far wall.
“What took you so long, Pops?” Nash asked.
“What took me so long for what?” Jack asked back.
“To get here. I’ve been waiting for you.”
“I should’ve called,” Jack said. “Sorry to make you wait, Nashville.”
Nash laughed lightly at the mention of this long-forgotten nickname.
“Did I ever tell you why we named you that?” Jack asked. Nash shook his head, still smiling. “Your mom and I went there—to Nashville—on our honeymoon. Drove down there. We didn’t have a penny to our names then. We were opening up envelopes and cards people gave us for the wedding every time we had to get gas or eat. And there was something about that place—the lushness of it and the energy of it—that was just like fairy dust. And when you were born, almost nine months later exactly, and you were lying there all purple in your mother’s arms, and we still didn’t have a name picked out for you, she looked up at me, radiating joy, and told me that the only time she had ever felt as happy was with me on our honeymoon. There were three of us, now, she said, and we should include this little guy in all our happy times, even the ones he wasn’t quite present for. I smiled down at her and she looked up at me and said, ‘Nash.’ And I agreed. Nash it was.” Jack looked up to see Nash tying his shoes. “Where are you going?”
Nash turned to face him. “I have to leave now, Pops.”
Jack could feel the light in the room getting brighter and brighter. “No, not yet. Please don’t go, Nash. Just a little longer. We could talk, like before.”
“Sorry, Pops,” Nash said. He was smiling as he walked toward the skinny door. Like he used to do when Jack asked him to go one more round in cribbage and Nash had had somewhere else to be. “It’s time for me to go. Have to. I love you, Pops. And I’ll be around; don’t worry.”
Jack found himself in the room alone suddenly, and he woke with a start to see the red digits on the alarm clock glaring at him: 4:11. The empty darkness had startled him, pressed hard into him with its nothingness. He so desperately wanted to stay in that light-filled room with Nash.
He had gotten up then, wandering
Similar Books
