Josh and Gemma the Second Time Around
June, at The Whittcombe
Josh
It’s alright, Josh, she’s alright.
I push down the fear, the doubt, and ignore the voice that sometimes whispers insidiously, what if she doesn’t wake up, what if she never comes back, and instead put a carefree smile on my face.
Dylan studies my expression, the tension in my shoulders, the tightness of my jaw and since he’s known me since I was eight, my smile doesn’t fool him one bit. However, he’s a good enough friend to know that this smile is the only thing holding me up.
It’s like this every time.
Even after three months, every time I leave the grit and noise of the street and duck inside the dim, muted halls of The Whittcombe, I feel as if I’m walking on a tightrope and if I make one false step everything will come tumbling down.
Dylan glances at Gemma’s room—the roses, the sunflowers, the teddy bears from the kids, the get-well pictures Colin drew the last time he was here with Leah—and then his eyes land on Gemma.
“She looks good,” he says, nodding as if to convince himself. “Real good.”
“She’ll wake up soon.”
“I didn’t say she wouldn’t.”
I nod, then reach down to Hope and pull her from the stroller, lifting her into my arms. Her arms wheel and her eyes light with delight as I swing her up and blow a kiss against her cheek. People say she looks like me, but I think she looks like Gemma.
Hope’s soft baby scent surrounds me, chasing away the medicinal, antiseptic smell of the clinic.
“There’s your mom,” I tell Hope, and when she makes a soft noise, I nod, “exactly, she’s been waiting to see you.”
Hope’s weight helps settle me, and when she reaches up to grab my ear and tug, I smile at her.
“I’m going to check the cafeteria,” Dylan says, “Mom’s down the hall talking to Dr. Matsos, and I think…today’s Wednesday…I think it’s chocolate babka in the cafeteria today. Or is it banana cream pie?”
“It’s babka. Tuesday is banana cream pie.”
Dylan salutes me with a grin, then before leaving, calls loudly, “Hey Gemma. Hurry up and wake up or I’m going to go through your room, read all your middle school diaries, draw mustaches on your kitten posters, and microwave your Barbies.”
He waits for a second, watching his sister to see if his threat did the trick. When she doesn’t move, not even to twitch an eyelid, he shrugs. “Worth a shot.”
“Dylan Michael, what are you saying to your sister?” Mrs. Jacobs bustles up, a whirlwind of energy.
“Aww Mom.” Dylan eyes the bags under his mom’s eyes, the new wrinkles stretching over her forehead, and the brittle way she holds herself. He puts his arm around her shoulder and pulls her into his side. “I drove all the way down here just so I could have a coffee and a babka with you. And maybe some pork cutlets and mashed potatoes. You’re not going to yell at me for that, are you? I’m your favorite son, aren’t I?”
She frowns at him. “Humph. Josh is my favorite son. Then Oliver.”
Dylan snorts, and his mom leans into his side, taking the comfort he’s offering.
“Come on, Mom. I’m hungry. Josh hasn’t seen Gemma since he got back from Cali. He probably needs some alone time with her. All that lovey dovey stuff. You know.”
“Want me to take Hope, Josh? I can feed her her bottle.”
I shake my head and smile. “It’s fine. I’ve got her. Take your time.”
Dylan steers his mom down the long corridor toward the cafeteria, chatting loudly about the benefit of eating dessert before dinner, and then the promotion he’s aiming for.
Hope wiggles in my arms, kicking her legs, and arching toward the interior of Gemma’s room. We’ve been standing in the entry, stuck at the threshold.
Whenever I step into the room, it feels as if a large sheet has been thrown over me. The world quiets, the lights dim, the sounds hush. Everything outside disappears, there’s only the quiet of the room and Gemma, asleep, the seconds streaming past her.
Ragged blue light, as indigo as a blueberry, ripe and hot under the summer sun filters over the floor and halts at the edge of Gemma’s hospital bed. Rails on the side keep her in place, the white sheets cover her, she’s as unmoving as a still-life drawing. Not even the rise and fall of her chest is distinguishable.
The scent of the roses on the table filter through the sharp, antiseptic air. Hope clutches my shirt in her baby hand and I hold her close, then step into the room.
Gemma’s lost weight. Not eating solid food does that to you. I hate it though. It’s like she’s slowly leaking away, and soon she won’t be left at all.
I sit in the plastic chair next to her, dragging it close.
“Hey Gemma,” I say into the quiet. “Missed you. Sorry I was gone, but I’m here now.”
Hope reaches for her mom’s long hair, glossy and dark against the white pillow case.
I bounce Hope in my arms, rock her. And then I talk, telling Gemma everything that’s happened since I saw her last week. I talk for a long time. I tell her about California, about the writer’s room, the set, and filming. I tell her about the new series I’m working on, a portal fantasy with a main character who is a lot like her. I tell her about how much Hope likes to hold onto her bottle when she eats, her little pink fingers wrapped around the glass, and how she loves to chew on the toy giraffe Sasha gave her. I tell her about how Chase licked the formula in Hope’s hair, and how I’m adding clouds to the mural in Hope’s bedroom. I tell her about her mom’s birthday party, and Leah’s disaster at her last PTA meeting, and Dylan’s whining about how much he misses her, and then I tell her about how Hope and I can’t wait until she comes home, how we’ll take walks in the park, and have picnics under the sun. How we have a shelf full of books to read to Hope and a drawer full of kids’ art supplies that we’ll pull out someday and…
Hope’s asleep in my arms, her fist in her mouth, her eyelids fluttering, the fragile blue veins crisscrossing over her pink skin. She’s been lulled by the rumble of my voice, the warmth of my arms. I rock her for a moment, then tuck her into her stroller.
Then I kneel next to Gemma and slowly take her hand.
Her fingers are cool and dry.
Her pulse flickers on the underside of her wrist.
I hold onto her hand, the unyielding summer sun drifting over us, spilling across the bed.
“Do you remember,” I ask her in a quiet voice, “the first time you said you loved me?”
I smile at the memory. It was Gemma, through and through.
I thread my fingers with hers. Hold her tight.
Gemma will wake up. She’ll come back. She loves us too much to do otherwise. And if she can’t find her way out of the dark, then I’ll be here, to help her find the light.
“We’re here,” I tell her, brushing aside the stretch of dark hair falling across her face. Her cheekbones jut out, her lips are dry and chapped. I stroke my fingers over her cheek. Her eyelashes stay still, not even flickering with a dream. Her breathing stays even and shallow. “We’re here, loving you.”
I pause, then say, “In a week, I have to go back to California, so I won’t visit for a bit. Your mom will come, and Hope. But don’t worry if you don’t see me for a few days. I’ll be back. You know me. You can’t get rid of me.”
I give Gemma the smile that she says she loves, the one that always makes her kiss me.
“But just in case you forget…”
I pull a pen from my coat pocket, pull the cap free. It’s .3mm, black ink, one of my favorites. I spread her palm, smooth out the flesh of her hand.
Then I start to draw, a small object, one recognizable by everyone in the world.
“In case you forget,” I say, finishing the drawing, “I’ve drawn it for you. You hold my heart in the palm of your hand. It’s there for everyone to see.”
I curl her fingers around the ink drawing. I curl her fingers around my heart.
I wrap my fingers around Gemma’s and then tell her, as the sunlight gleams over us, and the sounds of the clinic seep through the door, “I love you. I know you’ll wake up. I know you will. And when you do, I’m here. No matter what comes, I’m here.”
I wait, breath held, for Gemma to open her eyes.
When she doesn’t, I squeeze her hand one last time, and leave my heart with her.
Fiji
After the wedding
Josh
“Do you think,” Gemma asks, tracing her fingers over the bare lines of my abdomen, “our life will still be interesting, now that we’re married?”
I grin over at her, resting on the plush comforter, the tropical ocean breeze blowing over us from the open windows of our wedding suite. The scent of salt spray and sand, and tropical flowers opening in the sun drifts across the bed. The sheer mosquito netting surrounding the bed drifts like a cloud in the breeze, lazily moving to the swaying crash of the waves over the sandy beach. Sunlight and shadow flickers over Gemma’s skin, painting her in palm leaves and flowers.
Outside, music and laughter plays over the waves, the post-wedding party still in full gear. The hum of wind through palm flicks with a low, satisfying thrum.
It matches the thrum pulsing through me, a heady contentment that has me pulling Gemma into my side. I let the lines of her body rest against mine, she fits herself against me and lays her head to my chest. My fingers drift down her spine and her hands drift lower on me.
I quirk my eyebrow with interest and she smiles at me, batting her eyelashes.
“Do you want our life to be interesting?” I ask her, my voice low, her hand moving lower.
“I don’t know…what do you think? Do you want ordinary, or do you want…interesting?”
Her hand reaches me, and even though we just finished five minutes ago, I’m ready again. I flip her under me, and pin her down, fitting my legs around hers.
“I think,” I tell her, kissing the warm, scented place at the curve of her neck and shoulder, “life will always be interesting with you.”
“Will it?”
I nudge her legs apart and she grins up at me.
“Definitely.”
And then Gemma takes my face in her hands, pulls me into a kiss, and welcomes me home. And as we make love, for the second time around, as man and wife, I decide that life with Gemma will always be interesting, but even more, it will be wondrous. And then I stop thinking altogether, and just love.
