“I am. And I’m stanky. Those CNAs did their best, but I do not smell good. See you soon, pretty boy.”
Oh, the shower, that beautiful shower. Lauren spent forty-five minutes shampooing, shaving her ridiculously furry legs and scrubbing her skin with the almond-lemony shower gel she loved. When she was finished, she was a little tired, but it was worth it. Thunder rumbled in the distance, and Lauren looked out the window, the view so familiar and beloved. The formerly clear skies were clouding over, since New England could never make up her mind about weather.
Home. She’d never take it for granted again.
“Hello, big boy,” she said, walking into the kitchen in her silky pink robe, naked underneath. She wrapped her arms around Josh’s waist and pressed her face against his shoulder.
“Nope. First I feed you, then I shag you.”
“I accept.” She sat down to grilled salmon over an arugula salad, vegetable fried rice. It smelled like heaven—ginger and garlic—and suddenly she was ravenous.
“Who brought this?”
“I made it, thank you very much. I’m upping my cooking game.”
“Huh. Being hospitalized has its upsides.”
“Glad you think so.” He smiled. They were both so giddy that she was home that even a mention of her illness couldn’t put a damper on their moods. They ate—and ate—then had fat slices of coffee cake.
God, it was good. Josh cleared the dishes, then led her to the couch and pulled her back against his chest, his arms around her.
“Don’t I smell nice?” she asked. “Better than the hospital?”
“You do. Fish and flowers. My favorite combination.”
For a while, they just sat and looked out the big windows at the lights of the city, smeared by a thunderstorm. The distant rumble and pattering rain sounded so pretty and gentle.
“Listen,” Lauren said eventually. “That whole lung collapse and intubation . . . I’m sorry you had to go through that. It must have been terrifying.”
“Yes, it was all about me, now that you mention it.”
She laughed and snuggled closer. “I know IPF is part of my life, but I still want to love it. My life, that is. Every day. Every hour. I want to have fun and do things and go places and be irresponsible and eat bad food—just once in a while, don’t panic—and . . . and all that stuff. I don’t want to be constantly checking myself to see if I’m okay.”
“‘Get busy living, or get busy dying,’” Josh intoned in his best impression of Morgan Freeman.
“Don’t you Shawshank me. But yes.”
He turned her to face him, and his eyes were shiny. “You’re the best thing that ever happened to me, Lauren. That hasn’t changed. That will never change.” His voice grew hoarse. “And, yes, I’m terrified of losing you.”
“I’m so sorry, honey.” Hot tears slipped out of her eyes. “I don’t want to die. I don’t want to be sick. I don’t want to leave you, but I’m here now, and that . . . that has to be enough.”
He looked at her for the longest time. A tear escaped, and she wiped it away. His eyes were so kind and gentle. That flame was still there, lighting up her heart. “Okay,” he finally whispered. “It will be enough. I’m still gonna keep trying to find a cure, though. Obviously.”
“Just not twenty hours a day, because I need you. Right here. With me, not attached to the computer.”
“I get it. Yes, ma’am.”
She kissed him, his lips so soft and wonderful. “I love you with all my heart.”
“I love you with all my liver.” He grinned, and she was abruptly laughing and crying. He knew. He understood. He always did.
“Okay.” She wiped her eyes. “So am I gonna get laid, or what?”
The answer was yes. He was gentle and slow and maybe a little too careful, but they were together, where they belonged.
And it was more than enough.
19
Joshua
Month six
August
JOSH HAD INTENDED to make things right with Sarah, but she’d taken a vacation just after his outburst. If she got his text, then email, she hadn’t answered.
He was tired of himself as he was. He hated the word widower, hated the oppressing sense of fatigue that started every day. The other day, his friend Keung in London had emailed him. Said he was thinking of Josh because—wait for it—his grandmother had died, and he was really grieving, man, it was so hard, such an empty space in his life, he wanted to reach out to Josh, who’d understand.
Josh looked up her obituary. Old Gran-Gran had been ninety-seven. No. He did not understand. He wrote a furious response, sent it and then blocked Keung’s number and email address. It wasn’t like they’d been close anyway. Who needed a friend like that?
He unblocked Keung the next day and apologized for being an asshole (even if Keung should’ve been a teeny bit more sensitive).
Josh wanted to make his wife proud. He wanted her approval. After the unpleasantness with Sarah, and the resentment when she, Donna and Jen had gone through her things, the angry email to Keung, he needed to do something to show he wasn’t that guy . . . to her, and to himself.
He wanted to do something good. Something Lauren-ish. Something that required him not to simply throw money at a cause—last month, he’d donated a chunk of money to the Hope Center’s latest project, which was turning a parking lot for a former podiatry office into a children-run community garden. Asmaa had gotten a grant to buy it, but she asked him if he’d like to donate to get the tarmac ripped up, buy supplies and plants, etc. “We’ll call it the Lauren Carlisle Park Children’s Community Garden,” she said. “Even if you don’t donate a dime, we’re naming it after her.”
“I’ll donate more than a dime,” he said. “But let’s just call it Lauren’s Garden.” He told Jen and Darius about it, too, and Donna, and his own mom, and they all donated, too, as he knew they’d want to.
But he wanted to do more than just write a check, so he met Asmaa at the garden site. They were struggling to design an irrigation system, he offered a solution, and just like that, he became a volunteer. A couple of times a week, he showed up to shovel dirt, help the younger kids make trellises for peas and beans for next spring. He helped them figure out where to put the paths and where to put the beds. His mom, who was quite the gardener, brought in plants that would grow again next year, and showed the kids how to deadhead the flowers.
It was exactly what Lauren would have done. The Hope Center was where they remet that perfect night when he saw her and knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that he had been really, really wrong about Lauren Rose Carlisle.