“Wise men say
Only fools rush in
But I can't help falling in love with you
Shall I stay?
Would it be a sin
If I can't help falling in love with you?”
Only fools rush in.
There is meaning in those words.
It tugs.
Draws with it a sense of…self.
An awareness of I.
“…But I'm content
The angels must have sent you
And they meant you just for me…”
This is accompanied by a ukulele. I know that song. It sings in my heart.
I’m Jolene.
Where am I?
I hear his voice again. His voice.
Who is he? Why does his voice drag me upward, away from the dark cold nothing and into the lightning soaring maybe of sound and breath?
“Together can never be close enough for me
To feel like I am close enough to you
You wear white and I'll wear out the words ‘I love you’
And ‘You're beautiful…’
“Marry me…”
With violent, crushing suddenness, awareness returns in full.
Wes.
The video.
The hotel room…
His house—our bed…
The pool. The helicopter.
The cabin.
Oh my soul, the cabin. Making love to my beautiful man in the light of a dying fire, as stars burn and wheel and fade all around.
Westley, and his voice:
“Jolene, I know you can hear me. I love you. I need you. I want you. Come back to me, baby. Please.”
He sounds so tired, so sad.
I could hug him and kiss him and tell him I love him and let him rest with me—
If only I could find my way out of this darkness.
Up, Jolene. Up.
Out.
Breath.
Eyes.
Memory.
God, I love that book. I read it so many times the spine cracked in half and the pages fell out.
I want to sing to him.
Say you will…
Marry me.
I will, Wes.
Keep talking to me.
Say my name.
Tell me you love me. I’m here.
There’s a trade-off.
With awareness, comes pain.
Am I dying? Did I die? Am I a ghost, trapped in nothingness and forced to listen to his voice but never see him, never speak to him?
The pain is a badge—it means I’m alive.
As long as there’s pain, there’s possibility.
I drown in the raging ocean of half silence, and cling to a spar of hope.
Draw Me Back to You
Westley
There is no comprehension of the passage of time. It could be hours, or weeks, or days, or months since the doctor delivered the news of a maybe.
There were more tests. More vague half answers.
Then we were allowed back in her room and she’s once more asleep in a nest of tubes and wires.
There’s still the beep-beep-beep, but no hisss-whirr. Still the cannula in her nose, but no pump.
Does that mean she’s breathing on her own?
Figures come and go.
Grandma sits with me beside her. Or in the chapel and we pray while others sit with her.
I’ve always been here, in this hospital.
My phone kept ringing and ringing, so I threw it away.
I think Grandma retrieved it. I heard her talking to someone about me. I don’t know.
I sing to her. I have her ukulele and I play it, and I sing. Elvis and Dolly and Les Mis and Train, I sing the music from the movie I’m supposed to be making. I sing to her, and I hold her hand.
The ring is in my hand. I think it’s burned an imprint in my palm. I want her to wake up, so I can put it on her finger and tell her she’s mine and marry her, and love her, forever.
They check her stats, check monitors.
Escort me out and bathe her.
I hold her hand, and it’s small and pale and delicate. There’s a freckle on her right hand, on the back, in the very center of the web between index finger and thumb.
Another on her left hand, where the ring should go.
They take her again, for more scans.
More waiting.
I pace the hall, restless.
I hear a wail, a scream and a sob.
I run back to the waiting room, and the doctor is there, the same stern, compassionate, composed doctor who delivered the news. He’s rubbing a fore knuckle under his eyes.
Sherri is being held up by Charlie, and Grandma is beside her, rubbing her back. Macy is crying. Bethany.
I just stand near them and stare.
Charlie grabs me by the shirt and roughly yanks me close. “It’s gone.” His voice is a ragged, broken whisper. “It’s gone. Totally gone.”
I can’t comprehend what he means.
Neither can he, I think.
“She’s back in her room. She hasn’t woken up yet, but I think she will soon.” The doctor sounds…I’m not sure there are words in any language to capture the complexity in his voice. “I’m a doctor. I believe in science. But…sometimes, you just have no choice but to believe in miracles. And this is one of them.”
I stagger out of the group hug, lurch and lumber to her room.
My legs weigh a million pounds.
When did I last sleep? Or eat?
I’ve had more coffee than any one human being should consume, probably.
None of that matters.
It’s gone?
I crumple to my knees beside her bed.
She doesn’t look different.
Less pale, maybe.
Her chest rises, falls.
I settle her hand over mine. “Jo?”
A finger twitches.
“Jo?” My voice cracks. “They say it’s gone. A miracle, like your grandma prayed for.”
Another twitch, a finger tightening against my hand.
“Come back to me, Jo.”
Twitch, and then another finger twitches.
“That’s it, honey.” I kiss her hand, careful to avoid the IV insertion near her wrist. “Come back to me. I love you, Jo. Wake up and…and when you’re better, we’re going to get married. In our backyard. You and your parents and your grandma—I’ve adopted her as my grandma, too, by the way—and Macy and Beth. They’ve been here the whole time. Beth has played you all the latest TikTok videos. Yours still holds the record, though, so don’t worry.”
Twitch, and then her whole hand squeezes. “Yeah, that’s right. You and me, babe. We’re gonna get married. You want to change your name? Become Mrs. Jolene Britton? Or, you could hyphenate. Jolene Park-Britton. Or just keep yours. Whatever makes you happy.”
I kiss the back of her hand again, the freckle there.
“Britton,” I hear. It’s a hoarse whisper. “Jolene Britton.”
Her eyes are open, green and beautiful.
“Hi,” I murmur. “Hi.”
She squeezes my hand. “You sang to me.”
I nod.
“I heard it.” Her eyes close, as if she’s still so tired, so weak, that whispering and keeping her eyes open takes enormous effort. “It drew me back to you.”
I sob. “You’re okay.”