The Gift

M. Willow

In shirt sleeves he works, taking one pancake from the skillet and sliding it onto my plate, the hard muscles of his arm flexing as if he is doing hard, manual labor.   He pulls off his apron and sits down across from me, eyeing me appreciatively before digging into his own plate.  Then he looks up, his eyes dancing.  He knows what the sight of him in an apron does to me.

 “What,” he asks, eyeing me with his most innocent little boy expression. 

Of course he knows I am thinking of the apron and trying desperately not to laugh.  But it’s impossible.  The thing is girly-frilly with lace at the bottom and pink and blue flowers.  Who could blame a girl if she laughs at her he-man husband looking suddenly feminine?  Both of us burst out laughing like little children.  Then I stop.  “Did you know you’re gorgeous?” I ask, mischief in my voice.

“Men aren’t gorgeous.  Women are.”  He has on his 100 watt smile that lights the kitchen and competes with the sunlight pouring in through the windows. 

“Thanks,” I say.  “I really needed to laugh.  It’s been a long time.”

“I know.” 

Our eyes lock and understanding flows like a river between us.  Then I glance out the window, trying to keep the tears at bay.   It is December and outside the air is frigid cold and the snow is deep, virgin, not a single footprint or tire track in sight.  From our window, I can see the other homes that surround our little Victorian Painted Lady and I imagine the families snuggled inside, happy and warm.  Oh, how I wish I could be one of them, snuggled in the arms of my husband, but that part of my life is long past.

I pull my eyes back from the window, taking advantage of the moment, watching him carefully, trying to etch in my mind his image before this dream ends.  In my dream he is young,   his body strong beneath the t-shirt he wears.  And the disease that stole his life is well into the future.  Now his hazel eyes bore into mine, stripping away the mask I’ve learned to wear, reaching down into my soul to reveal the emptiness that haunts my life now that he is dead.  I am ashamed.  I am no longer the vibrant woman he loved.  I am only the remnant of that woman.

He reaches across the table, taking my hand in his, and my body fills with his warmth.  He is mine again.  Mine if only for a moment.  If only for a second.  Here is love.  Here is life and I cling to it with a sort of desperation. 

I watch as he transforms.  Now his hair is longer, sun-kissed, his hazel eyes soft.  He is again the surfer boy I met thirty years ago on the beach.  Back then I had been plain, unloved.  But his love had somehow transformed me.  I was beautiful in his eyes, and so I became beautiful in mine.  But now beauty has slipped away.  It died when he died.  In so many ways I died on that day, only no one knew to bury me.  So now my dear husband sat with a shell of a woman, an empty woman weary of life.  An old woman.

“You’re beautiful,” he said, startling me with his soft voice.

Had I forgotten his voice, the sound of it?  The way it warmed my soul. My mind goes back to the moments he held me in his arms, singing sweetly in my ear.  Then suddenly, in the way of dreams, I am in his arms, filling my senses with his scent.  I could hear his heart beat, feel his muscles pressed against my body.  I wanted to absorb him, to feel him in my pores.  Tears slide down my face.  I feel his hands glide through my hair and a sort of calmness settles over me.  And then he speaks again.

 “There is no reason to cry, my love.  There is only happiness ahead. You need only wait.”

But how could happiness exist in a world where he no longer exists?    

 He pulls back, cupping my chin in his soft hand. “Do you need to talk?”  His voice was silky. 

I shook my head.  “Just be here,” I said.  And that is really all I wanted.  When I awake the real world would be waiting.  But I didn’t want it here now.  I didn’t want to tell him that he was dead.  And that I was alone.  “I love you,” I said, instead.

 “I love you too.” He smiles.  “Now, we must hurry.  I must give you your gift.”

I’d nearly forgotten that it is my birthday.  But now excitement fills me as he leads me into the living room and sits me down on the sofa.  Then he is on his knees. 

“I wanted to find something special,” he said.  “Something that would tell you what I want from you.”   

It was inexplicable how the large box appeared: suddenly and right next to me on the sofa.  But there it was, all wrapped in pink and white with a large pink bow on the top.  I open it quickly; anxious to find out what was inside.  I received the surprise of my life.

It is empty.  It is an empty box. 

I raise my eyebrow, clearly puzzled.  “It’s empty,” I say, stating the obvious.

He smiles.  “No it’s not.  Can’t you see it?”

I look again as if somehow it would appear, but the box is still empty and I am still puzzled.  I shook my head.  “I don’t understand.”

“The gift isn’t about things.  It’s about understanding.  It is about understanding what I want from you.” 

I look at him, astonished to see the familiar lines on his face, the grey hair.   He is aging before my eyes.  Now he looks as he did in the year of his death only somehow healthier.  Vibrant. 

“Let me explain,” he continues.  “The box is empty because you have not filled it.” 

I shook my head, still trying to understand.  “But it’s empty.”

“No, my darling.  The box is merely a symbolic representation of your life.  Right now, you feel empty inside.   You’ve shut yourself away, feeling that you can no longer be happy without me.  You’ve become incapable of seeing the blessings you have all around you.  The potential for true happiness.  You no longer see a purpose in life, so you spend your days waiting to die. But that must stop.  You must understand what happiness is and the many forms it takes.  The years we had were happy ones, but there are many more ahead for you if you would only learn to see them.” 

I thought back over the past eight months: The phone calls I never answered.  The days I’d lay on the sofa watching television, my mind centered on all I had lost.  Happiness was my husband and when he died, I thought I’d lost everything.  I thought I had lost my right to happiness, but maybe he was right.  Thinking of it now I realize that I had so much to live for, so much love and happiness just waiting for me to see it. 

I look inside the box again.  And this time there is something there.  It is a small ring-sized box.  I pick it up, cradling it in my hand.

“It is only the beginning,” he says.  “Look at the smaller things in your life first.  Take joy in them.  The best is yet to come.”

I open the box, finding a heart-shaped necklace nestled inside.  I gently lifted it, the sunlight glinting off its smooth golden surface.  I turn it over and saw to my surprise that it is inscribed.  But I can’t read it.   “It’s beautiful,” I say.  “But I can’t read it.  I’ve got to get my glasses.” 

He smiles, obviously satisfied that I can see this gift.  “I’ll get them.”  And he jumps up before I can stop him.  I reach out into dead air and an odd ringing sound fills the room.  Then the room starts to fade, dissolve before my eyes.   I watch him shimmer as if light were filling his body, our eyes meeting for one final moment.  Then our world fades and my world reclaims its place.  It takes me a moment to realize that the strange ringing sound is the doorbell.  But I can’t move.  Not yet.   I want to return and see him once more.   I close my eyes, willing my body to move from this world, but the other is locked to me and so I remained.  Still the bell continues to ring and I get up, sliding into my shoes, walking slowly to the door.  When I open it I find a dark-skinned, petite woman with long platted braids staring at me.  It takes only a second before I realized it is his nurse.  She’d provided home care in the last six months of his life.  I smile in spite of my anger over losing the dream.  It was just that, I thought.  But now, I have a visitor.  It is time I start to live again.

“Angela,” I say, extending my hand and inviting her in.”

She smiles back and hands me a small box gift-wrapped yellow box.

“You shouldn’t have,” I say, puzzled by the gift.  She and I didn’t have that sort of friendship.  “Come on in.”

She shakes her head.  “No.  I’ve got to get going.  The kids are in the car, but I wanted to drop this off.  It was a promise I made.”

I raise my eyebrow.  “Promise?”

“Yes.  Your husband asked me to bring this to you on your birthday,” she gushes.  “I almost forgot, but here I am.”

My heart skips a beat, a thrill running down my spine.  “Thank you,” I say, anxious for her to leave.

She nods then turns and heads back to her car.  “Call me if you need anything,” she shouts back.  But I am already closing the door.

I hastily retreat to the living room, plopping down on the sofa and immediately tearing the wrapping off.  I am surprised to see what is inside: a small ring-sized box.  Was it possible, I wonder?  Could it be the beautiful necklace from my dream?  But no.  That is the stuff of movies.  This is reality and what is in this box would clearly be something else.  Still…

I open it, steeling my breath.  And there it sits, encased in felt, the object of my dream: the heart shaped necklace.  I hold it in my hand, tracing my fingers across its smooth golden surface.  Then I place it in the palm of my hand and turn it over.  On the back is an inscription.  I quickly grab my glasses from the side table and read it.

Our love is eternal.  There is no end.

I sat there holding it, tears streaming down my face.   And I read that inscription until the sun turned orange and I could not see.  Then I lay back on the sofa, thinking of my life and what I had done with it these past 8 months.  My husband wants me to live.  He wants me to be happy.  I can’t just go on breathing and waiting to die.  Now is the time for life and the happiness I’d lost sight of.  This will be my testament to the man I married.   

I walk over to the window and look out at the glittering snow under the full moonlight.  I look up at the moon, picturing my love on the other side looking down on me. He has given me the greatest gift of all:  A return to happiness.

                                                   Fin