Dear John(89)

“It’s okay,” I reassured her.

“Maybe,” she said. “But it’s selfish, too. You’re trying to work through your own emotions about losing your dad, and here I am, saddling you with mine about something that might or might not happen.” She turned to look out the cafeteria’s window, but I knew she wasn’t seeing the sloping lawn beyond.

“Hey,” I said, reaching for her hand. “I meant it. I’m glad you told me, if only so you could get it off your chest.”

In time, Savannah shrugged. “So that’s us, huh? Two wounded warriors looking for support.”

“That sounds about right.”

Her eyes rose to meet mine. “Lucky us,” she whispered.

Despite everything, I felt my heart skip a beat.

“Yeah,” I echoed. “Lucky us.”




We spent most of the afternoon in Tim’s room. He was asleep when we got there, woke for a few minutes, then slept again. Alan kept vigil at the foot of his bed, ignoring my presence while he focused on his brother. Savannah alternately stayed beside Tim on the bed or sat in the chair next to mine. When she was close, we spoke of Tim’s condition, of skin cancer in general, the specifics of possible alternative treatments. She’d spent weeks researching on the Internet and knew the details of every clinical trial in progress. Her voice never rose above a whisper; she didn’t want Alan to overhear. By the time she was finished, I knew more about melanoma than I imagined possible.

It was a little after the dinner hour when Savannah finally rose. Tim had slept for most of the afternoon, and by the tender way she kissed him good-bye, I knew she believed he’d sleep most of the night as well. She kissed him a second time, then squeezed his hand and motioned toward the door. We crept out quietly.

“Let’s head to the car,” she said once we were out in the hallway.

“Are you coming back?”

“Tomorrow. If he does wake, I don’t want to give him a reason to feel like he has to stay awake. He needs his rest.”

“What about Alan?”

“He rode his bike,” she said. “He rides here every morning and comes back late at night. He won’t come with me, even if I ask. But he’ll be okay. He’s been doing the same thing for months now.”

A few minutes later, we left the hospital parking lot and turned into the flow of evening traffic. The sky was turning a thickening gray, and heavy clouds were on the horizon, portending the same kinds of thunderstorms common to the coast. Savannah was lost in thought and said little. In her face, I saw reflected the same exhaustion that I felt. I couldn’t imagine having to come back tomorrow, and the next day, and the day after that, all the while knowing there was a possibility he could get better somewhere else.

When we pulled in the drive, I looked over at Savannah and noticed a tear trickling slowly down her cheek. The sight of it nearly broke my heart, but when she saw me staring at her, she swiped at the tear, looking surprised at its appearance. I pulled the car to a stop beneath the willow tree, next to the battered truck. By then, the first few drops of rain were beginning to hit the windshield.

As the car idled in place, I wondered again whether this was good-bye. Before I could think of something to say, Savannah turned toward me. “Are you hungry?” she asked. “There’s a ton of food in the fridge.”

Something in her gaze warned me that I should decline, but I found myself nodding. “I would love something to eat,” I said.

“I’m glad,” she said, her voice soft. “I don’t really want to be alone tonight.”

We got out of the car as the rain began to fall harder. We made a dash for the front door, but by the time we reached the porch, I could feel the wetness soaking through the fabric of my clothes. Molly heard us, and as Savannah pushed open the door, the dog surged past me through the kitchen to what I assumed was the living room. As I watched the dog, I thought about my arrival the day before and how much had changed in the time we’d been apart. It was too much to process. Much the way I had while on patrol in Iraq, I steeled myself to focus only on the present yet remain alert to what might come next.

“We’ve got a bit of everything,” she called out on her way to the kitchen. “That’s how my mom’s been handling all of this. Cooking. We have stew, chili, chicken pot pie, barbecued pork, lasagna . . .” She poked her head out of the refrigerator as I entered the kitchen. “Does anything sound appetizing?”

“It doesn’t matter,” I said. “Whatever you want.”

At my answer, I saw a flash of disappointment on her face and knew instantly that she was tired of having to make decisions. I cleared my throat.