Dear John(94)

She must have sensed me staring at her, for she looked over her shoulder toward me. I thought she would suddenly close the door or cover herself, but she didn’t. Instead, she caught my eyes and held them, willing me to continue watching her. And then, slowly, she turned around.

We stood there facing each other through the reflection in the mirror, with only the narrow hallway separating us. Her lips were parted slightly, and she lifted her chin a bit; I knew that if I lived to be a thousand, I would never forget how exquisite she looked at that moment. I wanted to cross the hallway and go to her, knowing that she wanted me as much as I wanted her. But I stayed where I was, frozen by the thought that she would one day hate me for what we both so obviously wanted.

And Savannah, who knew me better than anyone else, dropped her eyes as if suddenly coming to the same understanding. She turned back around just as the front door crashed open and I heard a loud wail pierce the darkness.

Alan . . .

I turned and rushed to the living room; Alan had already vanished into the kitchen, and I could hear the cupboard doors being opened and slammed while he continued to wail, almost as if he were dying. I stopped, not knowing what to do. A moment later, Savannah rushed past me, tugging her shirt back into place.

“Alan! I’m coming!” she shouted, her voice frantic. “It’s going to be okay!”

Alan continued to wail, and the cupboards continued to slam shut.

“Do you need help?” I called to her.

“No.” She gave a hard shake of her head. “Let me handle this. It happens sometimes when he gets home from the hospital.”

As she rushed into the kitchen, I could barely hear her beginning to talk to him. Her voice was almost lost in the clamor, but I heard the steadiness in it, and moving off to the side, I could see her standing next to him, trying to calm him. It didn’t seem to have any effect, and I felt the urge to help, but Savannah remained calm. She continued to talk steadily to him, then placed a hand on top of his, following along with the slamming.

Finally, after what seemed like forever, the slamming began to slow and become more rhythmic; from there it slowly faded away. Alan’s cries followed the same pattern. Savannah’s voice was softer now, and I could no longer hear distinct words.

I sat on the couch. A few minutes later, I rose and went to the window. It was dark; the clouds had passed, and above the mountains was a swirl of stars. Wondering what was going on, I moved to a spot in the living room that afforded a glimpse into the kitchen.

Savannah and Alan were sitting on the kitchen floor. Her back was leaning against the cupboards, and Alan rested his head on her chest as she ran a tender hand through his hair. He was blinking rapidly, as if wired to always be in motion. Savannah’s eyes gleamed with tears, but I could see her look of concentration, and I knew she was determined not to let him know how much she was hurting.

“I love him,” I heard Alan say. Gone was the deep voice from the hospital; this was the aching plea of a frightened little boy.

“I know, sweetie. I love him, too. I love him so much. I know you’re scared, and I’m scared, too.”

I could hear from her tone how much she meant it.

“I love him,” Alan repeated.

“He’ll be out of the hospital in a couple of days. The doctors are doing everything they can.”

“I love him.”

She kissed the top of his head. “He loves you, too, Alan. And so do I. And I know he’s looking forward to riding the horses with you again. He told me that. And he’s so proud of you. He tells me all the time what a good job you do around here.”

“I’m scared.”

“I am, too, sweetie. But the doctors are doing everything they can.”

“I love him.”

“I know. I love him, too. More than you can ever imagine.”

I continued to watch them, knowing suddenly that I didn’t belong here. In all the time I stood there, Savannah never looked up, and I felt haunted by all that we had lost.

I patted my pocket, pulled out my keys, and turned to leave, feeling tears burning at the back of my eyes. I opened the door, and despite the loud squeak, I knew that Savannah wouldn’t hear anything.

I stumbled down the steps, wondering if I’d ever been so tired in my life. And later, as I drove to my motel and listened to the car idle as I waited for the stoplights to change, I knew that passersby would see a man crying, a man whose tears felt as if they would never stop.




I spent the rest of the evening alone in my motel room. Outside, I could hear strangers passing by my door, wheeled luggage rolling behind them. When cars pulled into the lot, my room would be illuminated momentarily by headlights casting ghostly images against the walls. People on the go, people moving forward in life. As I lay on the bed, I was filled with envy and wondered whether I would ever be able to say the same.