Sharon O'Donnell

 

EXCERPT

"This is it," Tom said to me as we drove down the Blue Ridge Parkway, the leaves brilliant reds, golds, and oranges. Mid-October. I looked over at Tom, at his bald head from the chemo, the tired eyes, the drawn face. Then I looked ahead again, out the windshield of our Toyota Camry into a crystal blue sky. "Don’t say it," I thought, but he did.

"This is our last vacation together," he said softly, wistfully. He reached across the car seat, took my hand.

I nodded. "I know," I whispered, disappointed that reality had eclipsed my sense of hope, my prayers for a miracle. Silence filled the car so loudly I could barely stand it. We drove on, past roadside fruit stands and antique stores. Finally he pulled over at a turn-out, a little area for tourists to enjoy the spectacular view. He grabbed the camera, got out. I couldn’t move.

"Come on, Peg, let’s go," Tom’s voice called from outside the car. Reluctantly, I opened the car door, put my feet on the ground, then stood, wobbly. It felt like I was taking my first steps, not sure how to put one foot in front of the other. Tourists swarmed all over the place, snapping photos, smiling. My face was frozen, unemotional. I was dazed, like I’d just stepped from Kansas into the Land of Oz. I made my way over to Tom, linked my arm through his, and we stood there on the edge of a mountain, looking over God’s beautiful creation. My mind went back to Sunday School lessons when I was a kid, how God was in control of things, would take care of things. I remembered a song we sang about how God promises to watch over even the tiniest birds. I looked up at the sky and wondered why if God could take care of birds, why then couldn’t He have taken care of Tom. Tears came to my eyes, and I reached to wipe them away. Tom put his arms around me, his arms that used to be so muscular, now so frail. "I’m so sorry," he said, like there was something he could have done about it.

I shook my head, sniffed. I turned to him and put my head against his chest. "I’ll be okay," I mumbled. "It’s you that –" I couldn’t finish the sentence, had no idea how to.