July

Another sleepless night. I’ve become accustomed to the mood swings and baggy eyes that accompany daily reports and hollow hopes. As much as I can, anyway. 

“Mommy?”

I lurch out of my chair, hastily shuffling across the tiled floor. In seconds, I’m at her bedside. “I’m here, Gracie. I’m here.”

She looks up at me with her doughy green eyes, the ones that used to shimmer the reflection of the sun but now only reflect the sterile headlights of a hospital room. “Mommy,” she repeats, her frail hand reaching for me. I grip it tightly. “Can we go outside?”

I glance up at the windows, but a bleak curtain blocks the view outside. My eyes dart instead to the digital clock stationed on the windowsill. “It’s past midnight,” I whisper, squeezing her hand. Looking back at her, I attempt a smile. “Try to get back to sleep, okay?”

She grabs my hand tighter as I start to pull away. “Wait!” She cries, her voice resembling the last vestiges of a winter wind, reminiscent of an energy that has dwindled. 

“What?” I ask, trying not to notice that the strength of her voice has waned and her grip has abated more in the past few days than in the last year.

Her gaze shifts away. “Please stay.”

I pause. “Okay.”

Scooching her small form to one side, I pull up the covers of her bed and bury my feet beneath them. I sidle up next to her, my arm wrapping around her like a wing. Our breaths slowly fall in sync, our bodies fitting together like puzzle pieces. My eyelids gradually droop closed, my body in search of the sleep that has for so long eluded me. 

Late July. The heat is unbearable, but Gracie seems oblivious. She runs beneath an unforgiving sun, laughing as the grass tickles between her toes. Her father sits beside me at a splintering picnic table in the shade, grinning along with his daughter. Other than the high temperature, it’s a perfect day; the birds sing symphonies, the lilies are in full bloom, and the bumblebees meander harmlessly. 

She screams in delight as a butterfly teases her in the field, fluttering in close before zig-zagging away. Stumbling, she chases after it. 

“These are the days we’ll remember,” my husband says, quite wisely, but I’m not sure of his meaning. 

“Of course,” I say enthusiastically in response, though my voice sounds far-off. Detached. 

We watch Gracie scamper through the field after the butterfly for a little longer until the insect finally escapes her. Instead of pouting like any other toddler might do, she stays true to her happy-go-lucky self, shrugging off the disappointment and finding another adventure to pursue. This time her gaze lands on a caterpillar climbing up the stem of a lily. She squats down to observe it up close, her chubby palms resting on her rounded knees. 

My husband draws my attention away with a hand that grazes my arm. I follow with my eyes from his fingers, up his arm and to his eyes. They’re green just like Gracie’s. It takes me a moment to recognize the grief in them. “I’m sorry,” he tells me.

I frown. “For what?”

His hand slides down my arm so that his fingers can intertwine with mine. “I shouldn’t have left.”

Confusion creases my brown. “You haven’t left. You’re right here.”

He ignores me. “I should have stayed, even if I was mad. I should have made things right.” His eyes bore into mine, and I can see tears sparkling in the corners of their green. I blink, and to my surprise, tears roll down my own cheeks. 

“I don’t know what you’re saying,” I mutter, wiping my eyes with the back of my hands. But my voice is muted again and he doesn’t hear me.

“I didn’t stay, and you’re suffering because of my decision.” His lips turn up in a smile that carries only regret as he cradles my face in his palm. “I’m sorry for dying on you.”

I gasp and his hand falls away. Memories flood my brain like a timelapse collage: the yelling, the broken door hinge, the tires squealing. The phone call. 

“You died,” I state, the words escaping at the reluctant will of a numb tongue. “You crashed into a tree.”

“I left you alone.”

“You’re gone.”

“I’m so sorry, Abigail.”

I turn my head slowly back to look at the field where Gracie is. She’s running toward us, her hands cradling her latest treasure. “Mommy!” She shouts, triumphant. “Daddy!”

Her father stands, grinning his charming smile again. He rounds the picnic table as she slows. He kneels down so she can showcase to him the caterpillar cupped in her palms. He says something to her and they glance up at me, their faces full of joy and hope. 

A buzz wakes me up. I groan, its irritable repetitiveness worming its way into my slumber and disturbing me from the first pleasant dream I’ve had in years. Sighing, I place a hand on my daughter’s shoulder beside me. “Did you fall asleep?” I ask, my voice a scratchy whisper. 

She doesn’t respond, and at first, I take that as confirmation. But as my drowsiness wears off, the buzz penetrating through the last hints of my dream, my instincts tell me something isn’t right. 

I sit up in alarm, the bed shaking and moaning in protest, but Gracie doesn’t stir. Urgency running through my veins, I place my hand on her shoulder and shake her. “Gracie,” I cry, my voice breaking. “Gracie!”

No response. 

My eyes widen in horror. “Doctor!” I shriek. “Someone get a doctor!”

A doctor arrives, but it’s too late. I hold my daughter limp in my arms, wailing at the ceiling as the first rays of sunrise seep in through the hospital curtains. As the staff wean her out of my embrace, I shut my eyes tight and imagine the scene from my dream. 

My husband, grinning at me from under the brilliant sunshine of summer, holds Gracie across his hip. Effortlessly, she waves at me. Her father follows suit. 

In the hospital, I hug myself in an empty cot with tears escaping past my sealed eyelids. In July, I wave back.