Page 53 of Healing Hearts
“No. It’ll be relaxing. You’ll see.” Or at least it seems relaxing in my head. I even grabbed one of the blankets I keep stashed in the back of my truck so we wouldn’t be lying on the cold steel.
Once we seem to be close enough to the middle that we won’t drift quickly to the shore, I lock in the paddles and lay down the blanket. The lake doesn’t allow any motorized boats, so we aren’t in danger of being hit by anything fast moving. I shift onto the blanket, the boat rocking, and I gesture to Emily to come down with me.
“Couldn’t we have done this in a field?” she asks with a hint of a laugh as she carefully wobbles down to lay beside me.
“Probably,” I admit, but the truth is that I wanted us to be somewhere we’d never been before together so that nothing we know and love becomes tarnished with a bad memory if the result isn’t good.
I don’t want to remember sitting in her kitchen or being at my favorite thinking spot or the best coffee shop—I want to be somewhere that we’ll never have to go again, somewhere we’d have to actively choose to go again, if I open the envelope and her world falls apart.
The middle of the lake is also pretty private for whatever might come.
She lies beside me, and we stare up at the cloud-filled sky. As one particularly large cloud passes by, I point to it and declare, “Elephant.”
She turns her head slightly. “More like a hippo.” With her index finger, she points to another, “That’s a cat.”
“Clearly a dog,” I say with a chuckle.
Then we’re off, debating cloud shapes and combinations, drawing what we see with our fingers on the clouds as they pass us by. Emily’s laughter over some of my claims makes the tightness in my chest loosen a little. The envelope in my back pocket still feels stiff and heavier than it should. I want to open it, and I want to leave it tucked in there forever.
“That’s weird,” Emily says, pointing to a cloud. “That one looks kind of like it’s on fire with the way the sun is coming through.”
I don’t say anything, but she’s right. It does look strange, almost otherworldly. “The aliens are sending a message,” I say, my tone teasing.
“And that one,” Emily says, pointing behind it. “That looks like an ax.”
And again, it does. I can’t even pretend like it’s something else. “Yeah,” I murmur, not following how or why her voice has changed to a tone tinged with confused excitement.
“Oh my god,” she says with a baffled laugh. “That’s a fire hydrant and a fireman’s hat. You can’t convince me otherwise.”
I wouldn’t even try. It’s like someone placed them in the sky, perfectly formed, as though made from a cookie cutter.
She curls into me, burying her face into my chest, and I hold her close, surprised for a beat.
“Open the envelope,” she says. “Can you open it? I don’t want to look, but I need you to open it.”
I shift, keeping her close, and I awkwardly dig it out, rip off the top, and tug out the letter. My heart is hammering, but I’m trying to pretend it’s not. She keeps her face buried, and her palm rests on my chest. She can probably feel and hear the rapid beat of my heart.
It really does take me forever to read and comprehend something, so I read it very carefully the first time, and then Iread it a second time to be sure I’ve really understood it. I can’t get this wrong.
“It says,” I say, my voice rough with emotion, “that he doesn’t have any of the gene mutations known to cause ALS. He’s at no greater risk of developing ALS than the rest of the general population."
Emily doesn’t say anything, but she clutches onto me, her hand on my chest clenching my shirt into a fist. She releases a sob so strong that I wonder if she’s been holding it in for years. I drop the letter into the boat, and I hold her tight, trying to keep my own tears of relief at bay. The weight that rises off me is probably nothing compared to the one that’s been laying on her since Omar died, since she realized there might be a genetic component.
I don’t even know what I would have done if the result had gone the other way. I run my hand along her back in a soothing motion, kissing the top of her head every once in a while. She cries and cries, and I don’t try to stop her or convince her she doesn’t need to.
I can’t help but think she’s crying about more than the relief over Amir, but also about her dad and maybe even about Omar still. She’s held onto a lot of grief and uncertainty the last few years. She deserves to let it out.
When her crying quiets and she pulls back, she sniffs and stares up at the sky. I’m not sure what to say, so I don’t say anything. The silence between us is comfortable.
“I ruined your shirt.”
“It’ll wash, and if it’s going to be covered with any kind of tears, tears of relief are the best ones.”
We’re both quiet for a beat before I say, “What made you decide to open it all of a sudden?”
“Omar was a firefighter,” she says.
Holy shit. All those shapes in the clouds. It hits me like a blow to the chest, and I turn my head to look at her, but she’s still staring up.
