Always the Last to Know by Kristan Higgins Page 0,24
is not here for him, he knows, but she comes anyway because she is . . . she is that way of being when a person is kind for no reason. Her voice makes him happy and sleepy. Like warm rain.
There is the man who was a boy but isn’t a boy anymore who comes, first to the place for sick people, then to the other place where his warm-rain friend was, and now to his grandfather’s house. Sometimes, he brings a baby. He is a father, this boy who is grown up now. They have dark hair, father and son, and the young man lets John hold the baby, who laughs.
Images flash through his head too fast to make sense—a girl with blond hair and freckles with that dark-haired boy, and colors, and John once held her hand as they crossed a street in a place with many lights. Once she cried because of that dark-haired boy who’s now a man.
Then, there’s nothing. Nothing but emptiness and gray and the horrible feeling of loss. Time passes, swirling past him, knocking him down, pulling him out into the sea of puzzling memories, and there’s nothing he can hold on to, so he falls asleep, and sleep is what he likes best.
* * *
— —
His wife comes in. Her name is sure in his mind. Barbara. His Barb. He’s not sure why they’re not in the little red house anymore. She says words, and he looks at her, smelling her good smell, loving her, wishing she wasn’t always leaving. But she is. She does.
* * *
— —
Then it’s later, or another day, and John can’t remember where he is. But the boy is here again with his little one, and a toolbox—toolbox jumps right into his head, and he knows it’s the right word. John reaches out and the man puts the baby into his arms and sits there a minute, his hand on the baby’s head, making sure John knows how to hold him.
He does.
The baby looks up at him with dark eyes, then smiles. John feels his mouth move, and he looks at . . .
. . . the name is coming . . .
. . . Ned. Neil. Nick . . .
Noah!
And Noah smiles, then opens the toolbox and starts doing things. John is not sure what or why.
The baby makes noises, but John knows they are not words, and it’s such a relief, letting the sounds just be sounds, and nice sounds at that. Happy sounds. Then the baby puts his head against John’s shoulder, and John’s eyes get wet, because he remembers this feeling. He had a baby once, too. Maybe more than one. He knows how to hold this baby, yes he does. One arm under the baby’s bottom, one hand resting on his back, feeling the breath going up and down, up and down.
Then those thoughts are gone, and there’s just the baby, and the smell of his head, and the feeling of his dark silky hair, and the soft, sweet warmth of his weight as the baby breathes. Up and down. Up and down.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Sadie
Moving back to Stoningham was not something I’d ever wanted to do.
But move back I did. Who else would take care of my father? Jules was too important and busy and had Brianna and Sloane and Oliver. Mom was first selectman, and the truth was, I think she stopped loving my father decades before. Maybe before I was born, aside from one obvious coupling.
I couldn’t leave him alone. He stayed in the critical care unit at UConn for ten days, then was transferred to Gaylord, a specialized rehab center, where his healing would really begin.
It became apparent that Dad wasn’t going to die, despite being seventy-five years old and all that had gone wrong. In addition to the stroke, he’d had a bad concussion. It was complicated, the handsome neurosurgeon told us. Only time would tell, which, you know, I’m glad Stanford and Johns Hopkins had taught him. Only time would tell, huh? Great. Try not to overwhelm us with complicated medical terms, Doc.
I mean, I understood. Of course I did. Words like apraxia, aphasia, neuroplasticity, executive functioning and hemiparesis became part of my daily vocabulary. Dad had all kinds of therapy at Gaylord—physical, speech, aqua, occupational, community reentry, where they’d take patients to the grocery store or a restaurant. There was a robotic suit of some kind that helped him relearn to walk. He was given