Chapter 39
Amy walked behind Peter as he cleared the dinner dishes into the garbage can and loaded the dishwasher. He felt her warm palm on his shoulder, and as he slipped the last dish into place. She touched his hand.
“How are you, my brother? I’m worried about you.”
“Please don’t be. I’m okay, sis.”
“I know you, Peter. This is been incredibly difficult. It all happened like lightning. I mean, I know you weren’t married to Tara, but she was Madeline’s mother, Amanda’s sister. You’ve suffered such a great loss.”
Peter glanced up at Amy, her look of deep concern transparent. He touched her chin and set the dishwasher, then closed the door. “Amy, I won’t lie and say it hasn’t been hard. It has been. I wasn’t sure I had it in me to get through it all. But I know that even though I never gave Tara what she really wanted, she understood. So even I, in the end, finally made peace with myself.”
“With yourself?” Amy crossed her arms and leaned against the kitchen island, watching him.
Peter pulled the garbage bag out of the bin and yanked the tie to close the bag with a knot. He set the bag aside and pulled out the coffee machine, opened the cabinet, and took down a bag of coffee beans. His hand shook as he poured them in the grinder.
Amy reached over and tugged on his plaid shirt. “What did you mean just now when you said, ‘even I’?”
Peter smiled a little grimly. “You know I always felt guilty.”
“For not being in love with Tara?”
Peter nodded as he punched the grinder, and the blade whirled.
“Honey, you can’t help who you do or do not fall in love with. You know that. It’s out of your control.”
“I know. I really do. But I felt obliged to take care of her because of it.”
“You took care of Madeline, as was your duty as well as your greatest joy. You’ve always been perfectly clear on that. The fact that you weren’t in love with Tara, or that she had cancer, or that she died—all those things—you weren’t responsible for any of it. Peter, you have to take responsibility of your own life now. Soon Madeline will be married and gone, and you’ll be on your own. When are you going to start thinking about yourself? About what makes you happy?”
Peter laughed quietly to himself. “You know, that’s what Tara said right before she died.”
“Tell me.” Amy moved closer and leaned her hip against the counter as Peter reached around her to the fill the coffee machine from the faucet.
“We knew it was almost over. She was so weak that morning, hardly able to speak. When I went in to check on her, she tapped her fingers on the bed so I’d sit down.” Peter took his time speaking. He selected his words carefully as the coffeemaker hissed quietly between them. “Her hand was so cold. I pulled the covers up over her and asked if she needed anything, but she shook her head and gestured for me to lean in close. Her voice was so weak. Her eyes filled with tears, and she squeezed my hand as she spoke.”
“What did she say?” Amy put a hand softly on Peter’s arm.
“She said—” His voice choked. “She said she wanted to go. That she was ready. She said she was so grateful she had gotten to finish her job raising Madeline, and she knew now that Madeline would be fine. She had only one concern left, she said. Me.”
“Oh, God.” Amy wiped a tear with the back of her hand.
“Me,” he repeated quietly and nodded. He coughed hoarsely into his fist. “She said that I’d been wonderful to her. That she couldn’t have asked for a better friend and companion or father to our beautiful daughter. She told me she loved me.” He paused to touch the leather band of his watch, and after a moment he raised his voice. “But, she said, she was worried I wasn’t taking care of myself. When I told her I’d just been to the doctor and everything was fine, she tried to smile—you know that smile she got when she thought she knew more about you than you did?” He made an effort to laugh. “God, Amy! I miss that smile. She took my hand in hers, and that was when she asked me to do something for her.”
“What, honey?”
Peter closed his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them his gaze was far off.
Amy waited patiently.
“She asked me to go find Maddy.”
Amy covered her mouth with a gasp.
Peter glanced at her and nodded. “Yes. She said that I belonged with Maddy and Maddy belonged with me. She said she had always known it in her heart but never wanted to accept it. She—she apologized for all the years that she had kept us apart, and she made me promise I’d reach out to Maddy when she was gone and try to find my happiness.”
“Peter, sweetie.” Amy put her arms around him and hugged him tightly to her. “So many people go through illness and pain alone, but you were there for Tara the whole way, all those years. You never abandoned her.”
He nodded numbly. “I did love her. I did, I swear, I did. I told her that having Madeline was the greatest gift I could ever receive, and I would always cherish her for that. We cried a bit, and she reached up to wipe my face. I gave her a kiss and told her to rest. When I reached over and pulled her sheet up around her, I noticed she was trembling. She never let go of my hand. But she smiled as she passed—and that’s my last memory of Tara.”
“Peter, my brother.” Amy rested her head on his shoulder and hugged him. He felt her tears through the plaid flannel of his shirt, and his own tears ran down his cheeks into Amy’s hair. They stood still for a long moment, close in each other’s arms. Eventually, he shifted his face, and he noticed the gray hairs among the blonde on her low, resting head.