Wander and Roam (Wander #1) (21 page)

“Zachary’s been fussy cooped up inside.” Susan touches my arm. “I was thinking of taking him for a walk around the city. Care to join me?”

“Okay.” I need to escape this place. Hospitals are deceptive. Their shiny, sterile outsides hide their terrible truth; they are destroyers of dreams, wrecking person after person under the guise of help.

Susan leads me to the elevators, down to the ground floor, and through the maze of a lobby. I’m so numb, I barely notice a thing until we are out on Sydney’s bustling streets. Hundreds of people crowd the sidewalks. Some stop to peer in the large glass windows of the stores that line the streets. Others walk in little groups, stopping often to chat with friends. A few move with purpose, quickly navigating their way through the crowds.

Sydney is filled with so much
life
. Exactly what I need.

“Thank you.” I turn to her. “How did you know this would help?”

“When my mother died, I started catching the daily ferry to the city.” She adjusts Zachary on her back when he starts to wiggle then continues walking. “I would walk miles every day through these streets. It was the only thing that helped.”

Interesting how people choose to deal with their grief so differently. “I locked myself in my dorm room,” I whisper. “After my boyfriend died.”

Died. I can count on one hand the times I have used that word in relation to Robbie.
Does this mean I’ve started to heal?

“Oh Abby, you’ve already lost somebody?” She places a warm hand on my shoulder.

So I tell her all about Robbie. Our love, our special purple envelopes, and
my
loss. It’s only the second time I have made it through that story.

“Y
OU HAVE
a big decision to make.” Susan stirs her drink, a fruity summer smoothie.

“I know.” I stare down at my latte, watching steam rise from the milky foam. “I don’t know what to do.”

“My dad used to tell me to trust my heart.” She looks out the large window that brightens our table in the café. “I used his advice when John wanted me to sell the farm. I loved that place far too much to ever give it up.”

“Do you ever miss your ex?” My biggest worry is that I’ll make the wrong choice… and have to live with lifelong regrets.

Susan thinks for a long, drawn-out moment. “If you’re asking if I made the right decision, I absolutely did. I never would have forgiven myself if I gave up the farm. Do I ever wonder what life would be like if I were married? Sure, who wouldn’t?”

“I can’t imagine walking away from Sage.” When I think about listening to my heart’s choice, the answer’s clear.

“Do I hear a ‘but’ coming?” Susan turns to Zachary’s highchair. She gives him another cracker.

“What if I can’t go through all this again? What if I’m not strong enough? When I tried to be strong for Robbie, I nearly lost myself.”

“So your brain’s fighting your heart.” Susan sighs. “Nobody can make this decision for you, Abby.”

We sit in silence for several minutes, then Zachary begins to fuss. He tries to squirm out of the highchair’s restraints and pounds his wooden rattle against the plastic tray. When he cannot free himself, he lets out a loud wail. Other patrons glare at Susan before turning back to their computers.

“One of my favorite things about this café is their private mum’s room. A place to hang out with other mothers and their fussy babies. I’m going to change his nappy and allow him to toddle around for a few minutes.”

I nod, happy to be alone with my thoughts.

My heart wants Sage. The thought of never seeing him again tears at me, but I’m so afraid to fully open up. The line between caring and love isn’t so wide. I don’t know if I can bear to love somebody again, knowing the whole while I am going to lose them.

I remember the patients from Robbie’s hospital. The pediatrics floor housed the pediatric oncology patients, with their frail bodies and their telltale bald heads. I try to picture Sage with his muscle wasted away, his hair gone, and his strength non-existent.

Would he even want me to watch him sink one step closer to death with each new treatment he receives?
Maybe it’s better to leave with my memories of a happy, healthy, vibrant Sage.

But then he would be all alone.

My presence might give him something to fight for. Choosing to stay by Sage’s side could be the one thing he looks forward to. He helped me come to peace with my past. It’s only fitting I help him face his future.

S
USAN AND
I sit side-by-side in the waiting room. Zachary plays next to us in a tiny area segmented off for children. He moves a large red bead along a wire then slides it back again.

“You can’t avoid him forever.” Susan pats my hand.

“I know.” I have hidden away since we returned to the hospital. Walking into his room and declaring my intentions is such a big commitment.
Am I
really
ready?

“Will you tell me what you know?” I need to be able to talk about this disease without breaking down before I face Sage.

“I don’t know much, but I don’t think Sage would mind me sharing. He emailed me a few months ago for the open volunteer spot. He never mentioned being ill or anything. Before he confirmed his place, his mother contacted me.”

“His mother?” My cheeks blaze with the memory of my first impression. Choosing Sage would mean getting to know his mother very, very well. When children are ill, mothers often cope by smothering them with affection and attention. I remember Robbie’s good-intentioned but interfering mother all too well.

“She shared that Sage was recently diagnosed with brain cancer. She also shared how he refused to have the recommended treatment right way. She spent nearly half an hour complaining about how he delayed his treatment for six months.”

“He delayed his treatment?” His list. Sage must have been trying to get through his list.

Susan frowned. “It was almost like she was trying to scare me away from hosting him. In the end, I spent a lot of time reassuring his mother that we weren’t in the outback, that medical care was a few minutes away, and that I would contact her in case of an emergency.”

“What do you think the seizure means?” I have so many questions, and I’ve only asked the tiniest number of them.

“Abby, the doctors will know better than me.” She pats me again. “You really need to be having this conversation with Sage.”

Susan’s right. I cannot delay seeing him any longer.

After the nurse buzzes me into the ward, I make tentative steps to Sage’s doorway. I force a bright, cheery smile on my face before stepping into his room.

His sheets are still rumpled and turned down, but he’s not in the bed. He’s not anywhere in the room. I force myself to take a deep, calming breath before I look around. The little signs of Sage—a neatly folded pile of clothes, his shoes—are all absent. I take another breath. The spot for patient papers, located right outside the door, is also empty.

We’ve only been gone three hours.
What could have happened?

I step closer to the bed and run my fingers over the cool metal railing. A few hours ago, I was cuddled up to Sage, next to this very rail. I breathe deeply again. I’m so close to panic these breaths are the only things that tether me.

I squeeze my eyes shut and run my fingers over the soft pillowcase we shared, until they snag on a sharp paper edge. I grab it and open my eyes. The postcard of Sydney’s view from the ferry—the Opera House, the Harbour Bridge—sits upon the pillow.

When I turn the card, my gaze travels immediately to the signature.
Sage.

I sigh and sink into the solitary chair in the room. Sage is okay. I’m not typically a worst-case scenario kind of girl, but my mind flung out all kinds of terrible situations. But he’s well enough to write me a note.

Something is paper-clipped to the back, but I free it and set it aside. Tiny writing fills both sides of the postcard, lining every square inch of the rectangle. I read the first words:

Dear Abby,

I trace over those two words. How refreshing to receive a note rather than always being the one who writes them. It has been a long time since Robbie was well enough to send a note in the mail.

Lucky I had this postcard with me when I collapsed. I can think of no other way I want to share these words than on the back of one of our memories. Do you remember lining up the buildings on the ferry so the real-life scene matched my postcard? I particularly like that day’s memories. It’s when you first let go of your bindings, when I saw a true glimpse of the passionate, adventurous side of you. I really, really like that side. (See, I bet you enjoy my radical honesty!)

I am sorry. So sorry. I should have told you right from the beginning what I was dealing with. I don’t blame you for running. I know this postcard might never even make it into your hands. I want you to remember our happy, sun-filled days at the farm. Cherish each memory. And most importantly, keep creating new memories.

Hugs and Kisses,

Sage

P.S. I really hope you get this postcard, because I left my most cherished belonging attached to it.

I unfold the thick paper to reveal a photograph of Sage and me, kissing atop the Harbour Bridge. Its edges are tattered, and a thick crease mars its center, but the picture is a tangible memory of him. When I look at our embrace, I wonder how I ever doubted our passion.

On paper, our feelings are irrefutable.

How did Sage even get such a beautiful reminder of us?
He hadn’t left the farm since our trip to Sydney. On our weekend trip, we were together the entire time. Then I remember. Sage ran a quick errand while I was in the bathroom. He must have picked up the photograph snapped atop the bridge, but he never said a word to me. As I wipe blue denim fuzz off the front, the answer’s clearer. He must have carried it around in his pocket.

The sweetness catches me off-guard. Sage may not be the conventional American guy; he’s way too philosophical and alternative. But he’s a thinker and a dreamer, and he has a heart of gold. The world would be a happier, better place if everyone walked around with Sage’s eternal optimism and passion about living.

Did Sage really think I ran away? Away from his disease and away from him?
I wish I could call him and tell him how I’m sitting at the edge of his hospital bed, waiting for him. But he’s left no phone number, no address, no contact information whatsoever.