Page 18 of A Lot Like Lavender

Then I leave the barn and Jordan behind, placing more hope than I care to in his hands.

7

I WILL WAIT

MUMFORD AND SONS

JORDAN

Not much could have made me feel worse than the realization that Emory’s number hasn’t changed in the last ten years. That at any point, if I could have managed to save myself up from the ocean of grief I’d been drowning in for so long, I might have been able to reach out and help her with hers.

If he were here, right now, James would punch me in the nose and then hug me. He’d tell me to pull myself out of the self-pitying pit and to change course. Easier said than done. Forgiveness was never hard for him. Forgiving myself is the problem.

If I called Mom or Bill—who’ve become my unexpected confidantes—they would tell me to pray on it. They’ve reminded me more than once over the years, during my more honest moments of regret, that Emory needed the Lord far more than she ever needed me for her healing.

My therapist would call me out for ruminative thinking. That I should “catch, check, and change” my thought process.

So all night, between the blood samples, stool samples, ultrasound, a phone call with Mom and Bill to discuss Pamela’s case, and observing her through the night, I’ve prayed for Emory and Molly, for this alpaca and the farm, and for ways to help heal what I broke.

And I’ve practiced my three “Cs.”

Catchthe unhelpful thoughts. The ones where I know I should have been here. I shouldn’t have left Emory when she needed someone the most. That I shouldn’t have run from my home and grief, trying to make sense of the fact that my best friend went to sleep one night and never woke up. How he’d had a family, life, dreams, hopes, a baby on the way—the luckiest guy I knew—all while I’d had nothing going for me. I’d been wait-listed for med school, no income or plans, no girlfriend or responsibilities. Nothing.

And yet, he was dead, and I wasn’t.

Icheckthose thoughts. They’re how I feel. Though less so as time passes and that deep wound, that won’t ever quite heal, has turned into a tender scar I’ll always carry. But I know I can’t change the past. Nothing I could have done would have saved James’ life. No amount of schooling or medical training would have picked up on a heart condition he didn’t know he carried.

He died. I didn’t.

He’s gone. I’m not.

It’s a painful truth, but it’s reality.

Then, Ichangethose thoughts to a more balanced perspective. I can’t change how I responded to his loss. I can’t change the past or any of my actions since. But I can change my future. I can show up now and live everyday. Show up for the people in my life who matter, because I am alive and have the ability to do so. I’ll live, reminding myselfthat if James were here, he wouldn’t waste any more of his precious time onwhat ifs.

And, I will do everything now for Emory and Molly that I should have done then.

Which is why I’ve been working on Emory’s front porch steps since just before sunrise. Pulling out the pieces of wood that I noticed the other day have eroded over the years, then measuring and cutting the wood I scrapped from Bill’s woodshop in the middle of the night to replace them. Only when I hear the first signs of life from inside the house, namely what I’m assuming are Saturday morning cartoons playing in the living room, do I start making my first dent into replacing the boards. Nailing them into place, piece by piece. Only making it through two of the steps before the screen door opens with a twang.

“Dr. Romance?” Molly’s hair is tousled from sleep, half a bun hanging low on one side and her cheeks rosy pink like she just woke up. “What are you doing down there?”

“I thought we agreed on Dr. Doolittle?”

She lets the door slam behind her before tiptoeing closer in her pajamas, a shorts and T-shirt set with a rabbit’s face printed all over it. As she comes to sit on the top step, I now see she holds that very same rabbit, a cinnamon-colored Holland Lop, peeking from her arms.

“We did,” she says, taking her seat and snuggling the rabbit in her lap. “But Dr. Love has so much potential. We’re workshopping.”

I can’t help but laugh. She’s gonna give Emory a run for her money. “And who is this?”

Slipping off my work gloves, I let the rabbit sniff my knuckles for a minute before giving it a soft pet down one of its impossibly soft ears.

“This is Buttercup,” Molly says, holdingthe fluffball out so I might see her better, giving me a glimpse of the tiny, rabbit T-shirt Buttercup is wearing with Molly’s face printed all over it. “She’s a Holland Lop.”

“I see that. She’s beautiful.” Buttercup’s hindquarters kick as if she’s ready to hop away, so I take her gently from Molly and place her against my chest, rubbing both ears down firmly until she’s purring into my shirt. “Did you know this color is rare for a Lop? Buttercup here is really something special. How long have you had her?”

“Miss Chloe, she’s like Mama’s only friend aside from Aunt Dinah… and me of course… well, she brought us a whole bag of bunnies a couple years ago, because she knows we love rescues. She kept one. His name is Roman, which is super weird since that’s also her husband’s name. Mama only let me keep Buttercup.

“My boyfriend, Theo… I told you about him yesterday… He has one, too. His rabbit’s name is Peter. Not like Peter Rabbit, though. It’s for Peter Parker, who is technically Spiderman. I know little kids like Spiderman, but Theo says that everyone likes Spiderman these days so it’s not just a kids’ cartoon. Do you like Spiderman?”