Blame it on the Rain

Nothing is the same as when I left, except for my skin color, thanks to unprecedented cloudy skies in Tahiti.

I'm married now, with the doubled rings, license, and maiden/middle name to prove it. That, I love. I love that The Boy is now my husband. I love that, despite our new shared habit of popping melatonin on restless nights, at least we are together. Our room. Our bed. These are things I've had no problem sharing. (I just wish my shoes could inhabit the space with us, but, alas, it was not meant to be in this house.)

The honeymoon was gorgeous and blissful, even if the weather was not. (The iPod and docking station, pictured above, were named Honeymoon MVPs). It was an adventure; it was romantic; we felt more together than ever. We relished being so. far. away. We vowed not to check e-mail and were never tempted to. We reminded each other we were 8,000 miles from home.

Until breakfast on Tuesday, our second morning in Bora Bora. The Boy, who fancies himself a pseudo meteorologist, predicted sunny skies by noon. He had been right on the previous day-- the only day of the entire trip when we witnessed a sunrise and sunset. We talked about our plans for the day, which included jet skiing and riding ATVs in the mountains. Jerome, the concierge, shattered the reverie, presenting me with a slip of paper with an American number. I remember the word, "urgent;" I recall the phrase, "as soon as is possible," in a stilted French lilt. I followed him to the front desk, leaving The Boy with coffee and the check. I made rambling conversation about the weather.

My hand shook as I held the phone in Jerome's office. My mother was the only one who had our emergency numbers. But she wasn't calling. If something had been wrong with her, Dad would have called-- no question.

The Boy materialized at my side, clutching my hand. My aunt talked too calmly. She mentioned Dad. Said he had "fallen ill;" something about "episodes" and "blockages." My mind couldn't keep up. I had to remind it that "fallen ill" was different than "fallen." I heard "five bypasses" and stumbled. I gasped and sobbed and shook my head. I begged my aunt to talk to The Boy, who hadn't heard a word.

On the way to our gorgeous bungalow, the sun began shining. My eyes were swollen slits and I didn't hide my tears from the other honeymooners. I remember telling The Boy, "I feel like my feet aren't even touching the ground. This can't be real, right?" He didn't respond. When we arrived in the room he spun quickly and caught me, though I hadn't even realized I was falling. We spent over $100 in international calls just to get on earlier flights. I wandered from room to room with random articles in my hands. I found myself plucking stray eyebrows in the magnifying mirror, then swearing at the phone that wasn't ringing. I cried.

We sat for ten hours in three different airports. We traveled for thirty hours, in the same clothes, no meals, no showers. Antsy and anxious, we opened all of our wedding presents when we got home. They are still scattered around the dining room. Thursday, before we visited my dad for the first time, I wrung my hands in the elevator. At my wedding, my father looked the best I can ever remember. I wasn't prepared to see the worst.

Yet again in a matter of days that felt much longer, The Boy held me up. Dad smiled weakly and asked how our trip was. Tubes and oxygen, bruises and blood crowded his bedside. I kissed his face and scratched his head. He didn't look like my dad. He was swollen, but looked smaller. I still cry for him a little part of every day.

He is healing, stabilizing. Will eventually be better than normal. Thank God for warnings and second chances, I tell everyone. And myself.

We are thankful, distracted, burdened. Heavy. Trying to create a beginning at what feels inexplicably like an end. But we are grateful for a life full of promise. Each night longing for sleep, clinging to each other.