Catch of a Lifetime

"Then why do you look sad and wistful when you handle her things, or things you shared together?"

"Dara, I'm not the sort of person who could be married to a woman for all those years and then completely lose all feelings for her. I don't think you'd want me if I were. It's time for me to clear out the place that once was hers, and move on. I'll always remember her kindly, fondly even, but she's not here anymore."

"I can't compete with her, Canyon. She died tragically, and she'll never hurt you or wrong you again. I will. I won't be able to help it. In fact, I already have. Can you promise you won't wish you were back with her?"

"Yes, I can. I can promise you, but that won't convince you."

I thought a moment. I stood and took an old-fashioned spiral-bound notebook from a shelf.

"Do you know what I keep in here?" Dara shook her head.

"Us."

"Us?" She was puzzled.

"You remember when I apologized to you for not having paid you enough attention, and missing things about you that I should have noticed? That night, I started keeping this journal. I've never kept one before in my life, so I'm sure it's pretty bad, but at least it's honest. Every time you've been here, after you went back to school or back home, I wrote in it. I wrote what I saw, what I felt, about you and about us. I never intended you to read it, but now I think that maybe you should. You may not want me any more after you read it, but you'll know what I was thinking in my heart when you weren't here."

She said nothing as she took the notebook and retreated to her study. I tried to remember what I'd written. I knew there was some stuff in there about what Brick had said. Would that make her break up with me? What else was in there? Crap, I couldn't remember. What was taking her so long? Was she writing me a Dear Canyon letter? At least it wouldn't be posted on Facebook; I didn't have an account. I paced and worried, finally slumping onto the sofa.

"Canyon, come to bed." Her soft voice startled me awake. She stood by my chair, tears in her eyes but the sweetest smile on her face, holding her hand out to me. Bless her heart, I did need help standing up, but if I'd pulled on her hand, we'd have both ended up in a heap on the floor.

"Hold me, please." We were snuggled together in bed.

"I was so afraid, Dara, so afraid."

"Afraid of what?"

"Afraid that I'd written something in there that would make you leave me."

She rolled in my arms to face me. "Never. There's only one thing you could write that would make me leave."

"What's that?" She hesitated.

"I don't know, and if I did, I wouldn't tell you." She smiled, snuggled back into me, and we slept.

After breakfast, Dara went to her study, retrieved the notebook, and gave it to me.

"You were right, Canyon. This was exactly what I needed to see. I'm afraid it may take me a while to get rid of the idea that Cybill is a threat to me. Still, you've shown me how much you trust me. I don't know if I'd have been that brave in your place.

"I needed to read this for other reasons, too. As I read it, I could feel how much you hurt every time you watched me leave for school. I don't think I really understood until now how much you were sacrificing for me. I promise you I won't underestimate that again, and I'll be grateful it for the rest of my life.

"I agree that we need to communicate better. Maybe communicate is the wrong word, maybe just be in tune with each other, like you said. These last couple of weeks, I was getting more and more worried about Cybill, and didn't say a word to you until you made me. That was untrusting, and unloving. I'm sorry, and I won't do that again." She heaved a sigh.

"The idea that love takes work is brand new to me. I'll learn it, though, because I love you, Canyon. Do you love me enough to put up with me while I learn?"

I thought the correct answer to that would be a great big kiss, but I was wrong. She gently pushed me away.

"Canyon, if you start kissing me, I'll get distracted like I always do. I need to hear this in words, in your voice, so I can remember it when I'm far away and I need it."

"Dara, I love you more than I know how to tell you. We'll both work at it, we'll teach each other, and we'll learn together. I can put up with you a lot easier than I can put up without you. Now can I kiss you?"

Well, that answer was no, too. She smiled like the sun, flung her arms around my neck, and kissed me until my toes curled.

Monday morning Dara was gone, off to her internship, and would spend the night at Julia's. I pulled out my journal and thought about the weekend. When I opened it to write, I discovered that Dara had written in it, too. She had commented on almost every entry, and even added a couple of entries of her own. Sometimes she explained things I had wondered about, or didn't completely understand. Sometimes she sympathized; sometimes she just drew a little heart next to what I had written.

We had promised each other we would talk through the things that bothered us or made us uneasy. The rest of the summer, we talked a lot, especially as the time drew near for her to leave for her second year of school. I finished the Project, and felt good about it: everything was swept and cleaned for a fresh start. I knew I wanted to marry Dara, but I also knew that wouldn't happen until she finished med school. Should I propose now, and have a three-year engagement, assuming she said yes? Should we wait, and have some kind of pre-engagement thing in the meantime? Should I just take my chances that she would still want me in a couple of years? Unfortunately, that was one problem I couldn't discuss with Dara, or even Julia.

Julia was finally starting to come out of her doldrums. The guy who had asked to dance with Dara's sister, whom Dara and I called Mr. Oops (in spite of Julia's protests), asked her out a couple of times. I came over one evening for some Dara Time on a weeknight, and saw Julia dressed to kill and on her way out. Before we even had time to talk, Mr. Oops drove up and whisked her away. "Don't wait up, kids," she told us with a broad wink as she sashayed out the door.

We couldn't let that one pass. When Julia came in just after eleven, looking flushed and happy, she saw Dara standing in the living room, hands on her hips, tapping her foot. I was right behind her, glaring at my wristwatch. We were both wearing the most forbidding expressions we could muster. (We had practiced.)

Poor Julia's face turned white in an instant, and her happy expression crumpled into worry. Dara and I couldn't take it; we laughed so hard we almost cried, and we enveloped Julia in a hug that restored her good humor. I got us some drinks and we talked and laughed together. It was beginning to look as if Mr. Oops might in fact be Mr. Right: he was sensitive and kind, could hold an intelligent conversation, and treated Julia like a queen. They both wanted to take it slowly, but there were definitely possibilities.

The day came all too soon. I had tried ignoring it, cussing at it (in private, of course), and rationalizing it away, but just like old King Canute, I couldn't slow it down by a particle. Dara had to go back to school. I helped her pack her car, and Julia helped me stay upright as we waved good-bye. Knowing more about what was in store for me than I did at this time last year was supposed to help, I think. You couldn't prove it by me.

What did help was finding the little cards. Dara had hidden them, like Easter eggs, all over the house. Some were pretty easy to find, others were hidden with diabolical cunning, so that I would keep finding them for about a week. They all had handwritten messages reassuring me of her love, saying she was always thinking of me, and promising she would stay true and come home to me. The eighth and last one I found was in the garage, in a place she knew I only went once a week when I put out the garbage. Its note said, "You've found all eight now. (You have found all eight, haven't you?) Please keep them and read them whenever you miss me or feel blue. Let them tell you that I always carry you with me in my heart, and I will do everything to make you proud of me, and nothing to grieve or hurt you. I love you every moment, and always will." Did I bawl like a baby when I read that? You'd better believe it.

It was Dara's first weekend home, and I waited for her on the front porch. I was grinning like a fool and walking to meet her as she pulled into the driveway. The car door opened, and she stepped out. The grin was wiped from my face and my jaw dropped. Her hair, that three-foot-long sheaf of blonde beauty that flew out behind her like a flag when she ran, was gone. It still gleamed in the twilight, but stopped short at the base of her neck.

"Am I that ugly, Canyon?" Dara was almost in tears, and recalled me to myself. I hurried to her and held her.

"Dara, you're the most beautiful woman I've ever known. You'd be beautiful even in a fright wig. I'm glad you're home; I've missed you. Come on, let me get your gear and let's get inside."

We snuggled up together on the couch.

"I couldn't decide whether to tell you or not," Dara explained. "I knew it would be a shock for you, and you'd probably hate it, and I'm sorry, but there wasn't any choice." She paused a moment.

"You remember I said I was going to have an ICU rotation this semester, and I would need to cover my hair."

"Yes, I remember," I said. "I thought your hair socks from this summer would work."

"So did I, but they told me the weave wasn't tight enough. No one had any nets big enough, so it had to be cut." She stopped again, and looked at me.

"Do you really hate it that much?" she asked.

I looked at her closely. "She did a good job," I admitted. It was true; it was a cute style and looked good on her. Dara's delicate features and slim neck stood out more, and her hair curled prettily around each ear. I would have been enthusiastic about it, had I not known her with her beautiful long hair.

"He," Dara corrected. "He said I had such beautiful hair it was a pity to cut it off. I told him why it had to be done. He washed it and rinsed it, and then he took it in one hand and his scissors in the other. I couldn't help it, Canyon, I cried. He asked why I was crying, and I told him how much you loved my hair, and how much I enjoyed you loving it, and how sad I would be to see it lying dead on the floor.

"He stepped around in front of me and asked if I'd ever heard of 'Locks of Love.' I hadn't, so he told me. Canyon, when children have cancer or some other disease and lose their hair, it's devastating to them. Decent wigs, especially the best ones that use real hair, are very expensive, and many of these children's parents can't afford them. Locks of Love, collects hair from salons and gives it to wig makers, who don't charge for making the wigs. Then they give the wigs to the patients free. The stylist told me he has some regular customers who grow their hair out for three years or so, then have it cut short and given to Locks of Love, and start all over again. He told me my hair would be ideal, and asked if I was willing to donate it. Of course, I said yes. When he cut off my hair, instead of letting it fall on the floor, he carefully coiled it and put it into a pouch.

"'That will be the best I've ever sent them,' he said. Then I gave him the picture of how I wanted my hair done, and we went from there. Afterward, I went to the front counter to pay, but he told me there was no charge. 'You gave a gift that cost you something, to someone you'll never know,' he said. 'Because of that gift, some poor child going through chemo is going to feel beautiful, when she thought she never would again. Probably more than one, your hair is so thick. The least I can do is not charge you for making such a beautiful gift.'" [Author's note: Locks of Love is real; see http://locksoflove.org ]

I began to feel a little selfish and ashamed of myself, now that I knew where Dara's hair had gone. I took her face in my hands, turning it back and forth in the light. Her eyes never strayed from me. I played in her short hair; there was just enough to twirl around a finger. I teased a lock behind her ear. She smiled; she could feel me getting used to it.

"It took me a while, too," she admitted. "It was days before I could wake up and look in the mirror and not cry. The Locks of Love thing helped me a lot. Is it helping you?"

"Yes," I had to say. There's a Jewish proverb: "When you have no choice, at least be brave." I could tell Dara missed her hair just as much as I did; the only difference was that she'd had longer to get used to it. I did my best to be brave for her.

"I'll get used to it, I guess, but there's one test it has to pass before I accept it."

"What's that," she asked apprehensively.

"The bed test," I answered, hoisting her in my arms and bearing her smiling happily off to the bedroom. We made slow, gentle love that night, reconnecting after two weeks apart. It was awkward at times; I would move to sweep her hair out from under her or fan it out on the pillow or arrange it over her, as I always did, and it wasn't there. I think we both cried ourselves to sleep that night.

Saturday was her study day, and she went at it all day and into the night. The rumor that the teachers would cut them some slack now that they were past the first year turned out to be false. I sat in the back yard Sunday afternoon to wait for her.

Dara came out to join me mid-afternoon. She broke the silence: "The hair is still a problem, isn't it?"

"Yes." I couldn't deny it. "Of course, you've had longer to get used to it."

"Yes, but I don't think that's what's bothering you. Tell me, Canyon."

"I don't know," I stammered. I didn't want to. I was afraid she would think I was selfish.

"Remember, we promised." She was right; I had no choice now. I was as nervous as a man approaching a possibly live grenade, awaiting an explosion at any moment.

"I'm sorry, Dara. You're going to think I'm terribly selfish, and the 'Locks of Love' thing helps, but I can't help thinking... feeling, really... that... well, this is just one more thing med school has taken away from me, from us." The expected explosion didn't come.

"I thought that might be it. I wouldn't have understood if you hadn't shared your journal with me. We're both making sacrifices, but I'm getting something out of them: a medical degree. Besides, it was my idea, not yours. You didn't sign up for this, you're not getting anything out of it, but you have to hurt and sacrifice anyway. You do it out of love for me, and I'll never forget it." The look she gave me was - well, if I knew the words to tell you, I'd be a poet.

I almost didn't go on, but we'd promised, so I had to. This was going to be rough.

"There's something else," I said. "I've never gone into much detail about the day... well, the day we met. There never seemed to be a need to do that, but when I pulled you out of the river, the only thing I could really grab onto was your hair. That's how I pulled you out. Ever since, it's been sort of a symbol, a connection between us. That's why..."

I was interrupted by an unearthly scream. Dara had turned deathly pale. Without a word, she sprang up and ran into the house. I heard a door slam; she was in her study.

Now what, I wondered. What had I said? I proceeded to beat myself up through the long minutes until Dara reemerged. She was still pale, and looked like she'd been crying. She sat down next to me, touching, but not leaning into me as she usually did.

"Remember I told you I gave the stylist a picture of what I wanted my hair to look like?" I nodded.

"This is the picture." She handed it to me. It was Dara, with her new short haircut. Then it dawned on me.

"Oh, God, no," I said. I reached for her, gathered her in and held her while she sobbed out her anguish. Gradually, through her broken sobs, the story came out. They were sophomores in college when they decided they didn't want to look like twins any more. One of them would cut her hair short, but which one? Giggling, they had drawn straws; Kara got the short straw, so she got the short hair. Dara had given the stylist Kara's picture.

"That way I thought my haircut would be good for Mom, too; that was part of how I dealt with it. In a way, she'd have her Kara and Dara too. Now..." she broke down again. "It was supposed to be fun. The short straw wasn't supposed to matter, and now... now it killed her!" She wailed and sobbed on my chest.

"Dara... Dara, no, it's not like that," I tried to console her. "Remember, Kara was trapped under the log. Even if she'd had her long hair, you still wouldn't have been able to move her, and I couldn't have gotten to her. Long hair wouldn't have saved her. If your hair had been short, it would have been harder to save you. I might have gotten you out, I might not have, we'll never know. It doesn't matter now: you're here, and I'm here. It's up to us to make the most of what we've been given." I accented the 'us' and the 'we:' it was going to be us, together, as long as I had anything to say about it.

We sat silently for a long time. Dara finally spoke.

"This just makes it more important," she said. "It's even clearer now that I was saved for a purpose. It's bigger than you and me, Canyon. We're part of it, but not all of it. The best way I can put it is there are things I'm meant to do. The first one is med school. I don't know what comes afterward. I do know whatever it is, I'll never give less than my best and I'll never give up."

"Where does that leave me?" I couldn't help asking.

"Canyon, without you, I'm not even here." She flung herself onto my chest. "Whatever I'm intended to do, we're in it together. Without you, I don't even have a life. You're first in everything, and I'll never give you less than my best, and I'll never give up on you."

I looked into her eyes. "I'm betting everything I have on you, Dara."

We held each other until it was time for her to go. I didn't bother trying not to cry as I watched her taillights disappear from view.

I shuffled back to my bedroom. I looked at Dara's cards, which I'd lined up on the dresser in the order I'd found them. She had been right: I could sort of feel her there with me as I looked at the cards. I knew those cards would be read a lot over the next three years. That gave me an idea. Turnabout was fair play, I figured. So I bought a half dozen cards or so, some serious, some funny. My favorite was the one with a very homely rhinoceros on the front, saying, "I'm yours forever!" You opened up the card and it said, "You'll have to pay to have me towed away!"

I wrote messages in them, just as Dara had. I told her I understood what she had to do, and why, and for the first time, I think I really did. I spent the next two evenings writing those messages, over and over, well past midnight, until I got them right. I told her I would support her in every way I could. I told her how proud I was of her, and how confident I was in her. I told her I trusted her completely. I tried to tell her how much I love her, but how on earth do you do that in words? I'm not much of a words guy anyway, but I think even if I were, I couldn't express how dear she was to me. I still can't, in words.

Finally, I was ready. I knew she had her clinical Thursday afternoon, so I took the afternoon off. I bought groceries for her, as we'd been too caught up in the hair thing to take care of that on the weekend, and took off for her apartment. I unloaded the groceries and put them away, and set about hiding the cards. I didn't have any particular order in mind for them, and she was much cleverer than I was at hiding things. I didn't care about that so much; I just didn't want her finding them all at once.