Viaticum

by Natelle Fitzgerald

  “The body is merciful, Annika,” Sasha replied. “I truly believe it. I’ve heard too many stories of near-death experiences to believe they’re a coincidence. People all report a very similar experience: a white light and a tremendous feeling of peace.”

  Annika didn’t know what to think. Sasha came from a completely different world from the one she’d known: Sasha’s parents were hippies and had carted their daughter around to Buddhist temples and communal farms before settling on a small homestead to raise goats and children. Many of Sasha’s beliefs struck Annika as strange, a wild pastiche of ideas and cultures; still, it made her feel lighter somehow, to think that there was more than one way to look at things.

  They continued walking. They were further now, further than they’d ever walked before. “Are you getting tired? Do you want to turn back?” Sasha kept asking but Annika felt good; she felt a quickening of excitement as the townsite, a cluster of grey buildings at the harbor’s edge, came into view. During her illness, she’d barely given the town a second thought but suddenly she was filled with a desire to go there, to be out amongst other people for a while.

  They kept walking. The gravel turned to pavement. Sasha called the dogs and clipped them onto their leashes. When they reached the main street, Annika felt a warm rush of satisfaction. “We finally made it!” she said. She hadn’t realized it had been a goal until this moment. “Let me take you for a coffee to celebrate.”

  Sasha was looking at her with a strange expression, as if slightly puzzled and unbelieving. She did not respond right away, then nodded slowly. “Yes. I know a place.” Annika frowned, unsure if she’d done something to make Sasha upset.

  They passed several shops with crafty wooden signs out front. There was an art gallery, a bookstore, a wine store and a small grocery. All the buildings were a weathered grey colour with neat white trim, an understated tidiness that suggested affluence, the kind of money that’s lost the need to yell. The streets were quiet, almost empty; but the people they did pass were friendly and had a pleasant, comfortable look. They all said hello to Sasha and smiled warmly at Annika, as if they already knew her.

  The coffee shop, the Java Jive, was in the corner of a one-story building that also housed the hardware store. A For Sale sign was hanging in the front window. Sasha tied the dogs to a post, looked at Annika with that same puzzled expression, then opened the door and went inside. Annika followed.

  Inside, the space was simple but cozy with two large windows overlooking the harbor, dark wooden floors and a collection of brightly coloured chairs and tables scattered around the room. After so many months confined to the cottage, Annika couldn’t stop looking around. She ordered a coffee, then sat next to the window drinking in the scenery. From where she sat, she could the main street ramping down onto the ferry dock and public wharf. Beyond this, at the end of the harbor, was a small marina with several rows of white sailboats bobbing in their slips, their masts tickling up against the flat light of the sky. She sighed happily, cupping her cold hands around the warm porcelain of her mug. She wanted to savor every detail, to enjoy each moment. When she looked back up, Sasha was watching her closely.

  “You know, Annika,” Sasha began slowly, choosing her words with care. “When we started our walks, I never thought that we’d get this far. I assumed that your feeling better was a small reprieve, a bump before the illness really took hold. I’ve seen that happen before. Now, I’m not sure what I believe.” Sasha’s green eyes were sincere and searching. Annika looked away. “I’ve looked after a number of people with the exact same diagnosis as you, the same prognosis, and I’ve never heard of anyone bouncing back like this. I mean, your skin is glowing, your hair is shiny . . . It’s amazing, but strange.”

  Annika’s hands tightened around the mug. She both wanted Sasha to say it and not to say it, lest the words make it real, lest the words turn what was now only a feeling into something more definite, something that could be reversed, that could be refuted or denied.

  “I mean, I’m happy to keep being your nurse for as long as you want me,” Sasha continued, “But I feel like I’m beyond the scope of my understanding. I don’t think I can offer you any real useful advice at this point . . . I think you should go back to see your doctor, to find out what’s happening.”

  Annika looked down into her coffee again. She felt excited and frightened and lonely all at once. She didn’t know how to feel.

  Sasha gripped her hand overtop the mug. “Annika, don’t be afraid. This is a good thing! An amazing thing . . .” Her voice was suddenly thick with emotion. “Every day that you’re healthy is a gift. Think of it as an absolute gift!”

  Annika nodded. She was terrified.

  Two weeks later, she was back in Dr. Zagar’s office, sitting in the same small examining room with the high window and the table and the eye chart and the stool, only now the sun through the window was warm and gold. Almost six months had passed since her initial diagnosis.

  Dr. Zagar came in and sat down. Her grey trousers climbed up her shins. She looked down at her chart, then at Annika, then at her chart again.

  I am dying, I am dying, I am dying, Annika thought loudly, in the front of her mind, trying to beat back the excitement that was bubbling up from the pit of her stomach.

  The doctor took off her glasses. She set them on the counter. “In all my years, I’ve never heard of anything like this happening, not with a cancer so advanced. Certainly never with pancreatic cancer.”

  Annika pressed her hands together. They were shaking. “What? What’s happened?” she asked.

  The doctor looked into her eyes. “The tumor is gone. It’s literally not there anymore, except for a tiny speck no bigger than a . . . than a grain of sand. If it weren’t for the scarring, I’d be tempted to believe it had never existed at all.”

  Annika closed her eyes. “Will it come back?”

  “I don’t know, to be honest. It might. It might not. We’ll keep checking on it, of course, and we’ll get you started on a course of chemo right away to zap any of it that’s left, but I can’t really tell you anything conclusive at this point, because . . . because this is a one in a million case. I’d call it a miracle if I believed in those things.”

  The sun was warm on Annika’s face. When she opened her eyes, she could see dust motes lifting lazily on the air. The doctor’s face appeared soft and honeyed and feminine. I’m alive, she thought. I’m alive. She could barely keep herself from laughing.

  When it was time to leave, she paused in the doorway. “Dr. Zagar?” she asked.

  The doctor looked up from her clipboard.

  “Whatever happened to that picture, the one that used to hang out in the waiting room, the one called ‘The Doctor’?”

  The doctor frowned. “Oh, that one. I keep it at home now; too many people complained that it was macabre. Why do you ask?”

  “I liked it,” Annika said simply.

  The doctor tilted her head slightly, regarding Annika curiously, then she smiled and nodded. “So did I.”

  It was a Friday evening, and, aware that she’d be hard-pressed to make the last ferry, Annika decided to stay in Seattle for the night. She splurged on a hotel room, something she’d never done before. She felt determined, on some level, to do things differently this time.

  It was a clear, cold evening and, after settling into her room, she went for a walk along the seawall. The water was still and black and she could see the city lights reflected there, shimmering just under the surface so that all the world was doubled: the glittering skyline and the Ferris wheel and the strings of coloured lights in the masts of the boats; the lamp posts that followed the seawall shimmering and waving like a string of faery torches, leading the way to a magical gathering forever out of view.

  There were decisions that had to be made, she knew: work and money and where to live; yet her mind rushed away every time she tried t
o focus on these details. She wanted to drink in the lights, the cold, to just feel alive for a night.

  Well-dressed, attractive people walked by her on their way to the restaurants and bars, hands plunged deep in their pockets, their faces bright and pale as underwater moons and she felt herself being drawn along, as if enchanted by the lights, following the crowds towards the market and the pier where all the night life was. How was it that on a cold, clear night this rainy, dreary city could transform itself into something so exquisitely beautiful? How was it she’d never noticed before? She kept walking and soon she was standing in front of the Old Triangle, an upscale bar where her co-workers from Lifeline Insurance used to come on the last Friday of every month. During the entire time she’d worked a Lifeline, she’d never once joined them, even though they’d always invited her. They would be here tonight, she realized, if nothing had changed.

  She stood for a time watching the diners in the windows, their faces gentle in the candlelight. She put her hand on the door; she could feel her own heartbeat in her fingertips as they gripped the ornate, metal handle. Then, without thinking much of anything, she took a deep breath and pulled it open. It felt like a wild, daring thing to do. It felt like a new way to be.

  Immediately, warm air rushed over her, tinkling with the sounds of conversation and clattering silverware. The room was specked with twinkling lights, tiny candles on each table that were reflected in the glassware; the bottles behind the bar glittering under dim overhead lights; the rude plaster and rough finish of the pub’s interior providing a charming contrast; the lights like faraway cities surrounded by darkened hills. She could have stood there all night, just listening and looking, but then Beverly was there beside her in the entrance.

  “Oh my God!” Beverly exclaimed. She wore a sleek black dress and her hair was pinned up to show off her toned shoulders. “Annika? Annika! I can’t believe it’s really you!”

  “You look great, Beverly.”

  They hugged, then Beverly put her hands on Annika’s shoulders and looked deep into her eyes. “How are you doing? I can’t believe it. I couldn’t believe it when I found out.”

  “I’m good. It’s . . . it’s much better for now.” She’d thought she’d been prepared to talk about it but Beverly’s intensity was overwhelming. She looked down.

  Beverly lowered her head and came up from underneath with her eyes, rooting for eye contact the way an attention-seeking dog will push its muzzle under your hand until you pet it. “Annika . . . We’ve all been so worried.”

  Annika had to smile. Her father’s dog used to do just that. “Well, you can stop now! I have good news: I just came back from the doctor: it’s in remission.” She linked her arm in Beverly’s and Beverly grinned as if something rare and wonderful were happening.

  She squeezed Annika’s arm. “Come on. Everyone is going to be super excited you’re here. They’re going to be shocked. I should warn you, though: they’re all wasted. It’s a bit of a gong show, really.” They walked arm in arm through the tinkling, flickering air to a large table surrounded by familiar faces.

  “Hi everyone.”

  Conversation stopped. They all turned to stare, then finally, Ray hollered, “Annika Bo-Bannika! The lost sheep of Lifeline! The prodigal daughter of new applications!” His sandy hair was standing on end and his narrow face was bright red and wild-eyed; he looked like one of those Japanese monkeys that sit in the hot pools and Annika burst out laughing.

  “Hello, Ray. I can see some things haven’t changed,” she said. Ray was one of these composed, sand-coloured men who was instantly transformed into a raging maniac at the mere mention of a drink.

  Now everyone was greeting her and welcoming her back. They were all there: Tiffany and Rehab and John and Tyler and two people she didn’t know. If there was any strangeness, no one let on. Annika found a chair and pulled it up between Tiffany and Rehab.

  Tiffany touched her arm. “How are you doing? Are you? I mean, you look . . .” she fumbled. Tiffany had been her manager, a constantly frazzled woman with dry, poofy hair.

  Annika realized she had better just come out and say it. “I wanted to let everyone know I’m doing much better now. The cancer is in remission. I really appreciated all your well wishes. It meant a lot.” It came out with far more confidence than she’d expected and they all raised their glasses and toasted her health. She wondered why she’d never come before.

  “Well, let me fill you in on what you missed,” said John. He pressed his thin lips together and stared silently into his drink, some kind of syrupy amber liquid in a snifter, before looking back up at Annika. “That’s it. That’s all you missed.”

  Tyler, the department’s nod out to youthful hipness with his tight pants and ironic delivery, countered, “Oh come on now, John. There was that memo seven days ago and some very entertaining email threads. Oh, and there was Ray, totally killing it at the Christmas party.” Tyler’s sleeves were rolled up to display his tattoos, flowers and faeries in greens and blues, a kind of magical garden that seemed a strange contrast to his clipped manner of talking. They were beautiful, Annika thought. She wondered why she’d never asked him about them.

  A waitress came and Annika ordered a glass of wine. She felt a kind of reflexive guilt for spending the money, the ghost of her parents’ frugality even now; yet another part of her rebelled against it, that newly woken part that was determined not to ­travel the same lonely path. When the wine came, she took a sip and held it in her mouth, holding it carefully, then she swallowed and she could feel it spreading out inside her, pale and cold and delicate, like snow melting into the Earth.

  She sipped her wine and listened to the banter and watched her former co-workers twinkling faces. She’d spent so much time annoyed at who they were not, at the compromises she’d slid into when she’d moved to the city with Hamish, that she hadn’t ever really seen them. Now they drank and ate and were charming and gracious and she marveled at how beautiful they were.

  Everyone kept switching seats and eventually she found herself next to Ray, who was already lit up like Christmas. “Beverly told me that you’re going to Spain,” Annika said. “That’s exciting.”

  “Finally get to tick it off the ol’ bucket list,” he said, then froze.

  “The bucket list,” she mused.

  “I mean, I’m excited to go,” he corrected himself. “I’ve wanted to go for a long time.”

  “What else is on your bucket list?”

  “Ummm . . .” His eyes darted about anxiously. “Well . . .”

  “It’s okay,” she laughed. “I’m not about to drop dead. I really am just curious.” She took another sip of wine and held it in her mouth. They used to send her forwards in her email, links to blogs about fads or silly videos and she’d always just deleted them, for they’d struck her as a waste of time, but now she really was curious. What did other people dream about? What did they want to do before they died? She wanted to know.

  “Ummm . . . Greece. Definitely the Greek Islands. Santorini on a sailboat, you know?” Ray said cautiously.

  “That would be beautiful,” she encouraged.

  “And the pyramids. I mean, c’mon. Everybody’s got to see the pyramids,” he said, bolder now.

  She thought of the dusty gold world of ancient Egypt and Moses and Pharaoh and all the plagues and nodded seriously.

  Beverly, who’d been listening in, put down her vodka soda. “I want to try paragliding,” she said. “That’s my new life goal.”

  Beverly was very definite about it and Annika could suddenly picture it: there it was in bold and vivid detail: a verdant ­hillside near the ocean, a spandex-clad Beverly launching out into the sharp, sparkling air in tandem with a Mexican hunk, the two of them flying out over the glittering water with Al on the cliffside watching, wringing his hands and worrying over her ovaries, breathing deeply and trying to channel the calm and s
urrender they’d told him about at the fertility clinic, while above him this ungainly bird swooped and dove, its shadow passing over the rocks, its shadow passing over the bald dome of his worried head, an awkward miracle, a two-headed Icarus reaching towards the sun and screaming ‘waaahoooo! waahooo! this is the coolest thing ever!’

  Now Rehab leaned close as if she were imparting a great secret: “I want to ride a horse. In the ocean.” She covered her mouth with her hand and giggled. Hee. Hee. Hee.

  “You’re wild, Rehab,” teased Tyler. “Totally out of ­control.”

  But it was wild, Annika thought. It was wild and amazing and incredible. She could see it: an absurd white steed pounding through the surf, Rehab hanging onto the mane, her headscarf trailing out like a pennant behind her, riding and laughing in her jolly, infectious way: hee hee heeeee!

  “There’s the Great Wall of China,” Ray continued.

  “I’d like to see Cirque du Soleil in Las Vegas,” Tyler said, at which point John rolled his eyes.

  “There’s the Taj Mahal.”

  “Guy Laliberte’s an artistic genius. I don’t see any reason to be a snob about it.”

  “There’s Machu Pichu.”

  “There’s partying with Guy Laliberte. On the fucking moon!”

  “There’s Angkor Wat.”

  “Swimming with the dolphins.” Hee. Hee. Hee.

  Now everyone was jumping in, adding their two cents and Annika sat spellbound, enchanted by the dreams that were being paraded before her, desires that would have struck her as frivolous before, in litany became a kind of poem, a caravan of desire.

  “The complete works of William Shakespeare.”

  “Pay down my mortgage.”

  “There’s this town in Germany where you can go and watch the entirety of Wagner’s Ring Cycle all in one shot. They seat you in uncomfortable chairs, so you stay awake.”