by KL Kreig
“What do you want to watch?”
“You decide,” I tell him, fighting to stay awake.
“Okay.” He clicks around until he gets to the National Geographic channel. It’s big cat week and there’s a show on about the queen of the jungle. “Perfect show for you, my queen.”
“Thank you, my king.” I giggle, snuggling closer. I’m almost under. “Roth?”
“Yes, my love?”
Ask him, Laurel. Ask him. Every time I go to broach the subject, I chicken out. This time is no different. Maybe it’s not a fair last request to lay at his feet, anyway.
“Watch for stray cats, okay?”
Roth stills, then leans over so he can search my eyes. “Do we need to go to the ER?” he asks, concern threading every inflection of his voice.
“I love you today, Roth Warren Keswick.” He doesn’t answer right away. His lips are pinched as tightly as his brows. I crane my arm so my fingers can brush his jaw. “I’m fine,” I tell him. It takes a few seconds, but he finally relaxes, and I know I’ve made the right decision. Maybe tomorrow, then.
“I’ll love you tomorrow, my love.”
I drift off…
Sometime later, Roth wakes me. His face is aglow.
“What is it?” I ask groggily.
“Come here.” He doesn’t wait for me to rise. He scoops me up in his arms, tucking the blanket around my shoulders, and whisks me onto the back porch. “Look,” he says in awe, as he sits us down on the cement step.
I lift my head from his shoulder and untuck my arm. I hold out my hand and let wet flakes coat my palm.
“It’s snowing.”
It’s cold. It’s magnificent.
I eye the yard. A thick white film already covers it. Esther waves to me in her blue snowsuit to come make snow angels, her chubby cheeks already red. In twin speak, I tell her I’ll see her soon.
“It’s really coming down,” I marvel.
“It is.”
“It’s beautiful.”
“It is.”
Roth isn’t staring at the snow. He’s staring at me. “All these years, Laurel, and I haven’t been able to catch my breath yet.”
“Roth.” My eyes well.
“I will always choose you. I will always love you. Always.”
“Ditto,” I croak, wiping away a flyaway tear.
He smiles that smile of his that goes straight to my belly. And then he yells to the Alexa speaker we have outside. “Alexa, play classic Christmas music.”
“It’s October,” I tell him, my laugh watery.
“I know.”
“Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” is the first song that plays.
“How did you do that?”
His smile is quick. “Divine intervention, I think.”
I ponder that. Sadly, death puts life into perspective.
“Does this complete your list?” I ask him quietly.
It didn’t take me long to put the pieces of the last few months together. Once again, Roth demonstrated he could be trusted with my vulnerabilities, and the fact he remembered my laundry list of what makes my heart happy was surprising, though it shouldn’t have been.
“It does,” he answers. He sounds so far away, though he’s right next to me.
We’re nearing the finish line. We both know it.
“There is one more thing I don’t think I told you.”
He perks up. “There is?”
“Yeah. I can’t believe I forgot.” I drop the blanket to the side and scoop up a handful of snow that’s gathered on the concrete. I press it between my palms into a tiny, compact ball, then summon the energy to stand. “It’s my favorite winter tradition, actually.”
“What’s that?” he asks, watching as I bend to grab more snow.
I walk farther out into the yard, frozen water crunching under my slippers, then turn around and toss the clump in my hand at him, hitting him square in the face before he knows what’s coming.
“Snowball fight!” I yell before I pivot and take off.
“Hey!”
A tuft of snow catches me in the back. Weak. Roth is out of his league.
I pick up another handful and expertly shape and pack it, heaving it out of my hand before he’s taken two steps, then ducking behind a bush for cover.
“You’re gonna pay for that,” he promises, wiping off the remnants clinging to the “Looking At My Wife I Think Damn She’s A Lucky Woman” tee I got for him.
“You can try.” I already have four more snowballs made in the time he’s still trying to gauge his next move. I can’t feel my fingers, but I don’t care. This is the happiest I’ve been in weeks. “Whatcha got, Keswick?” I taunt.
Peeking around the bush, I see him pressing snow between his two big hands. This time it’s no little weeny baby ball. It’s a good one. He’s catching on quicker than fishing.
“You sure you’re up for this?” he asks tentatively.
I pop over the hedge and bam! He takes one on the shoulder.
“This is war, love.”
“Bring it on.”
The last few months have been rough for us both, but they’ve also been a blessing. We get what so many others don’t.
Ironically…time.
Like nearly all of us, I’ve spent my life wishing Time away. I’ve wasted it, squandered it, loathed it, and cursed it. I’ve counted down seconds and wished years would move faster.
But when you know you don’t have much of it left, you’re ravenous for lost moments. You savor the next one. They are priceless and coveted and you wonder why you didn’t make the most of it when you had more of it.
We make the most of Time tonight. We let loose and we laugh. We spin in circles with our tongues out. We make snow angles. Our socks get wet. Our fingertips stiffen up. Our throats go raw from laughing.
We cling to the present. We don’t allow ourselves to see tomorrow.
But the fact is we are racing against Time.
It’s a race we all run, whether we actively participate or not.
And she is fast and she is cunning and she has an unfair advantage.
And—spoiler alert—she always, always…always edges you out at the finish line.
27
Brighter Side of Grey
Roth
Present
December 8, 10:13 a.m.
“How is she?”
The whites of Carmen’s eyes are bloodshot. I take her hand and usher her inside. Manny follows. Though he can hardly maintain eye contact, empathy hemorrhages from him. I grip his shoulder and close the front door.
“She’s sleeping right now.” That’s about all she does, but it doesn’t need saying.
“Should we leave?”
“Of course not.” I need you two, but I don’t need to say that either. “Come on in.”
Carmen and Manny follow me into the living room. The fireplace is on and it’s so hot in here it’s downright miserable, but Laurel is always cold, so I’ll gladly suffer to make her comfortable.
“Mr. and Mrs. Keswick.” Carmen greets my parents who are sitting on the couch. My father has a small fan sitting on the end table that’s blowing directly on him. He never complains about the heat in the house, either. God bless him.
“Please, Carmen. It’s Frank and Elana.”
She offers my father a swift smile as she sits on the edge of the love seat, Manny beside her. Next time, she will call my parents Mr. and Mrs. Keswick.
“Can I get you two something to drink or eat?” my mother asks them.
They both shake their heads no, but my mother doesn’t stick around for their reply. She’s already halfway to the kitchen. I take her vacated spot, heaviness sucking me into the cushions.
“She doesn’t know what else to do,” my father says.
“None of us do,” Manny replies quietly. “Is she in pain?”
Pursing my lips, I shake my head. Laurel is on so much morphine it concerns me. But the nurse says it’s perfectly no
rmal to have to increase painkillers toward the end. “The goal is to keep Laurel comfortable,” she told me. “Do what you have to do,” I directed her. I can’t stand the thought of her suffering at all, let alone a second longer than she needs to. She’s already been through so much.
“They’re keeping her comfortable.”
“What does the doctor say?”
I don’t want to say Manny has been in denial, but he’s definitely been the most positive among us. He’s refused to accept Laurel won’t pull through this, that some miracle won’t be found at the bitter end. He thinks this will end like it does in a Hallmark movie with some unexpected happily ever after and years from now we’ll all look back over a glass of champagne, able to say, “Remember when…”
But it won’t. It’s been a journey through hell for me to accept that.
And it’s time he does. The fact is Laurel has gone downhill severely in the last few days. She has conversations with Esther and her grandfather. “Hallucinations,” our hospice nurse, Alice said. And per Alice, who left a while ago, Laurel doesn’t have long, which is why I asked Carmen and Manny to come over.
But I can’t seem to push the words out of my mouth. They’re stuck in the crook of my throat and no matter how hard I try, they’re lodged well and good.
“Would it be okay if I went to sit with her?” Carmen asks me. “I’ll be quiet as a church mouse, I promise.”
I hesitate, but it’s not because I care if Carmen sits with Laurel. I want her to. It’s because I need to warn her first. I don’t want Carmen to be shocked.
Only I don’t know how to do that exactly. Laurel is a shell of her former self. Her skin is sallow and paper thin, stretched over nothing but protruding bones. Her breathing is shallow, with a slight wet crackle. The nurse said that’s one of the last signs of final organ failure.
Today has been absolutely fucking brutal. And it will only get worse.
“She’s…” I glance at my father, my vision unclear. He quietly lends me his strength and I greedily take it, knowing I’ll need every damn ounce to get through this. “She’s different since you last saw her, Carmen.” A mere days ago.
“How so?”
I take her hand, saying nothing.
What is there to say?
Her eyes drop to the floor. Her shoulders begin to shake. Manny comforts her as best as he can, but he is just as rattled.
“I wouldn’t leave anything unsaid,” I offer on a hush, feeling hypocritical. I’ve yet to take my own advice.
How do you say goodbye to the person who makes your heart beat and your soul hum?
Unfathomable. It’s wholly unfathomable. This entire situation is.
Yet I realize I can’t delay much longer.
Carmen mewls as if she’s in physical pain. She tucks her head into Manny’s shoulder and sobs. Then my mother comes back, carrying a tray filled with meats and cheeses and crackers and sodas, as if this is some sort of unplanned social visit.
I can’t take it.
I feel as if I might literally explode into oblivion.
I jump up and pace, fingers pinching the bridge of my nose until it hurts.
I am so angry. So, fucking angry. At God, who has abandoned us. At the doctors, who have failed us. At this godforsaken disease that is taking her from us.
I would trade places with her in a heartbeat so she could live and continue to brighten dark places. Laurel is the most beautiful woman, the most beautiful life force. The most beautiful of everything beautiful. She’s had an impact on so many people, so many lives. It’s mind-boggling how one person’s reach extends so far beyond themselves.
Life is so motherfucking unfair.
“It’s okay, son,” my father whispers. He grips the back of my neck and squeezes in solidarity.
“You two can go in,” I choke to Carmen and Manny, barely able to hold it together.
“We won’t stay long,” Manny tells me, helping Carmen up. I snatch a few tissues from the box closest to me and hand them to her. She dabs at her eyes, but it’s no use. The tears keep coming.
“Take your time. And talk to her, please. It doesn’t matter what you say, but if you talk to her, I know she will hear you.”
I watch Carmen and Manny head down the hallway and disappear into our bedroom to say their last goodbyes. I overhear Carmen say, “Hey, chica,” and I listen to her break down.
My heart cracks into a hundred thousand pieces that scatter inside my chest cavity. The shards pierce vital organs. It’s agony. Incapacitating. I feel myself bleeding out from very real, but invisible wounds that I can’t die from, no matter how much I pray otherwise.
“Roth.” My mother comes to stand in front of me. Her eyes are puffy. Her mouth is pressed flat. “Laurel…” She stops and looks down. It’s then that I notice she’s clutching a piece of paper to her chest with both hands. She rubs her thumbs along the folded edges, unconsciously, nervously. This is bad, a voice whispers. Very bad. “The other day Laurel gave me this to give to you.”
She holds out the paper to me. Her hands are shaking.
She what?
“What do you…” I swallow hard, staring at the paper as if it has poison tentacles. My name is scrawled on the outside in her beautifully perfect penmanship. “What do you mean she gave this to you to give to me?”
“Just as I said.” She prods me to take it. I don’t want to. “Roth.” My mother reaches down and brings my hand up to meet hers. She places what I can only assume is a letter to me from Laurel in it. “I didn’t question her request. I didn’t read the letter. She simply asked that I give this to you when I knew it was time.”
“When it was time?” I repeat quietly. My legs feel like they’re made of string holding up a lead balloon. They give. Luckily the chair catches me.
My mother crouches at my feet, taking my hands in hers. Compassion pours from her heart. Her eyes are faucets. “It is time, Roth. I’m sorry. It’s time.”
It’s time. It can’t be time. I don’t want it to be time.
“We’ll be in the kitchen if you need us.”
Then I’m left alone. Just me and what are likely Laurel’s last words to me.
Staring at the squiggly lines Laurel always swirls under my name, I trace them with my finger over and over.
Fuck me.
Fuck.
Two fists grip my chest, squeezing it until I can’t inhale. Goddamn. It hurts.
With shaky hands, I begin to open the letter and read, and at the very opening line, time stills, stamping my book in big, motherfucking neon letters.
This is a moment you simply don’t forget.
Not ever.
And you don’t need a book to remember it.
Mi amado ~
I’m writing this while sitting in the corner of our room, watching you restlessly toss and turn. My grief wets the pages, but I don’t weep for me. I weep for you. Obviously, this is a letter I never, in my wildest dreams, thought I would have to write, yet here we are.
It’s hard to know where to start. Where to grab the right mix of words from, because frankly I don’t think they exist. How do you sum up the greatest happiness you’ve ever known in a few measly paragraphs? I want to be profound, yet I’m not a profound thinker. I want to leave you something that you can come back to when you’re missing me so much you physically ache, yet I wonder if they will only make you ache more.
My PooPa used to tell me that a wound never heals if you keep touching it. Boy, do I understand that. And I don’t want this to be a wound you constantly reopen. But I’ve decided that some wounds are worth the beautiful scars that reopening them creates. Our love is one of them.
So here it goes.
It’s no secret I haven’t always been confident in myself. It’s definitely no secret that I’ve held others at arm’s length, because letting them get too close opened up this place of vulnerability that was more terrifying than being alone. But then you came along, and you blew my wall down with a single pu
ff. I fell in love with you the moment you told me mustard was your condiment of choice. Your Mustard Whisperer T-shirt only sealed the deal.
I tried to fight it, though. You fought harder. You never gave up when I threw up crazy after crazy. You made me want things I’d long decided I didn’t. You taught me to dance, to believe in myself again, to have faith, to love without reserve. You have given me a home and grace when I didn’t deserve it and kicked my ass when I’ve needed it (I said ass…lol). You are my rock, my sounding board, my strength, my guide, my supporter, my best friend. I love our life and all that we have built with each other. Your love is and always has been unconditional and unwavering. Honestly, it is all that’s carried me through the darkest of days and it’s all that will get me through what is to come.
I know you’re scared. I know you’re angry. You’re in denial, though you’ll deny it. I’m scared too. And I’m incredibly sad, but from the moment I was diagnosed I had a sixth sense this is how the end would be. If there is one hard lesson life has taught me, it’s that we have no control over it, not really. We control how we react to events and circumstances, and that’s about it. That is how we’re remembered.
So, I choose to spend this little time we have left together not in denial, not wishing things were different, not praying for some miracle that will not come. I accept my fate and I am at peace with it.
I choose to die while I am living.
The best part is that I married a man who will push me to do that anyway without asking.
You are the best thing to happen to me, and I am so sorry that our time has been cut shorter than we’d like. Though, if we had a thousand years together, we both know that still wouldn’t be enough.
I don’t want this to sound trite but thank you. Thank you for loving me. For being my person. For picking up tissues after me. For making me laugh. For broadening my musical tastes. For being the other half of me. Thank you for fighting for me. And thank you in advance for everything I know you will do to make the time we have left something I will take with me after I leave you.