I tugged at the collar of my dress shirt, loosening a couple more buttons as Libby returned her dislodged hand to her lap, back to simply waiting.
“Have I ever told you what I do—for a living?”
She shook her head, shoving a few loose pieces of hair that were whipping around in the building breeze out of her eyes. “We somehow haven’t gotten around to that yet.”
No. We hadn’t. Last time we’d seen each other, for dinner, our conversation had been light, focusing on movies, the football game that night, the weather, for God’s sake. Anything that didn’t skirt too close to the personal. For either of us.
I looked up again at the clouds that continued to bear down, dark and oppressive. Thunder rumbled, sounding like it wasn’t too far off. If I was smart, I’d say we should go. Get away from the storm—get over to the wake. Say we could continue this some other time with no intention of ever bringing it up again, because even though it was Libby, and we’d promised to play it straight with each other, this was just ripping me apart; and I wasn’t sure I could even bring myself to say it. Even to her.
But I’d never claimed to be all that bright. Libby, on the other hand, struck me as pretty intelligent—probably knew I desperately wanted to bail on this. But all she did was spare a calm glance up at the angry sky before looking back at me, brushing those loose pieces of hair out of her face again.
“I’m a pro hockey scout.”
“Okay.”
With a world of “And that has fuck-all to do with what, exactly?” in that one word.
“Until Kath’s diagnosis, I was traveling constantly, always on the lookout for the next Lemieux or Gretzky or Crosby. The next stud.”
“Okay.”
“I take notes, watch them practice, watch them play. Record them so I can watch on my computer. Sometimes I use my phone—sometimes, a digital cam.” I rubbed my lip again. “They’re so goddamn small these days, those cameras, you know?”
“Oh, no…” Her eyes widened slightly as the full horror dawned. “Oh…Nick.”
“Oh, yeah. Reduced to setting up a hidden camera in my bathroom to see my own wife. Like some fucking twisted pervert.” My breath was knifing through my chest the way it did when I was skating full out, cold and harsh and just this side of cutting off all my air. The same way I’d felt when I plugged the camera into my computer. I’d been so afraid of what I was going to see that I’d hit the pause button a half dozen times. So ashamed I’d been reduced to this. That I just couldn’t let things be. Ashamed that I couldn’t delete the recording without ever looking at it and forget I’d ever sunk this low.
“You know the irony?”
She shook her head.
“I couldn’t tell at first. It was a few weeks after the surgery, so the drainage bulbs were already gone. Any side views, I really couldn’t tell much, but then I got lucky—if you can call it that.” I laughed again, but Libby didn’t even flinch. “She turned to face the camera, and the big mystery was revealed, and you know what? Not that big a mystery. All I could really see were these two red lines.”
Other than that, her chest was smooth and not really visibly smaller than before the surgery. The one thing that threw me was the strange blankness where her nipples had been. She’d stood in front of the mirror, running her hands over her chest, the expression on her face never changing. Then the motion changed. Instead of stroking, she used a finger on each hand to poke directly at the scars.
I’d left marks on my desk from where I dug my nails in, watching as she flinched and that blank expression gave way to a grimace. I’d wanted to run in there, pull her away from that damn mirror, tell her to stop—please, for the love of God, Kath, stop. Of course, I couldn’t. What I was watching had happened days before, and, frankly, I didn’t have a fucking clue what she needed to do for herself. Didn’t have a fucking clue what I could do for her.
“She’s still beautiful, Libby.” A ragged sigh escaped “Different, but it’s still her, and I can’t tell her.”
I dropped my head, my hands locked around the back of my neck as I stared down at the sand-dusted planks of wood. I ran my feet across the rough surface, trying to create friction, pain, something.
“You should tell her.”
“No, no…” I shook my head back and forth, the tendons in my neck so tight, it felt like they might snap at any second. “I can’t.”
“Why?”
“Porque, la situación se a puesto mas peor todavía, Libby,” I said, inexplicably lapsing into Spanish. Maybe because the words sounded prettier? Because I knew she, of all people, would understand no matter how I said it?
“Now with the chemo, she’s so sick, and she won’t let me hold her head over the toilet or even wipe her face afterward. Won’t let me help her pick her hair up from the floor and the pillows and anywhere she sits, because it’s all coming out. The only thing she’s let me do is hire a nurse.” My voice turned bitter. “Someone to help her do all the things I wanted to do for her.”
Libby crouched in front of me, her hands resting lightly on my knees—an anchor of sorts.
“It’s like she hates me for not being able to understand, but I don’t know how to tell her that I do.”
“But you don’t.” She rose and turned to descend the short flight of stairs to the sand where she sat, facing the water.
“There’s no way, Nick, that we can understand or know or feel any of what they’re going through. We can wish for understanding or pray for it, if that’s your particular bag. We might want to take it on ourselves, if only for a day, for an hour, to spare them the pain, but no matter how much we might want to, we can’t. And they can’t help but resent us for wanting to do that for them, because what they’re going through—they wouldn’t wish on their worst enemy, let alone someone they love.”
She stared up at the sky, flinching as a drop landed on her cheek. “He resents the loss of control, having lost his sense of self. That he’s been reduced to this one existence where he’s defined by this disease, when he’s so much more and has been for so long. Especially to me.”
For a second, I thought I’d lost her, that she’d totally forgotten my existence and who gave a shit if she had, but then she glanced back over her shoulder, both eyebrows raised. “Sound familiar?”
There was a first—feeling like an absolute asshole at the same time I felt a tremendous kinship. “How long, Libby?”
“Two years, give or take. Started with a small spot on his tongue and a couple of little ones in his throat. Did target specific radiation for a couple of months, all outpatient, got a clean bill of health for the next six months. Afterward, we went to Hawaii to celebrate.” She paused and took a deep breath before saying, “And to plan,” in such an unbelievably soft voice, the words almost got lost in the wind.
A sick feeling took over in the pit of my stomach, taking everything in there and twisting it in hard knots.
“It’d been just us for over eleven years, you know? Ethan’s fourteen years older than I am, but he never made me feel any pressure over it. Said he was happy waiting until I was ready since I was so young when we got married. That he loved it being just the two of us and that mentally, he’d probably always be younger than me anyway, no matter what our birth certificates say.” She smiled. “I loved that about him. That carefree, playful attitude. In a way, he was the kid I never was. It would’ve made him such a great dad, you know?”
The knots just kept twisting and turning, getting tighter and more painful.
“We were getting physicals, they found some shadows on one of his lungs and that, as they say, was that. We talked about different options, of course, maybe taking some sperm donations before he started treatment, but he didn’t think that would be fair to me—on a lot of levels. I was so unbelievably pissed at him. Felt like he was taking the choice out of my hands. But, much as I hate to admit it, it was his choice as much as mine.”
I made my way down the stairs and dropped to the sand besi
de her. Leaning back on my hands, I stared up at the clouds that were starting to glow with flashes of lightning like they were being lit from the inside while several yards away, the waves rushed in with a rhythmic roar and crash. Just sitting there watching and listening left me with the strangest feeling of closing out extraneous noise and bullshit—as if I was on an observation deck, watching through a window. Which forced me to focus on what was near and immediate: the motion of Libby’s hand as she sifted sand through her fingers, that long strand of hair blowing across her face, the sound of my voice—
“That’s how we found Kath’s, too. We’ve been together pretty much since college, but only got married earlier this year. We were going to do it all at once—marriage, babies, a real house—all of it. Our parents were so relieved.”
No, “Oh, Nick,” or “I’m so sorry,” or anything else that might have had me snarling and biting. I didn’t need sympathy, and God knows, Libby didn’t either.
“You know we’re allowed to be angry, right?”
“Are we?”
“Oh fuck, Nick, why the hell not? We suffer.” Her voice hardened. “Our lives are completely assed over, not just from a practical standpoint, but more importantly, from the emotional. Yet we’ve got to remain strong because we’re the healthy ones.”
Healthy ones. What a fucking joke. One that we were both in on and wished like hell we weren’t.
Libby
November 1
“Estás segura que no ay nada—”
“Gracias, Carlos, pero, no.”
Oh God, please, no more concern, no more kindnesses…I couldn’t—not today. I just couldn’t—
“Libby, hey, Nan said you were around today.”
Oh God. My hands shook as I tried to snap my wallet shut. I pretended not to notice as Carlos reached out and discreetly aligned the flap until the two metal disks clicked together with a tiny snap. I busied myself slipping the black leather clutch into my backpack, gaining a few more seconds—just enough.
“Hi, Nick. How are you?” And pat me on the back for having that come out sounding normal and not choked and strangled.
“Pretty good, actually.”
No lie, either. He looked flushed and pleased, bouncing on the soles of his Reeboks, sweat running down the sides of his face and darkening his Florida Panthers T-shirt. So much better than at Ray’s funeral, which was the last time I’d seen him. Why did he have to look so much better? So…happy?
“How about you?”
“Same old, same old.”
Liar.
But he didn’t see it, thank goodness. He was either in a really good mood or on a tremendous endorphin rush—maybe both. Whatever. If it kept him on the blind side, better for me.
“You know, I could really use something to drink. Join me?”
Don’t do it, Libby. You can’t. Not today.
“Um, I don’t know…” Well, wasn’t that just decisive?
“Come on, please?” He was still bouncing, shaking his arms, probably part of that cool-down thing that jocks did, and looking like an eager twelve-year-old. All of a sudden, I felt ancient.
“I haven’t even taken my stuff upstairs—”
“That’s cool. I need to go up and grab a quick shower anyway.”
Dios mío, he was pushy. But I could’ve still said no. In the elevator. In my room, as he insisted on bringing my small bag in and setting it on the luggage rack. When he returned less than ten minutes later, back in the elevator, even down in the lobby, I could’ve still said no. So tell me why the hell I was slouched in a chair across from him in the coffee shop across the street from the hotel?
Because I was powerless, that’s why.
“So what’s been going on?” Tearing off a corner of the pumpkin scone that had been the first thing I’d seen in the case, I shoved it in my mouth.
I’m sure it was very good.
He took a huge swig from the bottled water he’d bought in addition to his coffee. “Well, I talked to Kath. About wanting to help her—about…” His voice dropped as he added, “Seeing her.”
I straightened at that. “You told her?”
“Yeah.” Nodding, he drained what was left in his bottle. “Not at first. I wanted to try one more time without resorting to that, but six words into the conversation, I knew she was going to shut down. But damn if I was going to let her.”
He took a huge bite of his pastry, a bright, orange-pink blob of guava paste oozing out and clinging to the corner of his mouth. “I followed her around the house for three days, barely giving her space to breathe.”
“That was risky as hell.”
“Tell me about it. But what else was I going to do? I’d given her space. I’d tried easing into discussion. I’d been as supportive as I knew how. Tried most every damn thing I could think of, except forcing her to actually deal with me. Felt like I didn’t have anything else to lose.”
“And?”
“She blew a gasket, man. Day three and she’d had enough and just turned on me and let loose.” His voice dropped again as he stared into his cup. “Afterward…it was the first time she really let me hold her in nearly four months.”
My heart pounded against my chest, and I swallowed hard. Dear God, four months. Poor Nick. Poor Kath, that she hurt so bad she wouldn’t let him close. I sent up a silent thanks to the god/goddess du jour that, at the very least, Ethan let me hold him. He may have hated my seeing him suffering and withering away, but he let me hold him.
All of a sudden, I realized that Nick was still speaking. “…hasn’t gone any further, really, but it’s progress, at least. She’s still not up for letting me see her, in person, as it were, but at least she knows I’ve seen her and that I’m not scared and she knows I love her, no matter what. Small steps, you know?” He smiled at me, that happy, relieved smile I’d seen back at the hotel. “And this new cocktail she’s on seems to be working a lot better for her. She’s not getting quite so sick, not taking so long to recover, so she’s been able to work from home, at least part time, and that’s also helping her a lot—”
“I have to go.”
“Libby?”
My fingers curling into the edges of the table. I shoved my chair back. “I’ll see you l-later, Nick—I’m glad things are…”
No, dammit, I wasn’t glad. I couldn’t be happy…I liked Nick, I really did, but I just couldn’t be happy. It was too much—it wasn’t fair; it wasn’t fair.
“Libby!”
I could hear my sneakers pounding against the sidewalk, feel the shift as concrete became asphalt. Horns blared as I ran across Alton Road’s four busy lanes. Ignoring the squealing brakes and angry shouts, I strained to reach the parking lot and the safety of my car.
“Let go.” I broke away from the hard grip, my arm hot and stinging like when I was a kid and Stacy Alvarez would give me an Indian burn, the little bitch. Stumbling the last few feet, I yanked open the door and dropped into the driver’s seat, blindly jabbing for the ignition button.
Finally, I connected, the engine roaring to life, but before I could shift from park, the door flew open. “Libby, for God’s sake, what’s the matter?”
“Leave me alone! Please, please, just leave me alone, Nick.”
Where was that voice coming from? That ugly, shrill, painful voice?
“Turn the fucking car off, Libby; you’re not driving.” His hand latched onto the steering wheel.
“Fuck you.” I tried to slam the door, catching his arm, but even though he grunted in pain, his grip held. “I am so goddamn tired of being told what to do.”
I yanked the gearshift into reverse, the car jerking hard as some instinct drove me to slam on the brakes at the last possible second. Nick stumbled, but his grip never let up on the wheel. “Dammit, Libby, stop.”
My head dropped to the steering wheel, my breath whistling through my throat as another scream tried to take over. “Just…leave me alone, please, please, please…leave me alone.”
Not
a scream, but a whisper that rang just as loud. And he would know I caved.
Powerless. Totally and completely powerless.
“Keep your foot on the brake, Libby, just for a second, okay?”
A breeze blew in as the door opened, making me lift my head. From a remote place way inside myself, I watched as Nick released the wheel and pulled the gearshift into park, angling his body across mine as he did, as if to keep me pinned in place. He didn’t need to worry. Wasn’t like I was about to try to pull free and take off. The brief rebellion was done.
At the same time, I sure as hell didn’t need anyone babying me through this.
“I…I’m fine now.”
“Don’t, Libby.” His voice was flat—nothing soothing or babying about it. “Not with me.”
Putting his arm around me, he guided me out of the car and to the side entrance of the hotel, using his key card to let us in. For the first time, something penetrated the fog of my misery as I idly wondered why he would have taken us this way. Front was actually closer. But, oh—
Coming in this way, there would be far less likelihood of encountering curious faces or concerned expressions. I sighed and leaned a little closer into Nick, not wanting to see any of that, not wanting anyone to see me.
We got lucky, too, in that no one was waiting for the elevator and no one emerged either, as the doors slid open. No one but Nick to see how bad off I was—see how I was cracking… little fissures breaking across the surface. Now if I could just make it to my room I would be okay. I’d be fine. I could break in peace, then put myself back together.
At least enough to face another day.
“Where’s your key?” His voice was a soft croon and oh God—there was more cracking, almost audible. If I looked down, would I actually see the spider web of lines crawling across my skin?
I waved vaguely toward the pocket of my jeans, barely feeling it as he reached in and pulled it free.
Pulling away from him, I crossed the threshold and turned, blocking the doorway. I tried to speak, but the words remained stubbornly trapped. Swallowing hard, I tried again, finally managing a quiet, “Thanks, Nick, I—”
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