Both Sides Now

by Barbara Ferrer

  “And I’m going to work on my book again, Libby. Really work on it.”

  “Of course you are.”

  Stan, thankfully, seemed to get that I was in genuine shock and didn’t take it personally. Leaving Nora’s side, he sat beside me, taking my hand in his. “Ethan was amazing with me these last few months, Libby. He encouraged and critiqued and tore my ass apart in ways that no one has since I was a snot-nosed English major. In ways that let me know he was really taking me seriously and that he thought I had the chops to do this. Made me really feel it was time to settle down and actually do something about the thing and not have it continue to be this amorphous, some-day-in-the-future pipe dream. One of the last things he said to me—that it was one thing to have the dream, but you had to have real balls to act on it.”

  God, Ethan. Yet another gift. I had no idea how the wily bastard did it, but he did. I know he did. A gift for me and maybe more importantly, for Nora because he’d loved her too. I hope she realized it.

  “So yeah, I’ll be sticking around.”

  “Of course you are.”

  Nearly forty years of independence and go where the wind blows attitude and now, he was going to turn into Father Knows Best—he and Nora setting up a happy little love nest. If Nora started wearing pearls and he started calling me “Kitten” I was so gone. As it stood, I was seriously verging on the edge of hysteria here. Just too much drama for one afternoon, with Nora and Stan and acknowledging that Ethan really was dead and wasn’t coming back. That he’d known about Nick.

  Nick…here—then gone.

  Two losses, one day. Just…too much.

  Stan’s steady, entirely too kind gaze conveyed he understood just how close to the edge I was riding, even if he didn’t completely understand all the reasons why.

  “You look beat. We’ll talk some more later. We’ll have plenty of time to talk more.” Smoothing my hair back from my face, he pressed a kiss against my temple—smoothed my hair again. “Your hair looks pretty like this baby girl. You should wear it down more often.”

  A final stroke down the length of it and then he was rejoining Nora in the doorway where she leaned into him, her arm going around his waist. Looking over her shoulder she said, “We’ll clean up in the kitchen and lock up behind ourselves, Liberty. Your father’s right. You look tired. Should try to rest.”

  Her voice was mild and those dark, dark eyes, difficult as ever to read, didn’t give me a hint as to how she was really feeling. It didn’t really matter. I suspected that with Stan in the picture for good, she’d hash it out with him, and he’d make her see reason or at least get her to lay off. Anyone who’d lived in as many places and interacted with people from as many walks of life as he had—God only knows the stories he’d heard. The things he’d seen. I mean, a barista was just one step removed from a bartender, right?

  Curling up on my side, I felt for Ethan’s shirt beneath my pillow, gently stroked the edge of a sleeve as I watched Nora and Stan walk down the hall, arm in arm, the late-afternoon shadows making their bodies meld into one dark, beautiful abstract form.

  And as I caught a faint whiff of Nick’s cologne on the loose hair drifting over my cheek, I allowed one final tear to escape.

  Nick

  June 2

  I liked that my home office had big windows. These days, I liked even better that they faced east, instead of west, like the ones in the sunroom. Meant that once the sun crossed past my windows on its way to yet another glorious sunset, my view was usually shades of blue and gray, shadows crowding the corners, even as the light hung on, usually past eight at night this time of year. Unless of course, it was raining. Also pretty common for this time of year and pretty much just as welcome as the shadows.

  And what the hell was I doing there, sitting in shadows? I should be doing something, right? Anything, to try to fix the rathole insanity that passed for my life. I’d come home that day in April, full of every good intention in the world—to try to honor what Libby and I had had by making things right with Kath and bitch of it was, I couldn’t. It’s like I was frozen. Still so filled with Libby and the lingering sense of what might have been that was so damn tempting—and dangerous.

  “You need time to mourn, m’ijo.”

  That’s what Tico had said, last time I saw him, a couple of weeks back. Once I confessed, on our usual park bench in Little Havana, that I’d had to see Libby one last time to say goodbye—once he’d been assured that the battle had been fought and won and I was as at peace with my choices as I’d ever be—that’s what he’d said.

  “Mourn what? I’m the one who’s got everything.”

  “Do you?”

  Damn enigmatic Jesuit.

  It’s not that I didn’t know what he meant, but it was all about context. Bet he knew that too.

  Since Tico’s advice hadn’t been half bad in the past, and not having any better ideas myself, I took him at his word. Made a deliberate effort to retreat into myself, into a quiet place where I wasn’t always moving, always on the run, mentally or physically, in some desperate effort to exhaust myself and not be able to think too hard. I forced myself to stop and take the time to mourn—and ask myself the hard questions. And after weeks of introspection that could put a monk to shame, all I could come up with was that the answers weren’t going to be easy to come by. That it was going to take time.

  Freakin’ Tico. Lay money he knew that too.

  But I missed her so damn much. Didn’t even have her column with which to hold on to her, because since Ethan’s final column, there hadn’t been anything else. She must have decided she wasn’t up to it, which pissed me off and was the one thing that nearly had me calling. Didn’t she know how talented she was? And it wasn’t just that I needed to hear her voice again, even if it was in print or onscreen or whatever. A lot of people needed to hear her. That unique brand of girly wisdom, as she’d put it, that was as much practical as it was compassionate and influenced by her nutty, unorthodox upbringing, whether she ever actually admitted it or not.

  “Nick—may I?”

  I twisted around on the sofa, finding Kath standing just inside the door, a folder in one hand.

  “Yeah, sure.” I gestured for her to join me on the sofa. “Always, Kath.”

  “Well, you’ve been in here a lot, lately—working, I guess?” Settling herself on the opposite end of the couch, she ran her fingers around her ear, as if pushing back hair that would most likely be long enough to push back in a few more months. As it was, she already had a full head, buzz-cut length, and a dark reddish-brown that was different, but still suited her, making her eyes look that much bluer.

  “Working. Thinking, too.” Not that long ago, I wouldn’t have admitted that. Not to her—figuring she wouldn’t care one way or another. But that was one of those issues I’d been working out. That situation had to change. I had to be more open with Kath. Not bludgeon-her-over-the-head-with-information open, but just let her in on what was going on in my head. Leave opportunity for her to ask.

  She spread her hand over the folder that was now on her lap. “There’s a coincidence. I’ve been thinking too and I…” She stopped and shrugged. “I kind of wanted your opinion on something. If you’ve got the time?”

  “Of course, Kath. Why wouldn’t I?” Especially since this was probably the first time in nearly a year that she’d asked for my opinion on anything.

  “Well…if you were working…I hate to bother you.” Her fingers played around her ear again, as if she was desperate to have her long hair back, to twist a strand between her fingers as she wrestled for words in a way that was utterly foreign. “And it’s not like I should expect you to drop everything at my whim, especially with…well, the way we’ve…that I…”

  “You should expect my attention.” Slowly, I slid across the sofa, stopping with a good foot between us so I wouldn’t crowd her and carefully slid one hand under hers on the folder, ready to pull back if she flinched or even so much as narrowed her eyes. “
Anytime you want, Kath.”

  It was just for a brief second, but I felt her fingers close around mine, just enough pressure to let me know it was on purpose. And she didn’t draw away, but rather, used her free hand to pull the folder out from beneath our hands.

  “What’d you want to ask about, babe?”

  The muscles in her throat worked and her mouth moved but it’s like she couldn’t quite bring herself to say it. So I tried to make it easier for her—took the folder that clearly had something to do with what she wanted to ask, and put it on the cushion between us. Opening it, I studied the contents with the same attention to detail I used on game tapes.

  “I…I’ve been thinking about it for a while, Nicky. That maybe it’s time.”

  I looked from the folder to her face. “You don’t have to do this, Kath. Honest to God, you don’t.”

  “I know I don’t, but I think I want to.”

  Thinking she wanted to wasn’t good enough. “Make damn sure you want to, babe. You shouldn’t go through this unless it’s something you really want.” I looked back down at the series of before and after pictures of various breast reconstructions. She hadn’t said a word about it since that last brutal fight when she’d told me how it felt having the saline pumped into her body and stretching her skin, how she’d just wanted to crawl out of herself. And she’d been in so much pain, physical and otherwise, that I’d prayed she wouldn’t go any further with it, especially when it would involve more surgery and more pain.

  “Just so that we’re clear, I certainly don’t need or expect you to do it.”

  “I know, Nick.” Her gaze was focused on our hands, her voice soft, and with each word, sounding more unsure—so not like her. “But I need to do it, I think. I want to feel pretty again. Feel…whole.”

  It wasn’t that, though. She could do that with a wig and makeup or just by getting healthy again. We both knew that. But by telling me she wanted to make this kind of a physical commitment…

  She was done just existing. She wanted to live.

  I lifted my free hand to her cheek and brushed my fingertips against her pale skin with the hints of pink returning to the cheeks. My heartbeat sped up as she closed her eyes and leaned into the touch.

  “Let me know how I can help?” With feeling pretty, with advice, with any damn thing, I added silently and hoped she could hear and understand how I meant it.

  Her eyes opened and she smiled. “Double Ds?”

  “’Scuse me?”

  Her grin got broader, exposing the two small dimples that had returned as she regained weight. Gradually, everything was coming back. Maybe different, like her hair, but coming back.

  She pulled her hand free from mine and gestured at her chest. “Should I go for the porn star boobs? I mean, if I’ve got the chance…”

  I laughed out loud in a way I hadn’t done since—

  No. I couldn’t think of that now. That had been time out of time, and I needed to let it go and move forward with Katharine. My wife. And hopefully, my friend once again. “You know, once upon a time, I might’ve jumped at that chance, but that’s when I was young and ignorant.”

  “Oh?”

  “I’ve heard some of the guys on the team talking about making it with super-enhanced chicks.”

  Her eyebrows rose. “Yeah?”

  “Like bouncing off an icy trampoline.”

  After we both quit laughing, I took her hand in mine again—again, being careful to keep my hold loose, giving her the opportunity to pull away at any time. “Whatever you want, Kath. Seriously.”

  “I’ll think on it some more.” Pulling her hand free, she closed the folder. “In the meantime, do you want to go out for some dinner?”

  Another mental sigh of relief. Not only did she want to keep on living, it seemed as if she wanted to do it with me. And for the first time in a long time, I started to feel like maybe, just maybe, I was making the right decisions. “That’d be nice. Sushi?”

  “Are you going out of town?” Since once upon a time it had been our usual before-a-trip ritual.

  I shook my head. “No, but as it happens, there’s actually something I wanted to talk to you about, too—ask your opinion. Although I’m pretty sure I know what I want to do, I still want your input and, besides, I’m just in the mood for sushi. Sound good?”

  “Sounds wonderful.” Pausing by the door, she turned back. “Nicky?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Thank you, baby.”

  I nodded and waited for her to close the door behind her before I pulled out my phone. Pulling up a contact and dialing, I waited for it to ring its customary three times before it was picked up.

  “You miserable sonuvabitch, you’re actually alive.”

  I laughed. “Yes, you smartass. and it’s not like I didn’t just talk to you last week. Jesus, Bob, you’re still worse than my mother.” I settled more comfortably into the sofa and listened to him continue to bitch for another minute before I broke in. “Bobby—shut up a second.”

  “What?”

  “Listen, how would you feel about having a legit opportunity to chew my ass out? On a regular basis, even?”

  “Are you fucking serious?”

  “You’ve been after me to do this for what? The last two years?”

  “Three years, four months, and I’ll have to check with my secretary—excuse me, executive assistant—but I think, twelve days.”

  “Smartass.” I laughed again, then shook my head, not quite believing I was actually doing this but completely certain over how right it felt. “I must be out of my mind, but yeah, I’m serious. I need to talk to Kath about it before I give you a final answer, but…yeah.”

  His voice got softer, all the sarcasm and joking gone. “I think it’ll be a good thing, Nicky.”

  “Yeah, me too.”

  Libby

  June 10

  Three phone calls, a few thousand e-mails, and a trip to Hawaii could work wonders in changing a girl’s mind.

  The three phone calls had been from Ethan’s editor—now my editor. The first one had been to warn me about the column running and to formally offer me the job of taking over for Ethan. The second one had come after I’d regretfully turned him down, and he’d said that Ethan had told him that’s what I’d do and to give me a couple of weeks.

  Honest to God, it was almost enough to drive me to one of Nora’s shaman/priest/santero friends to try to communicate with the inveterate pain in the ass. Jerking my chain from beyond the grave—now there was a gift.

  The third phone call came a week later and, thankfully, wasn’t prompted by Ethan in any way, shape, or form. This was simply Toby, my about-to-be-editor, begging me to allow him to forward the e-mails they’d been receiving for Ethan—and me.

  Fine. I wouldn’t even have to look at them, right? But then, they started streaming into my inbox—one thousand two thousand…I stopped looking at the counter after three thousand, because I was seriously freaking out by that point. Toby, as wily a bastard as my husband had ever been, personally forwarded a few that had been sent directly to him. Predictably, they expressed sorrow over Ethan’s death, but more unpredictably, at least to me, many asked when my next column would run.

  You can bet I checked their provenance to make sure, because, honestly, there wasn’t much I wouldn’t put past Ethan.

  Once I was assured the e-mails were legit, I told Toby to give me two weeks. Two weeks and I’d be his—editorially speaking, that is.

  The first week I spent in Hawaii. Maybe it was a little on the self-flagellation side, deliberately returning to this beautiful, magical place where Ethan and I had gone to celebrate his first recovery—to plan and dream and revel in each other and how much we were in love and how happy—but strangely, it didn’t have the feeling of punishment. Not at all. I was able to spend hours walking along a beach and splashing in water and thinking, and something in the thick sea and fruit-scented air, the powdery sand, and endless, impossibly blue Pacific—so diffe
rent from my moody Atlantic—served as a balm.

  I said my goodbyes to Ethan there.

  As for Nick…my goodbyes for him were a little more complex. I’d said them with that final kiss, but hadn’t really let go. But that was the other thing Hawaii gave me. The knowledge that maybe I wouldn’t be able to—at least, not for a while. Maybe not for a long while. And that realization actually lessened the constant hurt that was Nick. He could live in his place in my mind and in my heart—not at the surface, but not completely gone either and that was okay, too.

  The second week, I spent just sorting through the letters, reading them, making notes, every once in a while crying. Most of them were so sweet—condolences, encouragement, sympathy, stories of people who’d gone through the same thing, be it the loss of a spouse or the cancer or both.

  There was one from a little girl:

  Dear Miss Libby,

  I am very sorry that your husband went to heaven because of cancer. I hope he’s found my gramma. She makes really good cookies. She’ll take care of him.

  If Ethan had found Gramma, he was probably teaching her how to play Texas Hold ’Em.

  Then there was this one:

  Libby,

  So sorry for your loss. It must be hard on such a young woman. But I saw your picture. You’re pretty hot—a chick like you shouldn’t go without for too long, so when you’re ready to date again—

  Yeah, I deleted it after that point. Whackjob.

  Then this caught my eye:

  Dear Libby,

  How did you cope?

  That was it.

  Dear Libby,

  How did you cope?

  Six words, and for the first time in a long time I felt it. The creative buzz thrumming through my veins, my fingers practically itching as they rested on the keyboard. Sitting at the table in my sunny kitchen, mug of coffee beside me, Butch in my lap, Sundance under my feet, and Joni Mitchell on the stereo, I found myself smiling. I was smiling because I knew what I was going to write and I was…