“See you getting ready. I like watching you get ready for work.”
I am both excited and disappointed at once. I’m happy she enjoys watching. I like being watched, but I’d really like her to go back to sleep. In truth, I exhausted myself last night as well and if I could pull her back into bed with me right now so we could sleep in together, I’d do it.
But I have to go to work.
“Lee, why don’t you rest? Go back to bed. I’ll leave you some breakfast. You can heat it up when you wake later.”
“Mmm...okay.” I can tell she’s yawning.
Heading back into the kitchen, I finish Lee’s breakfast and eat a little myself before heading back into my room to finish getting ready. Thankfully, Lee has made her way back under my comforter. I kiss the top of her head before heading into the bathroom where I brush my teeth, shower, and shave.
When I head to the closet, the front of my foot lands in a wet spot. I look down to see my toes are drowning in wet carpet and I feel a drip land on my foot’s arch. Looking up, I see Lee has washed her dress. She must’ve hand-washed it and hung it to dry.
Out of nowhere, I realize I hate this fucking dress!
Sure, the dress is sexy. It’s the sexiest fuck-me dress I’ve ever seen, but I’m convinced the only thing that makes this dress hot is Lee. No one else could wear this and make it look so good.
I pull on the dress to examine it. I’d like to fucking burn it. She’s washed my cum off of it and I worry she’s washed the dress to wash herself of me.
I rush to the bed. “Lee.”
“Yeah,” she blinks, arousing.
I climb onto the mattress to stroke her hair, speaking directly into her face. “Don’t forget, I’m coming back early to drive you home.”
She wipes her eye with the back of her hand. “Yeah, I know.”
“I was thinking, Lee, maybe I could pick you up on Friday and you could come back here for the weekend.”
“Um... I don’t—”
“Or I could book a hotel room somewhere close to where you live and spend the weekend there with you.”
Lee’s eyes blink a few more times until she’s looking me straight in the eyes. Her hand reaches out to cup my face and a smile crawls up her cheeks. “Yeah, okay.”
The exhaustion I was feeling instantly dissipates as my heart shoots what feels like fucking rainbows. The blank canvas of my room becomes doused with every color of my imagination and I’m envisioning me and Lee together wrapped in red, pink, yellow, orange, blue—whatever the fuck color a hotel comforter could be. “Yeah? Great. So, I’ll come out to your place this weekend.”
“Sure,” she smiles.
“Don’t forget there’s breakfast for you, but you don’t have to eat it. You can sleep in if you want. I’ll try to be back before lunch, so I can take you out, finally.” I plant a kiss on Lee’s lips and she buries her face in the pillows to fall back asleep.
As I finish getting ready, buttoning the top button to my shirt, I feel like singing, but I stop myself when I realize I might wake Lee.
I position her breakfast plate on the table this time, where it will be easy for her to sit down, relax, and eat. I also place a thermos with some OJ that I know will stay cold for at least a couple of hours.
Grabbing my keys, wallet, and phone, I make my way out the door. Once in the hall, I’m free to sing away but I catch myself humming lowly whenever I’m within close proximity to another resident.
When I get to my car, I start up the engine and a rage of nineties grunge comes blaring through my speakers. I shift through a few satellite radio channels and come across a pop station playing a happy, get-jiggy-with-it tune. I get the feeling that Lee probably likes pop, so I listen to the cheesy bop as I throw my Camaro in reverse.
Once I pull into the parking garage at work, I take a moment to flip through my phone. I have hundreds of messages—from friends, chicks, and coworkers. Mostly chicks. I figure I should address the work texts but since I’m already here, I’ll just deal with whatever the hell my boss and coworkers are going to throw at me for being out of touch.
I put my phone back in my pocket, open the door, and put my foot out of the car. I hear a light splash and look down as I come to standing... I’ve stepped in a puddle of some sort, except it’s not just liquid, there’s food. Someone has spilled coffee and eggs.
“Ooh,” says an older man strolling by. “Looks like someone’s breakfast got away from them this morning.”
I nod as the man laughs and leaves. I maneuver to step over the spill and shut my door. As I tap my shoe against dry concrete to shake the excess liquid, I recall stepping into the wet spot from Lee’s dress hanging in the closet this morning—the dress she washed.
Ooh, looks like someone’s breakfast got away from them this morning.
The stranger’s voice echoes in my head...
Got away from them this morning.
My head falls back. Fuck!
I quickly grab the handle to my car, stepping right back into the spill to open the door and get back in my Camaro. I hear the engine rumble as I start her up and reverse. My tires screech as I peel out heading towards the exit.
I’m racing through the streets, trying to get back to my apartment. When I get to my building, I take the first empty parking spot I can find. Stumbling out and heading towards the elevator, I push on the button a few times and pull out my phone.
Why are you looking at your phone? You don’t even have Lee’s number, dumbass!
Once in the elevator, my legs won’t seem to stop twitching. The instant the elevator opens, my legs make a dash down the hall to my door. I’m fumbling with the keys but I get the door open and I’m thrilled to see Lee’s breakfast exactly where I left it and uneaten.
She’s still here! She’s still asleep.
I walk into my bedroom and see an empty bed...
An empty bed that’s been made.
That fucking pain finds its way into my chest again except this time it’s funneling its way up against my gag reflex where I feel like I’m choking and desperately fighting to call out. “Lee!”
I walk over to the bathroom. The light is off, but I check anyway.
She’s not in there.
I walk over to the closet and see the dress is no longer hanging where it should be. “Lee!”
I walk back into the living room and look around. “Lee?”
My head turns as my eyes search every empty corner until my sights fall on my couch, my eight thousand-dollar designer couch, which Lee found too stiff, and has been stained with cherry filling.
I massage my forehead. The pain in my chest that managed to poke its way up into my throat is now in my head, giving me a headache.
I should’ve known the girl was trouble.
My feet trail as they turn me around towards my room and towards the bed where I plop flat and take a breather. With one inhale, I smell her. My hands claw automatically onto the pillow beneath my heated face and I inhale deeply once more.
My eyes are beginning to wet but I’m also laughing. I’m remembering the first day when I caught Lee with her nose in my drawers—my underwear drawer.
Turning to lay on my back I spy my dresser and I see something out of place. Getting up, my feet are still trailing but I manage to make my way over. There’s a piece of paper on the wooden box in which I keep all the crap chicks leave here. I read what I figure is written in Lee’s handwriting:
I scrub my face with my palm to smear the stupid tears that are falling. As I open my eyes, I see a bit of clear plastic peeking out through the seam of the box. Lifting the lid, I notice the plastic is of the bag holding both of Lee’s false eyelashes. The little black feathery wisps seem so fragile against the rest of the other fake gems and cheap jewelry upon which they rest.
I pull the little plastic bag out and press the lashes firmly to the left of my chest, beneath the crevice of my left peck. I’m hurting. Everywhere. But this is the spot—right under my lef
t shirt pocket—where I hurt the most. I wish Lee were here to see all the trouble she’s caused because I’m not sure how soon I’ll be able to recover.
She’s left more than a few false lashes. She’s left pain. Real pain.
And a broken heart.
There’s nothing false about that.
17
Lee
“Take your time, sweetie,” my dad says.
Glancing over to the driver’s seat of our Jeep, I see Dad’s got that same false grin he wore when he came to tell me my mother had passed away when I was younger. The half, barely quirked up corners of his lips are intended to be a full blown smile, but the aching pain he’s trying to hide inside won’t let his face blow up—the way it does when he’s with those puppies at home. So, all that shows now is a grin.
I put my hand on the handle of the passenger door and smile at my father. “I’m ready now, Dad.”
He nods. There’s a glimmer in his eye and it’s the same glimmer he had on the night after my mother’s funeral. He was slouched at the dining room table, staring across the top in a very odd daze. It was as if he was on the verge of crying but he was stuck—suspended in a state of mindlessness, unable to get the tears out. It took several attempts to get his attention and when he finally looked up to me, “Hold me,” was all my daddy said.
I wrapped my arms around his broad shoulders and gave him a squeeze, which made him bawl. My mother was the true cuddler in our family. Only she could take the tears away. But it was then I knew I was the stronger one between us because the man couldn’t stop crying. He cried and cried. He still cries to this day, although that was nearly seven years ago and I hate it. It’s depressing. Mom was also the cheery one and once she was gone, it seemed like Dad and I were never going to be cheery again.
I look at my father. I’m tempted to hold him, pat him on the back, give him a big hug, and say everything is going to be okay. But I’m not going to do that because he’ll cry again. And as much as my dad needs a hug, I don’t want to deal with any more crying.
I almost cried over Kevin, but somehow I managed not to and I won’t deny how hard it was to let go while keeping it in.
On my cue, Dad opens his door. We both get out to strut slowly towards the entrance of the hospital. Making our way to the surgical floor, I check in with the receptionist and within five minutes I’m leaving Dad to wait in a waiting room.
Led by a lovely nurse, I’m taken to a locker room, which is very nice with shiny beige and dark chocolate swirled tiles. Here, I’m instructed to change and leave my belongings.
After donning my hospital gown, I’m led to another waiting area where there are two other people waiting in their hospital gowns along with Dad. We sit next to one another in reclining massage chairs in front of a big screen television where the early morning news is delivering the weather—sunny. “A beautiful Friday,” the weatherman says.
Another pretty nurse, dark-skinned with thick black hair pinned up, comes to collect me, instructing me to sit in the wheelchair she’s brought. She leads me to a surgical room where she instructs me to get up on the surgical table and then asks me my name and birthdate. She also helps me to expose the full front of my body down to my waist. Looking around, there are several people in the room, but no one is looking at me. They’re all talking with each other, so I open my gown, exposing my torso with ease.
The surgeon walks in. He also verifies my name and birthdate and I feel silly saying it out loud since we both know who I am. I’ve met Dr. Fleur a few times before and he’s already seen me in this position in his office half naked.
Dr. Fleur holds out a marker and instructs me to indicate with an ‘X’ which of my body parts we will be removing and he would also like me to recite the procedure I will be receiving once the removal has occurred.
I look down at my breasts. Perfect breasts. That’s what Kevin called them and my eyes well up. The nurse puts her hand on my shoulder. “Take your time, honey,” she says with the most beautiful smile taking the marker from the doctor and putting it in my hand.
I mark a small ‘X’ on my right and left breasts.
“After the mastectomy, what procedure are you expecting?” the nurse asks. “You need to tell us, so we can confirm that we are all in agreement with the procedures you’re having today.”
“Breast implantation and reconstruction,” I say confidently because I’ve rehearsed this.
“Very good,” the nurse says, taking the marker from my hands as I feel another nurse prick me with a needle.
I’m given several more instructions but the only two I understand is the one to get comfortable and the one to begin counting backward starting from twenty.
My eyelids become heavy and my vision is already going dark as I count down to “Nineteen...”
I feel so groggy. My body is limp and my mind is mush but I can hear Dad.
“Nurse,” he calls out. “Nurse, she’s waking up.”
There’s a tickle in my throat. It’s so dry so I hack. For some odd reason, I’d like to cough but I can’t seem to do it. My tongue is dead weight in my mouth and my chest hurts. It hurts bad but unlike the rest of my body, which feels heavy, my front feels unusually light.
“Lee,” I hear a woman’s voice. “Lee, how are you feeling?” A young woman, who can’t be much older than me, comes into view.
“Sore,” I report as everything is beginning to ache.
“Lee, I’ve called the doctor. He’s on his way up, okay?”
“Okay,” I blink.
“Lee, honey.” My dad is the next to hover over me and he’s got that stupid glimmer in his eyes like he’s about to cry.
“Dad, don’t cry. It fucking irritates me.”
My dad’s beautiful blue eyes widen with surprise and I’m stunned myself that I’ve cussed at him. I would never cuss at my dad. I figure it must be the painkillers talking.
“Miss Lee Hart.”
I recognize the voice. It’s my surgeon and I’m recollecting where I am and why I’m so groggy. I should’ve had my breasts removed due to cancer, the same cancer my mother had that took her life.
The doctor shines a penlight in my eye making me grimace. “Lee, can you tell me where you are?”
“I’m in the hospital.”
“Very good,” he holds up his pointer finger and points with his other finger to the tip. “Can you follow my finger with your eyes.”
I nod as he moves his finger. My eyeballs ache but they are moving, following.
The doctor takes his stethoscope off his shoulders. “I’m going to listen to your heart for a moment.”
Dr. Fleur places his stethoscope on my left rib cage and I suddenly sense there’s something very wrong. I grab at my chest. A flat chest. Dr. Fleur removes the stethoscope with a frown.
“I’m very sorry, Lee. I was not able to complete the implant or reconstruction procedures.”
What the hell is he talking about?
“I’m sorry, what did you say?”
Swiftly, another man, grayer and with glasses—a doctor—walks into the room, and then another, and another. The last is a woman. They are all in white coats and they all line up around my bed, which makes me uneasy, but I feel better when I see Dad is standing alongside them.
“Miss Hart,” speaks the older gentleman with the glasses, “I’m Dr. Casey Biani. I’m the Chief Medical Officer and these are my associates, Dr. Mario Nettle, one of our cardiologists, and Dr. Kira Blackwell.”
“I’m a neurologist,” says Dr. Blackwell.
My stomach growls. I know I haven’t eaten in more than twenty-four hours but I don’t think my stomach is growling due to hunger. “What’s going on?”
“You gave us a big scare, Lee,” says Dr. Fleur. “After completing the double mastectomy, you went into cardiac arrest. We were able to revive you, but there was too much risk to keep you in surgery.”
“We are looking into your health history to determine the cause of the arrest,” con
tinues the chief-guy.
“We nearly lost you, Lee,” blurts Dad, who grabs my hand.
Oh jeez, he’s crying.
“Dad, can you stop? I want to know what’s going on.”
“Lee,” steps in Dr. Blackwell, the lady. “We would like for you to understand that cardiac arrest during a procedure is not a common occurrence during a breast procedure, but it does happen. Because we are unsure of the extent of any damage you may have experienced, we would like to keep you here and run some tests.”
“What about my new boobs and the cancer?”
Dr. Fleur leans in closer. “Due to the emergence of the situation, I had to stitch you up as quickly as possible. It’s not what you wanted, but believe it or not, over forty percent of women do not get reconstructive surgery after a mastectomy so you are not alone.
There’s a burn in my gut. “But I’m twenty-one. I need boobs.”
My dad grabs my hand. “Baby, you also have cancer. Let’s work on that first and worry about the rest later.”
Dr. Blackwell grabs my other hand. “Lee, your dad is right. The health information we collect from the tests we’ve planned for you will also be shared with your oncologist. As of right now, you are still scheduled for radiation as well as chemotherapy. We are leaving you the choice to decide if you would like to stay on schedule or postpone due to what happened in the surgical room a few days ago.”
A few days ago! Jeez! “How long have I been out?”
“Four days,” says the chief and if it wasn’t for your sleep talk, we might’ve thought you were in a coma.”
“Lee, honey,” my dad cuts in, grabbing my hand. “It’s a miracle you’re still here.”
Miracle. I remember as my mother grew ill, I kept praying for a “miracle.” I don’t believe in any of those.
18
Kevin
I need a fucking miracle—anything that will get Delaney to pick up her phone.
“Delaaaaaney...” I slur into my cell. “Pah-lease tell Lee to call me.” A hiccup nearly makes me tip off the bar stool.
The Cuddler Page 11