Oliver is white as a sheet, except for the red trickling out of his nose.
Sophie gasps. “Oliver, oh, my God! You’re bleeding! Oliver!”
T W E N T Y - E I G H T
* * *
Wake Me Up When December Ends
YOU GO TO sleep and have some God-awful dream. The grim reaper is chasing you. He touches you and you feel his skin. You wake up before he kills you. Oh, everything is okay. It wasn’t real. Other times, you go to sleep, dream about little penguin babies learning to walk on their parents’ feet and tumbling down like bowling pins, but, inevitably, you wake up to the nightmare of reality. It’s called a reverse nightmare.
Oliver is out cold on the ground, not breathing. Sophie screams and throws herself at him. Medical personnel already at the crime scene run to him and loosen his tie, collar, and belt. He is immediately transported by ambulance to an upscale clinic that looks more like a five-star hotel than a place where people are born or die every day.
In the private waiting room, Sophie sits with her head in her hands. What is taking so damn long? Her mouth dry, she walks toward a touch screen vending machine. A storm is settling over her like a black shroud, draping itself around her heart. She puts a dollar into the machine and waits for it to register the bill, but it spits it back out. Annoyed, she smoothes out the wrinkles on the bill and puts it in again, hoping it works this time. She clicks on a Just Chill energy drink, flips the image, and its nutritional information pops out. “Yoga in a can,” it says. “Reduces stress and enhances focus,” it claims. Seventy calories. Seventeen grams of sugar. She stops reading. She presses the buy button and looks at the floating bubble displaying the money inserted. It reads: $0.00.
There’s something about this vending machine, this incompetent robot, and its incapacity to acknowledge her dollar bill that turns her into a crazy person. Or is it the dwindling low blood sugar, Oliver passing out, Reed dead?
She hits the vending machine several times with her palm, then rests her forehead on it when it tires her out.
“I’M WORRIED,” says Dr. Wu, Oliver’s primary care doctor, in the ritzy, private examination room.
“About what?”
“You don’t look good, son.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” he says with an attitude. “Did you miss the part where my employee just died, possibly murdered?”
“Oliver, you have a lump on your neck. It was wrapped around a vein, causing a large blood clot that led to your passing out. Have you been having night sweats? A fever?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. What are we dealing with here?”
“I can’t say for sure.”
“Stan, cut the nice talk.”
“You need a PET scan and a biopsy right away, Oliver. I’m hoping that it’s just a cyst.”
“But?”
“It could be a number of things, but given your family history…”
Neither dares to utter the cruel word. The wind is kicked out of Oliver.
“No one can know about this, Stan.”
He nods.
“OLIVER!” SOPHIE RUSHES to him as he exits the examination room. “Thank God! Where’s Doctor Wu? What did he say? How are you feeling?”
He sighs. “Sophie, slow down. I’m okay.” Right now, anyway.
“I can’t slow down. I drank three energy drinks.”
“Are you hungry?”
“Hungry? No! Why are you changing the subject?”
“I’m not changing the subject. I’m starving. How does pizza sound?”
“Oliver, you were wheeled in here unconscious. I’ve been sitting in this room so long I can’t feel my legs. What happened to you? Are you okay? And don’t say you’re fine. I know for a fact that pizza is your comfort food.”
“Give me your hand.”
“Why?”
“Just give me your hand.”
He puts it on his neck where a bulge is protruding like an egg.
Sophie gasps. Oh, my God. Oh, my God. Oh, my God. “What is that?”
“A lump.”
Her face clenches. “What kind of lump? And why am I just noticing it?”
“That’s what they’re going to find out. I have to schedule an appointment for tests. It’s probably nothing to worry about it.”
“Does it hurt?”
“Sometimes. The doctor gave me pills for that.”
“Okay, but this isn’t a put-your-affairs-in-order type of lump, right?”
Anything can happen. His heart could stop. He could go in his sleep. It could be all over. No one knows for sure. “My affairs are in order, sweetheart. Regardless of what comes along.”
Sophie reaches over and hugs him tightly.
He holds her head. “You’re a good hugger.”
“I feel awful,” she says in a shaky voice.
“It’s okay.”
She pulls back. “I’m sorry I went behind your back, Oliver. I’m sorry I had to. I’m sorry I didn’t have the guts to tell you the truth. It was wrong and now someone got killed for it. I understand if you hate me. I hate myself.”
“Being angry at you right now is not going to help our situation.”
“I just can’t believe what happened. I’m so scared. About you. About Reed. About me. Reed was digging too deep under the surface. What if they find out I know more than I should? What if they already have? They’re going to come for me too!”
“Hey, listen to me. Nothing is going to happen to you. I won’t let it. You know that, don’t you?”
“We don’t know who we’re up against. We don’t know who murdered Reed. We don’t know what that lump on your neck is. We don’t know anything.”
She stares at him, wondering how he manages to look so calm. “For God’s sake, Oliver. Aren’t you worried?”
“Yes, I am. And you’re right, we don’t know. But I can promise you we aren’t getting anywhere if we don’t pull ourselves together. Now breathe.”
Sophie tries her best to rein in her crumbling nerves.
“That’s it. Just breathe.”
THE WEEK FLIES by fast. Doesn’t it always? At the funeral, Sophie and Oliver pay their respects to Mr. Darren Reed. Husband. Father. Son. Friend. Sophie is devastated and hides behind sunglasses. He should be here laughing, teaching her how to shoot a gun, complaining about the traffic, calling her boss. But most of all, he should be coming home to kiss his wife and son goodnight. Now there is just a cold graveyard with a body six feet under. It doesn’t help that Oliver finds another bodyguard/driver in less than twenty four hours (a Latino with no hair, by the name of Diego) like he never mattered and just about anyone resembling King Kong can just waltz in and replace Reed. Eyes puffy and wet, Sophie says thank you and good-bye. Until we meet again.
Friday, Sophie wakes up with a head full of wine. She is due to make a TV commercial, but Oliver is having all kinds of scans and tests, a bone marrow biopsy, and the lump removal.
“I’m not going to die. I promise,” he says.
“No, screw this. I’m calling off the whole thing. I’m not doing some stupid commercial for frozen yogurt, pretending I’m on a date with my fake actor boyfriend while my real boyfriend is being rolled into the operating room.”
Oliver thinks about said fake boyfriend for a second, Sophie holding his hand and acting like she loves him. He shakes the thought out of his head. “I won’t be fully under. It’s only LA.”
“LA?”
“Local anesthesia.”
“Don’t do that! Don’t start talking to me in sick people language. Look, it’s fine. I don’t even like frozen yogurt.”
“Babe, you love ice cream.”
She gasps. “Take it back.”
“What?”
“Fro-yo is not ice cream. What is the matter with you?”
“You have to go,” Oliver tells her. “We have to carry on like nothing is happening, otherwise the media will pick up.”
“Screw the media!”
“Black International’s
stock has remained relatively steady. I’m not having the press feed rumors, which could cause another drop.”
“Rumors? Last week, Hugh Hefner was my father, and then I died in a skiing accident according to one website. Today, we broke up because you impregnated the nanny.”
He laughs.
“I mean, is this so-called nanny taking care of our imaginary kids? God, some of them actually make me laugh.”
“Sophie, I don’t want to hear another word. You’re going.”
“What about your family? Should I tell Cassie and your stepmother?”
“Absolutely not. This stays between you and me.”
The rest of Oliver’s day involves needles, anesthesia, stitches, and a recovery bed, but no Sophie. She spends her afternoon selling her soul to the holy terrors of frozen yogurt.
While Thea is primping Sophie, a mother dragging a wailing boy by the hand comes through to greet the producer. A kid? Who brought a kid into this? This is going to be a total disaster. Sophie wants nothing more than not to do this, but can’t just stand up and leave. On a scale of one to ten, the commercial is a zero.
THE SURGEON TELLS Oliver it will be a few days before the results of the biopsy are known and he should rest. He sleeps most of the day away, waking at sunset.
On the other side of the bed, Sophie sits reading her manuscript.
“How’s the book coming? Does it make me look good?” he asks, showing his usual humor.
“I don’t understand why someone else has to write my biography.”
“Maybe you could write it yourself.”
“I could also unclog the drain myself. But that would be messy and gross.”
“It’s not the most outrageous idea. If you wrote your own memoir, you would fill it with stories only you know. Not to mention, you would have complete control over what gets printed. You can write about me and tell them how you played hard to get at first, but then finally succumbed because I’m devastatingly irresistible. If you need proof, look it up in the dictionary; my face will be there.”
She turns and looks at him with a smile. “Right now, you’re devastatingly obnoxious.”
“You wanted me—you just didn’t want to admit it.”
“Is the anesthesia still in your system? You’re delirious.”
He laughs. “What are you drinking?”
“Eggnog. The rum edition.”
“How was the commercial?”
“Don’t ask.”
“That bad, huh?”
“Guess what? I have good news. And I have bad news that should be good news.”
“Hmm.” He sits up carefully. “Let’s hear it.”
“Good news is I made you soup.”
“You did?”
“Uh huh. A bisque. From scratch. I’ll be right back.” She disappears to the kitchen, feeling like such an adult. Like when she voted for the first time or bought that Groupon for chiropractic sessions. When she returns with a serving tray, Oliver is coming out of the bathroom in the middle of a cough.
“Everything okay?” she asks.
He strips down to his boxers. “You know what would make it okay?”
“Keep it in your pants, Oliver. You need to eat something.”
She sets the tray down on the bed. “Ta-da! Soup a la Sophie. A healthy chicken potpie soup. To. Die. For. Really. Thea raved.”
He gets into bed, gazes at the soup, and gives her his signature smirk. “You made me soup? Admit it: you’re totally in love with me.”
Maybe today is a day just for rolling her eyes. “God, you’re impossible.”
He takes a few spoonfuls. “Laugh, baby. It’s good for you. This is delicious. I need to get operated on more often.”
“You should’ve seen the kitchen after it was done.”
“What’s the bad news that should be good news?”
She stands at the bedside table, opening pill bottles. “First, I want to know how you’re feeling.”
“Depends. Are we playing nurse and patient here?”
“I’m serious.”
“Don’t be. It was only a biopsy. No big deal.”
It’s only a cat.
It’s only a flesh wound.
It’s only eight in the morning.
It’s only Monday.
It’s only a biopsy.
“It’s only” are relative words. What “is only” a cat to a person, is madness to a mouse. A flesh wound could turn into something serious. Eight in the morning could be the time someone’s baby is born. Monday could be that important opportunity someone has been waiting for all their life. To Sophie that biopsy could change everything. Or not. But what if Oliver is sick? What then? In this in-between time, there’s no way of knowing what the future looks like.
“When will we know the results?” Sophie asks, handing him his pain medication.
“In a few days.” He downs the pill with a glass of water.
“Does your neck hurt?”
He touches the large white bandage taped to his neck. “I’ll be fine.”
“Don’t put up a macho act with me. What about your hip from the marrow biopsy?”
“Sophie, I’ll be fine. Tell me the news.”
She exhales a deep breath and sits down next to him. “Sarah is gone.”
“What? When?”
“Today.”
“How do you know she’s gone? Maybe she stepped out for a minute.”
“Oliver, she took all her things, even the kitchen knives. And I can’t get a location on the tracker app. This should be good, but it’s not. I don’t know what to think. Who is she with? Why did she suddenly take off?”
“Did you get in a fight with her?”
“No.”
“Did you say something that you shouldn’t have?”
“Always. But I don’t think it was me this time. I called Aunt Peg. She doesn’t know anything.”
“Well, then, there’s not a lot we can do, Soph. If she ran away, that’s not on us. It’s her business now. She knows where to find us.”
“So, what’s next?”
“Good question,” Oliver responds. He’s been thinking about that. “I don’t know. The trial will be starting soon. Then there’s the situation with this so-called Lundberg Group receiving payments from Black International.”
“Oliver, please tell me you’re not looking into it.”
“I promised you I wouldn’t. But Black International is being audited after someone phoned in a confidential tip about mismanagement and stock manipulation.”
“What?” she asks, her face caught in between a scowl and a grimace. “Why didn’t you tell me this before? You think that was Reed?”
“The timing can’t be a coincidence. It’s recent. The audit will turn up anything of unlawful substance, though.”
T W E N T Y - N I N E
* * *
When You Love Someone
THE BIOPSY RESULTS couldn’t have come at a more unfitting time—Sophie’s twenty-sixth birthday. Oliver sneaks out of bed early in the morning and heads to the private clinic for his diagnosis from the oncology specialist.
“It’s stage two-B Hodgkin’s Lymphoma…a form of Cancer.”
Oliver closes his baby-blues and responds with a rather deep sigh. Isn’t it ironic? Celebrating another year of a life while discussing the duration of another.
The oncologist says, “Because you have type B symptoms, it is an advanced stage. The good news is you’re young, so the outlook is favorable. Highly treatable. Highly curable.”
“It’s cancer,” are not the words you expect to hear when you’re a twenty-nine year old fitness and health freak who has never even smoked.
“We need to get started on chemotherapy and radiotherapy. It’s important we talk about the drugs and how high dosages are likely to affect fertility in men. If you want a baby someday, I advise you to bank sperm before starting treatment.”
Oliver tunes him out. His brain fires up with questions. What do I tell Soph
ie? Goddammit, it’s her birthday! Do I tell her or do I let her enjoy a worry-free day? He decides to wait to tell her. After all, nothing will happen to him in a day.
As he is getting into the back seat of his SUV to leave the clinic, he gets a call from his lawyer that leaves him in a worse mood. “Bridges changed his plea to guilty. The murder charges have been dropped.”
“What?” he shouts. “He’s going to walk?”
“I’m not sure. The summary of proceedings isn’t exactly telling us what his change of plea entitles, but so far, Bridges is being exonerated of the more extreme charges made against him.”
“Ted, you don’t get to not be sure when you’re the prosecution. Tell me what the fuck happened. Why did he change his plea? Why was there a settlement offer in the first place?”
“He said he was trying to protect Sophie from a dangerous client.”
“Did he say who?”
“No.”
“And the judge bought that?”
“I don’t know what to tell you, Oliver. There’s been some real intrigue going on in Bridges’s case. His lawyer knew what buttons to press. John has an unblemished record and there are gaping holes in the case.”
“You don’t know what to tell me? What am I paying you for, Ted?”
“You have to understand something. The verdict has been playing out on social media globally, and many of the juror’s identities were disclosed. Trial hasn’t even started and it’s already cost taxpayers over one million dollars. The District Attorney met with Bridges and his lawyer to offer him a deal in exchange for a guilty plea. It doesn’t matter if testimony is true or not. All that matters is he admitted to it. The DA dotted i’s, crossed t’s, and called it a great day. He’s running for senator, so that just tells us how desperate he was to prosecute Bridges and close the case. The deal saves his and Bridges neck, and of course, makes the DA look good.”
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