Twelve Months

by Steven Manchester

  Everyone laughed.

  “I think she snacked between meals. For whatever reason, what really turned me on was walking behind her when she climbed stairs. It was like watching two baby pigs fighting under a blanket.”

  Even I laughed at that one.

  “When we went out dancing, I couldn’t tell whether she was doing the electric slide or having a seizure. And she used to have me shave her back in the shower – that is, until the weed whacker nearly electrocuted us.”

  We shared one last laugh and the whistle went off. It was perfect timing. The guys each got up, dusted themselves off and went back to work. I took one last look around, grabbed my timecard and – for old time’s sake – punched out.

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  While Bella wrestled with the reality of my early departure and the sharp pains that went with it, I watched in agony as she stumbled through the same dark valley I was traveling in. She snapped at the slightest annoyance and cried at the most random times. Days fit slowly into weeks.

  I slept in one morning but it wasn’t easy to break old habits. For decades, I’d gotten up before the sun. Now, all I could think was to take my coffee to the deck where there wasn’t much to do but sit in the Adirondack chair and listen to the birds gossip.

  Idle time can be a killer. I started thinking too much about where I might be heading. I wasn’t sure about heaven and hell, but I eventually pictured my Nana. Wherever she ended up is good enough for me, I thought. And if she didn’t make it to heaven, then I don’t have a snowball’s chance in hell.

  One night, I got up from bed and went into the living room away from Bella’s sensitive ears. I cried for a long while – not for myself, but for the love I was going to have to leave behind – for Bella, Riley, Michael and the kids. Before long, I heard some rustling around in the kitchen. Bella’s angelic silhouette suddenly appeared in the doorway. Without a word, she joined me on the couch where we cried together. When we’d had our share of grieving, she turned to me and asked, “Are you ready to share this with me now?”

  “Yeah. But I…”

  “No buts,” she said, “for better or worse, remember?” She rested her head on my chest. “In sickness and in health…you big oaf.”

  “Okay,” I said. “In sickness and in health.”

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  The following week, after my bi-weekly visit with Dr. Rice, the blue-collar stiffs from McKaskie’s threw me an impromptu retirement party in Jimmy Smeaton’s frigid backyard. It was half-assed at best, but they did the best they could. It was an off-season cookout, with burgers and dogs, a full keg of beer and a beat-up radio playing country music. From this jaded crew, the thought really was all that mattered. I found out later that Bella funded the majority of the shindig. It didn’t surprise me. I did my best to enjoy the celebration, but my mid-section throbbed in pain the entire afternoon.

  Suddenly, I had all the time in the world to do whatever I wanted. Besides my wife, though, there was no one else around to do it with. Everyone was either working or taking part in that thing I used to know as life.

  Five weeks to the day I’d received the bad news, Bella and I took in a movie. The smallest details seemed to mean everything; the smell of new carpeting mixed with buttered popcorn; the young, inattentive ushers with their roving flashlights. The entire experience was so different from anything I’d ever known; much different from the days not so long ago when I took everything for granted.

  Like a switch that had been turned back on inside of me, as I walked out into the sun it hit me. I had already lost fifteen pounds and was now fitting into my skinny jeans. If my attitude didn’t change, I wasn’t going to last six months. You’d better accept this dying thing before you waste the rest of your life, I told myself. Besides, you’ve been a pain in the ass since you were a kid. What’s more appropriate than going out with colon cancer?

  I turned to Bella. “I need to stop pouting, we both do, before we waste the time we have left.”

  She grabbed my arm and kept walking. “I know,” she said. “I’ve been thinking the same thing.”

  From that very moment on – with the filters turned off, the walls torn down and all the defenses lowered – we stepped back into our life together, or at least what was left of it.

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  Michael popped over on that next weekend to help me carry my worn recliner out to the sidewalk for the junkman.

  “But you love that chair,” Bella said.

  “But I love you more,” I told her and then turned off the TV. “As far as I’m concerned, you can get rid of this, too. I don’t have time for it anymore.”

  She was shocked. She’d always called that TV my soul mate.

  It took some searching, but I finally found the jigsaw puzzle on the top shelf of the hallway closet. It was a five thousand-piece mural of angels ascending into heaven, a gift that Riley had gotten me many Father’s Days ago. The picture on the box showed shades of blue and green so close that they were guaranteed to make me pull every remaining hair out of my head. Puzzle making was a simple task of such complexity that I couldn’t help but embrace the torment. This one wasn’t going to be a one-nighter, but if I had to fill my time I wanted it to be with the pastime I loved most. A picture of angels can’t hurt either, I figured. “It’s going to help relax me,” I told Bella when I showed her the box.

  “Sure it will,” she snickered. “Just make sure you watch your mouth in front of the kids.”

  I laughed. “Those days are done,” I promised.

  For as long as I can remember, I’ve always loved putting together puzzles. I think I was six years old when I got my first puzzle for Christmas. I don’t remember how long it took me to put together or how many pieces it was, but it looked like a lot. I guess it must have been about a hundred pieces.

  As I got older, during the long New England winters my mother would set up a card table where I’d chip away at three hundred-piece Whitman puzzles, or the more expensive Wysocki’s. Back then, the average puzzle was around two hundred fifty pieces and a large one was no more than five hundred. The pieces were at least three or four times thicker than they are today.

  I’ve tackled two giant puzzles in my time. One was eight thousand five hundred pieces, cost eighty-nine dollars and took nearly three months to complete. There were three of us doing it on the weekends – Bella, Riley and me. Every time I passed the puzzle, I’d have to stop and put in a piece or two. When adding up the cost of soda pop, beer and snacks, that puzzle ended up costing us around five thousand dollars. The other monster had twelve thousand ninety-six pieces and was four and a half feet wide by nine and a half feet long. I gave them both away after we finished them.

  Over the years, I must have put together at least a thousand puzzles, maybe more. Per Bella’s orders, many of them were laminated and framed and now hang everywhere throughout our house. I really enjoyed making all of them. I’ll tell you, though, sometimes I’d get so involved that I’d call McKaskie’s and tell the boss something important had come up and I’d be to work a little late. I did that more than once.

  I can remember staying up late some nights, getting only two or three hours of sleep before having to go to work. I’d wait until the last possible moment so I could put in a few more pieces. There were even days when I’d get to work and tell them I wasn’t feeling well and had to go home. Crazy, I know.

  For a one thousand-piece puzzle, it would take Bella and me a month or so. There were others, though, that took longer. Though I wouldn’t admit it to my wife, there were definitely moments when I’d get pretty steamed.

  I was really looking forward to getting back into one.

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  We were working on the angel puzzle after dinner one night when Bella blurted, “We need time for us. So, where’s your favorite place in the whole world?”

  I didn’t need to think. “Martha’s Vineyard,” I replied. We’d only been there th
ree times in all the years we’d been married. It seemed odd to me now. A rush of memories came flooding back. I could picture the narrow cobblestone streets, the quaint shops, water views from anywhere, elephant grass blowing in the stiff sea winds, the beautiful sunrises and sunsets…

  “Then Martha’s Vineyard it is,” she said. “When do you want to leave?”

  “How ‘bout in a week or two?”

  Her raised eyebrow requested an explanation.

  “Before I go anywhere, I’d like to take some time and go back…to remember how I got here.”

  The raised eyebrow remained.

  “I’ve been thinking about visiting the old neighborhood,” I explained. “I’d like to spend a few moments with my memories…at least the good ones. They seem to deserve at least that much.”

  The eyebrow surrendered and was quickly replaced by a smile. “Then that’s where you should go,” she said.

  I gave her a kiss, and with a grateful nod, returned to the puzzle.

  Chapter 2

  Before being able to go anywhere, Bella and I kept my appointment with Dr. Rice. As she reviewed my latest blood work, the doctor asked, “How have you been feeling?”

  “Like hell,” I blurted, honestly.

  Her head flew up. “The pain’s bad?” she asked.

  I half-nodded. “I don’t know what to compare it to, but yeah…I’m not thrilled with it. But it’s more…” I stopped, searching for the right words.

  “More what?” she asked, putting my folder down and giving me her undivided attention.

  “Right now, I’m more interested in doing what I can to prolong my stay here.” I glanced at my wife before locking eyes with Dr. Rice. “Are you sure there are no medications that can…” Again, I stopped.

  She took a seat and explained to both of us, “Sorafenib and Cisplatin are both chemotherapy medications that have been shown to slow advanced hepatocellular carcinoma from progressing for a few months longer than with no treatment. Basically, it interferes with the cancer’s ability to generate new blood vessels.” She paused, acknowledging the hope in my eyes. “But the side effects are pretty serious…chest pain, difficulty breathing, loss of balance, skin rashes, abnormal bleeding…on top of what you’re already starting to suffer.”

  “All of that for a few more months, huh?”

  While Bella shook her head, Dr. Rice nodded. “There’s also Doxorubicin, which is an antibiotic drug administered by injection. But its side effects are just as bad…trouble swallowing, fever, blistering of the mouth and…”

  “Not a chance,” I interrupted, feeling just as defeated as my wife.

  “But there are ways you can slow the cancer down.”

  My raised eyebrow asked that she embellish.

  “A good diet is more important than you realize. You need to incorporate a variety of fruits, vegetables and whole grains into your daily diet. They each contain vitamins, minerals, fiber and antioxidants, which can play a role in slowing down the cancer. Next, if you have to drink alcohol at all, no more than one drink a day. A good night’s rest and exercise are also very important.”

  I tried not to snicker, but some sort of negative grunt still came out.

  She smiled. “Nothing too intense with the exercise, of course. Just take a walk every day…for as long as you can.”

  “That’ll also take care of my weight problem,” I teased, poking fun at my shrinking size. No one laughed, but Bella did slap my arm.

  With a final recommendation that I begin taking calcium and Vitamin D supplements, Dr. Rice handed me another script for pain medication.

  “Thanks,” I told her, and had just reached the door when I turned back to her. “So you really think the change in diet and daily walk might sneak some more sand into my hourglass?”

  She smiled, gently. “The more you do, the more you can extend your life.”

  “Consider it done,” Bella told her.

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  I never imagined wanting to return to my past, but I also didn’t want my life to just flash before my eyes when that fateful moment came.

  “You want me to tag along?” Bella asked, as I packed a small cooler for the trip.

  “Aren’t you supposed to have lunch with Riley?”

  “Yeah, but I can reschedule. She’ll understand.”

  I shook my head. “No, don’t reschedule. She needs time with you right now…to help her accept this thing. I only planned on spending the day anyway.”

  “You sure you don’t mind me staying here?” she asked.

  “I’ll be fine,” I said, “Go help our daughter. I’m sure I can find my way back all by myself.”

  She kissed me. “Just make sure you find your way back home when you’re done.” She patted my backside and handed me my jacket and gloves. “And don’t be too long.”

  “I won’t,” I promised and returned her kiss.

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  As I drove two towns over, eating my lunch – an apple and two granola bars – it struck me that I’d never traveled all that far in my life. I’d never really gone anywhere or saw all that much. On the way, my mind began to create random glimpses of many yesterdays…

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  I could picture myself standing on the back stairs of my childhood apartment, one arm wrapped around my mother’s leg, the other holding the toy-of-the-day. Sunlight filtered through the banisters like a sign of freedom from outside the prison walls. My brother, Joseph – older by one year – was allowed to go with my father, as long as he “held onto the railing and watched his step.” As he walked away, I didn’t wonder where he was going, but whether or not he’d ever return. The life of a young child sure is a simple one.

  And his name was Joseph – not Joe and never Joey – but Joseph, as my father had named him. It was a name he would strictly enforce throughout his life. Built like a fire plug, my only sibling carried a concrete head atop a set of broad shoulders that allowed no room for a neck. He had raven-black hair and walked with the swagger of someone who knew his own strength. Even as a kid, he spoke like my father with a mob-style accent and wore long sideburns. Though we shared the same prominent nose, his dark eyes were more beady and set together, giving him the look of a Bowery Boy. He was naturally strong, loyal and took his job as my big brother very seriously – though he had no choice with my old school father watching. And though I honestly never envied him for it, he was my father’s pride.

  I then pictured holding my Nana’s hand, as we trudged through the fresh snow on Pleasant Street. It was my turn to go with her and it beat waiting for her to return, even though she always came back with a surprise. The great unknown might have been a lot more frightening than sitting at home, but it was also much more exciting. Men tipped their hats to her and she smiled in return. She always dressed pretty and smelled just as nice. Even as a young boy, I had a keen sense of who this matriarch was and the many important roles she played within our family.

  Me – I was called the runt. Lanky or “scrawny,” as Dad put it, I also had dark hair and brown eyes. Tall and awkward, I was destined for a deep voice.

  Going for a ride with my father was a real treat until I discovered that most of the people he came into contact with wore the same look on their faces that I felt inside. I would later know that feeling to be fear.

  Standing taller than six feet on a large, sturdy frame, my father was a real bastard. Though I wondered why, he had religious tattoos on both arms. He chain smoked unfiltered cigarettes and liked to drive his black Cadillac with the windows rolled up. His music alternated between Sinatra and Dean Martin to country and western, which I also thought was very strange. He looked like Elvis to me, with his greasy black hair and long mutton chops to match. The man’s temper was legendary. Just his voice instilled panic in most people. He was quick with his hands and even quicker about using them to exact his judgment – or “discipline,” as he called it. Though no one really knew what he did for wor
k, when people mentioned his name they cringed and said he was “good at his job.” Years later, I discovered that most people knew him as Gino Stefinelli. I don’t know what you call a creature that feeds on sharks, but that’s what my father was.

  Not all my early memories are bad. With little money from my dad, my mom once took a cardboard refrigerator box, cut out holes for a door and windows, and then used old markers and crayons to draw in the rest of the clubhouse. It was the best gift I’d ever gotten and I’m pretty sure Joseph felt the same, though he was less apt to express how he felt.

  Mom was also a chain smoker, but hers were the long, filtered ones. She wore a beehive hairdo that Dad insisted she keep up. Per Dad’s orders, she was always “well maintained” with make-up and jewelry. She wore horn-rimmed glasses to read – which I believed to be her escape because she sure did enough of it. Even when she smoked, she snapped her chewing gum. Her job was me and Joseph, and she also took her work very seriously. She was a spiritual woman and a wonderful mom, though even when I was young I sensed she was a very unhappy person.

  I recall my parents taking Joseph and me into Pleasant Drugstore at Christmastime. I can still see the gifts Dad bought on “his tab” at the drugstore, as well as at Jack & Harry’s Department Store. Then we moved from the city to the country because Dad “didn’t want us to grow up around violence.” That irony still baffles me.

  Youth can be filled with such incredible hope, and as is often the case, I didn’t fully understand the value of it – of all the possibilities at my feet – until it was too late. One day, like low-hanging fruit, the world was all mine. The next, I looked up to find the orchard gates closed.