That's Not a Thing

by Jacqueline Friedland

  “I told Aaron that I made out with Wesley,” I spout without preamble, rushing to get all the salient details out. “Aaron dumped me and is moving out until Wesley goes into a facility, at which point I will be homeless, too. Oh, and I’m also unemployed.”

  Lana does a little shake of her head, like she’s trying to get water out of her ear. “I’m sorry—what, what, what?”

  I then tell her a slightly less abrupt version of the events, adding a few details here and there, my words bursting forth like shrapnel as I try to get her to understand the catastrophic state of my affairs.

  “And the reason I called you,” I race onward, “is so you can be my wing-woman while I tell Wesley that there is absolutely nothing, nothing, nothing romantic between us, even though Aaron and I aren’t a thing anymore.”

  “Huh.” Lana stares at me, her blue eyes narrowing slightly. I can see her processing everything, and I feel a surge of love for her because I know she’s trying to figure out the best way to help me. I get a little hopeful, wondering if maybe there’s something I haven’t thought of, some way to fix this.

  “Okay, yeah,” she says finally, cocking her head toward the elevators. “Let’s go dump Wesley.”

  “No, it’s not like that.” I feel a surge of protectiveness for him. “He didn’t do anything wrong. Not recently. I still care about him, a lot, just not that way.”

  “No, I know.” She reaches out and gives my upper arm a light squeeze. I stiffen at the touch, too raw to accept any affection. Her hand drops as she continues, “But maybe if we can get him out of the apartment, it might help in your quest to get Aaron back.”

  “There is no quest. Aaron was über clear; he’s not coming back.” I cover my mouth with my hand to stifle a sob before it escapes.

  We’re silent for a moment, the scent of Lana’s flowery hair-care products enveloping us both.

  “Although maybe it would tell him something,” I start thinking aloud. “That even without Aaron, I don’t need to be near Wesley. But no, he’d probably just add that to the list of what I’ve done wrong, actions that make me a bitch. You know, kicking out a dying man just to serve my own ends.”

  “Okay, yeah, I get it. C’mon, hon.” She links her slender arm through mine, and I surrender to her authority, feeling suddenly as though her allegiance is all that’s keeping me on my feet, the only fragment of my life allowing me to remain physically upright. “Let’s get this over with.”

  As we round the corner from the alcove back to the main lobby, I see Wesley by the elevators, his shining wheelchair pointed not toward the two elevators but toward the mail room. I don’t know how much of our conversation he heard, but the expression on his face tells me it was enough.

  I brace myself for whatever hateful words he is about to spew, wondering if there is any way I can possibly make things worse than I have already. When he finally opens his mouth, his tone is kinder than I expected, his words a startling balm.

  “We’ll fix this,” he says. “C’mon, I’ve got prosecco cupcakes for you guys.” He tilts his chin downward, and I notice the white bakery-type box on his lap.

  We’re silent as we step onto the elevator, Lana in front while I push Wesley’s chair.

  “How much did you hear?” I ask.

  “I was already thinking about moving into a facility,” he answers matter-of-factly, like he’s telling me about a business meeting and not his end-of-life palliative care. “I’ve had a couple of little things in the past couple of weeks, so . . .”

  “Things?” I’m trying to get a handle on what he’s saying, to get a handle on anything at all.

  “Things. That’s not the point. The point is that I started looking into aides, home health care workers, you know? But it doesn’t feel like the right solution.”

  The door opens on the eighth floor, and Wesley keeps talking. “There’s a place I found, in Massachusetts. It’s a one-of-a-kind care facility dedicated to patients with ALS. Everyone gets their own apartment in this one building, and the staff helps the patients maintain normal lives for as long as possible. They have engineers dedicated to making communication devices that suit each individual’s different needs. Things like that.”

  “Communication devices?” Lana interrupts as she walks next to me, the two of us trailing Wesley.

  “Yeah, for when we lose our ability to speak.” He sounds so calm as he glances back over his shoulder at Lana, like he’s teaching her about ALS the same way he used to teach her about trigonometry when she was in high school.

  “I saw that place,” I say as I step in front of him and use my key to let us into the apartment. “When I was looking around online. It looked amazing but very small. They have room to just take anyone?” I hold the door open as Lana and Wesley file into the apartment.

  “Well, it’s expensive,” Wesley says, as he swivels back toward me. “I don’t think that many people can afford it. And I guess that with their particular clientele, they probably have a lot of turnover.” He shrugs sheepishly.

  “That’s not funny.” I swipe the box of cupcakes from his lap and huff my way to the couch.

  Lana charges onward as though Wesley has been a part of this conversation from the beginning. “So, how are we going to convince Aaron to get over your lapse in judgment?” she asks as she plops down next to me and peers into the cupcake box that I’m opening. Her phone buzzes, and she reaches into her clutch. “Ooh. Spencer.” She’s pursing her lips at her phone, like she’s trying to formulate a response, or maybe just thinking about kissing.

  “Seriously?” I demand, suddenly annoyed at her. “You’re cheating on Reese for real? We’re like Sodom and Gomorrah over here.”

  “No, I’m not ‘cheating on Reese’”—she mimics my tone back to me—“but I do think I may be finished with him. He’s never around, and I’m not sure he’d miss me if I moved on. I think I’ve been so focused on fixing our crappy relationship over the years that I’ve never paid much attention to whether Reese was even capable of making me happy. We have almost nothing in common at this point, and I’m kind of over him.” She looks from me to Wesley and shrugs, as though this is not a topic that has consumed her for the past several years, as though her new epiphany is no big deal.

  “Doesn’t it take you back though? I used to come to you two all the time for advice about Reese back in high school.” She makes a heaving sound, like she’s clearing her throat of a nasty taste. “I don’t even think he was making me happy back then, so it definitely makes sense that I should be ending it. I just have to find a time to talk to him. He keeps being too busy every time I tell him we need to talk.” She pauses for a second, fiddling with the zipper on her clutch. “I’m still talking about myself, aren’t I?” Her cheeks turn a bit pink, and she looks as pretty as ever as she reaches for her phone again and starts typing a response to Spencer.

  She’s trying to make herself invisible now so that I can say whatever needs saying to Wesley. I wish she could do all the talking, that I didn’t have to be the one to turn him away.

  I turn my eyes reluctantly back to Wesley, knowing I can’t procrastinate any longer, but he angles his chair so that he’s facing me head-on and starts the conversation for me.

  “So, how are we going to convince Aaron that I’m a loser, like Lana said, and that he’s your first choice?”

  “You’re not a loser.” I roll my eyes, exasperated.

  “What, I can’t make jokes now?” He’s speaking differently than I’m used to, a little more slowly. The change is subtle, but it seems like it’s becoming an effort to form his words.

  “Look, Aaron’s mom has cancer, and she doesn’t want him to know, and I can’t tell him, and I can’t not tell him. I just feel like in a blink, everything has started going to shit. Shit, shit, shit!”

  “Cancer?” Wesley and Lana ask at the same time.

  “Lymphoma,” I answer. “And she won’t let me tell him. I told her she can’t keep it from him, but she doesn’t w
ant him feeling guilty when she dies, so she thinks if she keeps it from him, he can blame her instead.”

  “That’s rough,” Wesley says.

  “Yeah,” I answer.

  “Well, do you know where she’s getting treatment?” Lana asks.

  “She hasn’t even decided yet whether she wants to get chemo. She said she would think about telling Aaron, but what if she doesn’t tell him?”

  “It’s not your place, especially now,” Lana says. “You can’t tell.”

  “I agree.” Wesley nods, and I notice that even little movements now look kind of floppy. I wonder if he has suddenly gotten noticeably worse or if I’ve been so caught up in my own drama that I haven’t noticed him deteriorating right in front of my eyes.

  “Well, if she asked you not to tell,” Lana says, pushing her phone back into her purse, “you can’t tell. The best you can do is try to take care of Gladys yourself. Convince her to get the chemo, or radiation, or whatever she needs, and then go with her when she does.”

  “You know, Lana”—I tilt my head toward her—“for someone who tries to act all shallow and bitchy, you’re really pretty insightful.”

  “I know. You say that all the time.”

  “I’m going to rest,” Wesley says, his words less sharp than they were even a few minutes ago, his energy apparently further depleted from our conversation. I wonder how long it will be before he completely loses the ability to speak. A year? A month? I really still have such a limited understanding of ALS that I have no idea what’s coming next for him. He starts wheeling himself toward his room.

  “Wait, Wes!” I don’t know why I sound panicked—maybe because of dwindling time. He looks in my direction but doesn’t turn the chair. “I think it’s a good idea,” I say, standing. “The facility. It sounds like the best way for you to maintain your quality of life for the longest time. But lonely, no?”

  “I’m used to lonely.” He says it without rancor, without snark, and shrugs lightly. “Now I just want easy.”

  My heart aches for what he’s losing, for opportunities he’s never even had. But I realize, with relief, that it is absolutely not aching for what we once had. I know without a doubt that I am over him, that my heart is fixed on Aaron. I push his chair down the hallway and help him into his room. He shoos me away and says he can take care of the rest on his own.

  Suddenly, I find myself thinking about Moe and what he said about his sister, that she wouldn’t want him to give up his future for her. It occurs to me now that Wesley also wouldn’t want me to give up my own future for him, that there are different ways to care about people. I’m only sorry that I wasn’t as astute as Moe, that it took me so long to figure out my best path forward. I wonder what else I could have learned from Moe if I’d had the opportunity to spend more time with him. I pull my phone from my pocket and make sure that his hearing date still appears on my calendar. It does, and I add a reminder to the entry so that I will get a notification as the day approaches. Even if I can’t be there as his representative, I can still show up and cheer him on from the back of the courtroom.

  AFTER WESLEY GOES to bed and Lana heads out to meet Spencer, I hop on my computer and start googling lymphoma treatment facilities in New York. Lana is right —if I can’t tell Aaron about Gladys, at least I can do everything in my power to help her. I click on the link for NYU’s Langone hospital and start reading about all its cancer specialists.

  After another hour online, I’ve narrowed down the best options to either NYU or Sloan Kettering. As much as I hate the idea of ever setting foot back inside Sloan, the hospital where my mother was treated, if it’s what’s best for Gladys, I’m going to have to cross the Rubicon and head back into that glass-covered, memory-filled high-rise. I print out several pages from the computer and turn off the arched desk lamp, resolving to call Gladys in the morning so that I can magically persuade her to start treatment.

  Inside the bedroom that was Aaron’s, then ours, then mine, but is really still his, I strip off my clothes and leave them in a jumbled mess on the floor. I open the dresser and pull out one of Aaron’s old Dartmouth T-shirts. It’s gray heather, with a growing tear beneath the neckline. He has staunchly refused my entreaties to convert the shirt into a rag, and as I slip the soft cotton over my head, its fibers barely registering against my skin, I understand his attachment to this heavenly, worn fabric. I lift the front part of the shirt up to my nose, hoping it will smell like him, but all I detect is fresh laundry detergent.

  I pick up my phone to text him, thinking to show him that I’m not easily giving up. But then I remember the Rules and second-guess myself. Rules girls do not beg, not even after they’ve fucked up. My best course of action is to let him miss me.

  As I climb into bed and plug the phone into the charger on the sleek bedside table, it vibrates with a text, and my heart flips when I see Aaron’s name. But I’m brought down just as quickly when I read his words.

  Aaron: I’m coming by at 11 tomorrow morning for clothes etc. Please don’t be home.

  For reasons I can’t delineate, this text stuns me more than anything he has said so far. He means it. He truly intends for us to be over. As though a curtain has been lifted from my eyes, I suddenly see my new reality with startling, scalding clarity. The weight of understanding is instantly more than I can bear, a pressure on my chest like nothing I’ve felt before.

  This is the second engagement that I have failed at. And this was the one I was meant to keep. I start tallying up the actions that I’ll have to complete. I will need to call the venue tomorrow and tell them we’re canceling, see if we can get any of our deposit back. I picture the catering woman, Mary, answering my call amidst a calla lily haze in her office, her small, dark eyes judging me, seeing through me even over the phone. And my poor parents . . . As the enormity of what I’ve done and what I’ve lost settles over me, the tears start flowing again. I finally type a hasty response to Aaron, surrendering.

  Me: OK.

  I’m surprised when I get a reply in just a few seconds.

  Aaron: I know this sucks. For me too. But it’s how it has to be, and the sooner we both accept that, the easier it will be. Good night.

  It’s like he can see me in the bed, lying here in his ratty T-shirt, weeping for all that I’ve lost, for the pain that I know Aaron is feeling, as well.

  Well, I won’t let him lose his mom, too, at least not without a fight. For once, I am going to do something properly.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  June 2017

  I’m finishing a second cup of my weak homemade coffee and waiting for the clock to strike 9:00 a.m. so I can call Gladys. She’s always been a painfully early riser, up with the sun, as she says, but I’m worried she needs more sleep these days and I’m afraid to disturb her by calling too early.

  I hear movement in the hallway and look away from the computer printouts that I’ve been carrying around to see Wesley rolling toward me in his chair. The sound of his wheelchair against the wood floor makes me think of packing tape being ripped from cardboard, a repetitive tone of reluctance. As I watch him, I notice that like last night, he still looks fatigued, ill. I can’t put my finger on exactly what has changed recently, except that I can see extra effort in everything he does.

  “Hey. Can I make you some toast?” I ask, glancing at my own piece of multigrain bread untouched on the porcelain saucer beside me.

  “No, thanks.” He seems at a loss for a moment, his eyes scanning the closed wooden cabinets before they slide back in my direction, a look of defeat about him. We’re both silent for a beat, and I don’t know what is coming next, but then his cheeks lift a little and he says, “If you wanted to microwave one of those single-serve oatmeal containers for me, I wouldn’t argue.”

  I hop off the stool and open the cabinet above the stove where we keep all the cereals. It would have been nice, I realize now, if we had thought to move those boxes to a lower spot, even the countertop, where Wesley could reach them
without having to push out of his chair. I nudge the kitchen faucet, warming water to add to the container.

  “Are you going to the restaurant today?”

  “No.”

  He doesn’t elaborate, so I turn to look at him. He’s staring out the window at the back of the kitchen.

  “What is it? What’s happened?” I ask.

  “Just all of it,” he answers, a blanket of resignation enveloping his voice. “I feel it taking over my body. I’m getting cramps in my back almost every night now, and I can barely even swallow my pills. I’m going to have to start opening them and putting them in applesauce soon. It’s just . . .” He sighs. “This is really happening.” He looks at me for a moment longer, and I stare back, wondering what’s next, wondering when his motorized chair is coming, wondering if there is anything I can do to ease his burdens, wondering if I can ask without upsetting him.

  “Anyway,” he says, making a clear effort to sound brighter, “remember my cousin Lulu?”

  “Of course, I remember Lulu,” I say, thinking back to Wesley’s first apartment after college, the one-bedroom in Midtown that he shared with her during her first year of medical school. Lulu’s doting parents agreed to pay her rent each month, since she was still a student, and they didn’t retract the offer when she brought Wesley into the arrangement. He installed one of those temporary walls that we used to see in all our friends’ apartments, creating a makeshift second bedroom and securing free housing for himself. Lulu was so wrapped up in med-student life that she was basically never there. Even so, there’s no way I would have forgotten her. I fill the oatmeal container up to the designated line inside the container and shut off the water.

  “Well, she’s in town from Nepal. She’s just here for a few hours on a layover to Miami. She’s coming to get me in an hour, and I guess we’ll go out for coffee or something.”

  “Aaron is coming by at eleven to get some of his things. He asked me not to be here. I think he said the same of you, but he probably doesn’t care as much.”