“Not yet.”
We watch together, my face entranced as if I’ve never seen it before. Harry munches on Mallomars. I join in with all my favorite lines, squawking “Pecan pie. Pecan pie,” and he squawks with me when before he always made fun of me. We sing along to “Surrey with the Fringe on Top” and “It Had to Be You.” Tonight he joins me in my every foible.
By the time Billy Crystal is rushing to Times Square to catch Meg Ryan before the New Year ball drop, I’m in tears as though I think he might not make it. When he says the iconic line—“when you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible—” I am completely done for.
Harry puts his arm around me. “Sorry,” he says. “I didn’t remember that one.”
“It’s beautiful, Harry,” I say. “Don’t worry.”
As the credits start to roll, I turn to thank him. “Wait,” he says. “It’s not over yet.”
I watch as the credits fade and my eyes pop out as a photo of him from a few years back appears then a photo of me followed by the title “When Harry Met His Favorite Sally.” A slow montage of old photos of us, some I’ve never seen before, starts. His thoughtfulness and effort are so touching, I’m deeply moved. Finally, the shots he took of us on the bed this morning appear and I’m dazzled by the unexpected thrill of it all. I’m so glad I never challenged him when I came back from the spa. I guess he was doing something wonderful.
“You’ve just done the impossible,” I say. “You’ve made me love you more.”
“Happy New Year, Sally,” he says, and his eyes water.
“Happy New Year, Harry.”
We stroll back to the room, gazing at each other, not wanting to let go of the romance of the moment. Finally, we fall into bed and he holds me close, telling me he loves me and he wishes he hadn’t eaten so many Mallomars. Almost midsentence, he falls asleep. Tonight I forgive him everything.
Day 53
I’m woken by the early morning light and that queasy feeling I hoped I would be spared. Harry is on his side, turned away from me, the gentle rise and fall of his shoulders telling me he’s still sleeping.
I slip quietly from under the covers and tiptoe into the bathroom then fall onto my knees, throwing my face over the lavatory bowl as I fumble for a towel to put over my head in a desperate attempt to muffle the sound. I stay there, shivering, staring into the sullied bowl waiting for it to be over. I flush, cringing at how intrusive the noise of water sounds.
How long, Lord? How long? What do I have to do in order for you to allow me some final moments of unencumbered joy? What? Tell me, Lord, Universe, whoever the hell’s in charge, and I’ll do it.
There’s a knock at the bathroom door. “You okay?”
“Don’t come in, Harry,” I plead. “It’s a war zone.”
“Can I get you anything?”
“No, no. I’m okay now. I’ll come out. Just give me two.”
I stagger to my feet, throw water over my face, check my nose isn’t bleeding—it isn’t—brush my teeth then gargle with my mouthwash.
Harry is standing by the door, waiting for me, his face ashen.
“Oh, baby,” he says. “I’m so sorry. Come back to bed.” He lifts me in his arms and puts me back under the covers then climbs in next to me.
“I had no idea,” he says. “You cover up so well.”
“I didn’t want you to have to witness that. Honestly, I’m trying to keep the gruesome parts from everyone until I have no other choice.”
“You don’t have to keep them from me,” he says, looking into my eyes. “That’s what I’m here for.”
“I promise you, what you did for me last night surpasses everything.”
* * *
—
Before leaving for home, Harry drives me down to the beach for our Prom! Prom! Prom! He parks and we wander along the seafront, under a gray sky, wrapped up like people parcels in scarves and hats and our huge parkas, taking in the fresh sea air amid the squawk of swooping gulls. He hugs me the entire way, saying I mustn’t catch cold, he would never forgive himself.
“I’m going to miss out on so much,” I say.
“I’m going to miss out on so much of you,” he replies. “I already have.”
A feeling comes over me whispering in my ear, You’re frightened, admit it. You’re scared! I don’t want to be won over by it. I put my hands over my ears. “This wind is so penetrating,” I say.
The drive home is strangely uneasy despite the comfortable luxury of the car. I’m filled with that horrible childhood Sunday gloom, knowing tomorrow is a school day and I want it to be the weekend forever. Worse, I know I’m not going to see Harry for another whole week because he is working abroad again.
“I’d invite you to stay at my place,” he says, “but I have to get this car back and then be up horribly early for the flight to Berlin plus I’ve got a lot of prep to do. Do you mind?”
“Of course I do,” I say. But I smile in a way that lets him off the hook.
Harry accompanies me to my front door and we kiss on the doorstep. He hugs me for a long moment and I know I’m going to miss him badly. That I’m connected to him now as profoundly as I ever was. If not more. I don’t want to let him go.
But I have to.
There’s a pain in my heart as I watch him leave. An actual physical pain. Heartache means what it says on the tin. I hesitate on the doorstep, not wanting to go in, not wanting to face the emptiness on the other side. It’s dark in every sense of the word and I don’t want to breathe in the pain and sorrow that occupies the air in those cold, lonely rooms.
But I have to.
I open my front door, hit by an awareness of everything I’m going to lose and everything I’ve squandered. I throw my case into the hall and stomp. For the first time I’m properly angry. Angry at myself. Angry that I never went after what I wanted when I had the opportunity. For thinking that I was being good and kind and nonconfrontational when all I was being was a considerate coward. I am angry that I have come too late to the party. That I’ve only now learned to accept that I am loved. And that I am worthy of it. And that’s the most beautiful and painful realization of all.
I no longer want to roll over and allow my illness to do its work. I don’t want to be gracious in defeat. I’m not going to go quietly. I want to rant and rave and kick and scream. I’m going to miss out on so much. On Olivia’s wedding. On Anna Maria’s carefree adventures. On my sister’s future. On my nieces’ futures. On my own future. Why do I have to pretend to myself that it’s okay? That the world is a lousy place and I’m better off out of it. I love this lousy world. I want to enjoy every lousy thing it has to offer.
And I miss Harry. More than anything right now, I really miss him. Damn him and his work! I MISS HIM! I wish he’d turn round and come back and say “Sod the prep, I want to be here with you because I love you!” Damn him for being so disciplined.
Tonight I am not disciplined. I slam doors. I throw my clothes out of my case onto the floor. I’m not going to pick them up. I’m not going to wash them. Why bother? What’s the point? I’ve enough clean clothes to last me until I no longer need anything more than whatever they’re going to bury me in.
I yell and thump at the walls.
I don’t want to die.
I DON’T WANT TO DIE.
“I WANT TO LIVE!” I scream.
I’m throwing myself around the room, not knowing what to do with myself when I notice the blue light on my answerphone. The flashing riles me like it has no right to intrude on my drama. I hit the playback button with impatient fury just to stop the damn flashing. What bloody ambulance chaser is calling me now? What refund for PPI am I entitled to that I’ve never even taken out? I listen distractedly, my finger ready to press delete.
You have three new m
essages.
Three?
I’m amazed to hear a real voice. I have a missed call from the doctor’s office. Three it would seem. The receptionist asks me to call her as soon as I get the message because I need to fix an appointment with the doctor. Why? When I phoned on Friday, they didn’t ask me to make an appointment. The urgency is worrying. I press delete for the sheer hell of it, yelling at the world for being so inefficient and why couldn’t the receptionist be more specific instead of leaving me to guess the urgent nature of her call. And why didn’t she call my mobile?
I check my mobile. She did call. My phone is still on silent since the spa treatments and the movie. I’ve even missed a call from Harry. I phone him back immediately.
“Hey,” he says. “Where were you?”
“In hell,” I say, lying back on my sofa. “I miss heaven.”
“It was a beautiful weekend,” he says. “Special. I will miss you terribly this week.”
I want to tell him to stop saying he’ll miss me. That it’s unfair. That it frustrates me. But of course, I want to hear him say it over and over again and I’m annoyed at the conundrum.
“Then don’t go away,” I say.
“You sound angry.”
“I am.”
“Good,” he says. “That’s healthy.”
“I’m not fucking healthy,” I yell, sitting up. “That’s the point!”
“I know,” he says. “I know. I’m just surprised—”
“At what? That I’m angry because I’m dying?”
“No. No! I guess I thought you’d be further along—”
“Along what? What the hell are you talking about?”
“I’m sorry. Forget it. You have every right to be angry.”
“No seriously. Further along what?” I stand up, rigid with tension.
“You know . . . the stages . . .”
“Stages?”
“Of grief.” He coughs.
“Are you kidding me? What are you saying here?” I’m pacing the room, phone clamped to my ear in disbelief. “That I’m so near the end I should be at acceptance? Is that what you’re saying? You think all us poor dying souls sit there ticking off each stage, going thank God that one’s over, what’s next?”
“Obviously that’s not what I mean.”
“Well, I can assure you we don’t. Sometimes in fact we get a whole clusterfuck of stages. And today I’m angry and I’m depressed and I’m bargaining with myself because no one else is listening—”
“I’m listening!”
“Then I’m telling you here and now that I’ve ticked off denial and I AM NEVER, EVER GOING TO TICK ACCEPT.”
“I’m so sorry. I just miss you and—”
“Stop saying that. I’m still here. I’m still on the end of a phone. You can still see me. And if you genuinely missed me, you’d drop all your prep and you’d stop going away.”
“I’m coming round,” he says.
“Please don’t,” I say, my tenor reverting with a jolt, trying to recover my composure, shocked by my own reaction. I sit down again. I don’t want to sound like that. Ungrateful. Not to Harry. Not after everything he’s done this weekend. If he’s being clumsy, it’s because being around someone who’s dying is clumsy territory. It’s all too easy to slip up. But now I know he’s also thoughtful and caring, and clumsy mustn’t matter.
“Just prepare for Berlin,” I say, letting it pass.
“No, no, I’m coming over.”
I smile sadly because that is exactly what I wanted him to say.
“Please don’t, Harry,” I say, flatly. “I realize you have to work. I’m not at my best, but I’ll get through this stage, I promise.”
“Don’t say that. It makes me feel foolish. Please let me come over.”
This is a revelation. Here I am, showing my anger and he’s not running for the hills, which was always my greatest fear.
“No. I’m fine. I’ve calmed down now. I’m fine. Honestly. Thank you.”
He sighs. “Well, only if you’re sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“Right then. I’ll call you tomorrow,” he says. “I’ll check in as often as I can. And if you’re not feeling great, I’ll come straight home.”
“Thank you.”
“And . . . I do love you. Even though I’m a foot-in-the-mouth fool sometimes.”
“But you’re my fool, Harry. That’s all that matters to me now.”
Day 52
I phone the doctor’s office first thing. “It’s Jennifer Cole,” I say. “Someone asked me to call in for an appointment. I’m Dr. Mackenzie’s patient.”
There’s a strange silence at the end of the phone.
“Ah, yes,” the woman says gently. “Jennifer. I’m so glad you’ve called. We’ve been trying to reach you.”
Her knowledge of me immediately puts me on high alert. “Is there a problem?”
“No. Not a problem,” she says. She clears her throat. “We need you to come in and see the doctor. When are you available?”
“Can you tell me why?” My mind does an instant roundup of possibilities.
“I’m afraid I have to leave that to the doctor.”
Now I’m becoming properly suspicious. There’s something wrong. I feel it.
“What time can you come in?”
“Today? Any time.”
“Ten o’clock suit you?”
“Yes.” Shit! I’m being given an emergency appointment. Why? Why the urgency?
“Excellent,” she says and I hear the tapping of the keyboard. “We’ll see you then.”
I put the phone down. I should have said I can come in right away. An hour feels like a long wait wondering why on earth the doctor wants to see me. But then, what can be so bad? He’s already told me the worst possible news. What on earth can he tell me that might top that?
Maybe he’s traced the treatment. What does it matter now if he has? It will only prolong this emotional torture.
I pace, nervously starting chores but not finishing them. I pick up the clothes from my bedroom floor, hanging up the dress, throwing the rest in the washing machine. It is too depressing to look at them. They symbolize defeat and even though I am defeated, I don’t want it staring me in the face. I find the empty box of Mallomars. My keepsake. I clutch it to my chest, reminding myself of that evening. I try to forget I’m scared.
Harry texts me to say he has landed safely. I’m glad to see his name pop up on my screen. I text back a thumbs-up. It’s all I can manage in this state.
I get to the office early. The receptionist greets me warmly, making me ever more anxious. I sit down and flick through what seem like endless pages of outdated magazines, more occupied with the receptionist, listening to her taking calls. I hear the mention of my name. “Yes,” she says. “I’ll tell her.” She looks across at me. “Jennifer. Dr. Mackenzie will see you now.”
It’s still not ten o’clock. He never sees a patient early. I’m shaking inside.
I knock, then peek round his door and Dr. Mackenzie, his steel-rimmed glasses balanced on the end of his nose, glances up from his desk. “Ah, Jennifer,” he says. “Good to see you. Come in.” He types something into his computer and turns away from the screen to study me. “You’re looking well.”
I wince. “I bet you say that to all your patients.”
He clear his throat. “Sit down, dear.”
Can I just interject here? I really hate it that he calls me dear.
I slide into the chair, put my handbag on the floor next to me, and clamp my cold hands together, trying to calm them. “It’s cold in here today,” I say.
“Is it? I hadn’t noticed. I can put the floor heater on if you want?”
“It’s fine, Doctor.”
He has my file open in front of him. He pl
ays with a few papers a serious expression on his face. This is not good. I shift uncomfortably in the swivel chair. We’re both uncomfortable, but he has the advantage: he knows why. There’s a silence of maybe three seconds, but it feels labored and heavy.
“I have some news for you,” he says.
I sit up. My mouth is so dry I can barely separate my tongue from the roof.
“There’s been a mistake.”
I stare back at him. I’m rigid. It’s as if I’ve turned to stone, yet I’m still flesh and blood because my heart is beating at a hundred miles an hour. “What kind of mistake?” I say.
He holds up a bunch of papers and bounces their edges on the flat of his desk, squaring them into neat alignment. Why does he always do that? Hurry up!
He hums.
“A good one,” he says. “For you, anyhow.” He sits very upright and I find myself doing the same. He coughs, licks the tip of his finger, then quickly flips through some pages of a file. “It would seem . . .” He coughs again.
“Yes, Doctor?”
“Well, it would seem . . . that unfortunately, although fortunately . . .”
What is wrong with him?
“. . . you were given the wrong blood test results . . .”
My mind falters. I can hear the droning of his voice in the background as if he’s talking to me but I’m not in the room; his words slide away from me. Things start to swim, to left and right, the room is a blue blur and the next thing I know, Dr. Mackenzie is leaning over me, slapping at my cheek, breathing his sour breath in my face.
“Are you okay, Jennifer?” he says.
I allow my eyes to settle so that he comes into focus. “You tell me, Doctor,” I say, rubbing my cheek.
He smiles with obvious relief. “Yes,” he says. “Yes, you are.” He takes my hand and pats it. “Let me help you back into the chair.” He lifts me unsteadily, my arm around his shoulder then plonks me down awkwardly and walks back behind his desk, rubbing the base of his spine. He pours us both a glass of water. He takes a gulp. I guzzle mine, finishing it in seconds.
“I’m very sorry we put you through this ordeal,” he says and he keeps on talking, not allowing any gaps for any questions I might have. “I’m just so glad to be able to tell you we got it wrong. For once. So much better this way round, Jennifer. You will obviously need time to recover from this excellent news and I’m sure you will be very angry with me but I have to apologize and just say, my office staff is human. If it weren’t for the nurse you spoke to before you went to your spa, we may not have spotted the error.” He says this as though to imply I was having a nice time anyway, so where’s the problem? “That is, until your unexpected survival might have drawn us to it. Or . . . well, never mind.”
Death and Other Happy Endings Page 16