“No horseplay in the house. Someone’s going to get hurt,” Dad lectures. He lays the paper down, appalled, when he notices the container. “Hey! Where are you taking that?” he calls after us as we bolt out the back door.
“To dig up tomatoes!” Mom yells back as we both disappear behind the barn, laughing.
WE PULL UP TO “THE clinic”, and my stomach drops into my groin as the intensity of my doubts quadruple. Oh. My. God.
I’ve convinced myself I am only doing this to placate my parents, but I don’t think I can fake my enthusiasm enough to suppress the misgivings of this “clinic”. The dark blue, two-story building is more like a big house than a medical clinic. The worn wooden shingles barely hang onto the outside windows, and the roof looks like it’s about to cave in. The garden is thick with overgrown grass, and ivy vines climb everywhere, encompassing the building. It looks like the house from The Secret Garden with a Bates Motel twist. Ominously, as if to say hello, one of many metal wind chimes along the porch clangs, which is strange, because I feel no breeze. This place doesn’t look like it could heal a paper cut, let alone my cancer. I wonder what kind of Boolean search tags my hippy mom used to find this place.
“I swear, if we walk in and there’s sage burning in the corners or they try to put leeches on me, I’m making a run for it. Snakes are also on that list of Hell no’s,” I say, peering out the windows to search for any pentagrams or altars. The muscle below my left eye begins to twitch, and my eyes are the size of the moon right now.
Mom and Dad both laugh, which makes me grimace.
“If I have to slay and gut the white dragon myself, I will, if it makes you better,” Dad says.
My lips twist up to the side, and I narrow one eye at him. “Well, since we’re here, let’s give this a go. Peace, Sir Nicholas, leave the white dragon alone for now.”
“Good deal, I’m horrible with swords.” He mimics his inadequacy with sharp, pointy objects.
Mom rolls her eyes. “Good God, let’s go.”
We didn’t know it prior to arrival, but the first treatment is scheduled to begin today. Dr. Salavichne reviewed my file, which Dr. Shaver sent him, and compared it to my recent hospital visit’s blood work. He stresses the need to start immediately based on the rate of my deteriorating healthy cells. My pulse speeds up as I listen to him speak medical jargon with his thick accent. It makes everything he says sound more portentous. Great, just what I needed. A doctor with a scary accent treating me for my terminal illness.
Mom goes out to buy some necessities while Dad gets a room in the motel a mile from the clinic. We were not prepared to stay a few days. To say they aren’t happy that they cannot stay with me is an understatement. Dr. Salavichne politely reeducates them on the policy and terms agreement that they signed.
I thank him profusely after they leave. He confides in me telling me he considers them Treatment Parents, which in translation are like over-zealous stage parents.
Dr. Scary Accent or not, I agree a thousand percent. I could not take their hovering before, and I can only imagine how they would be during my first treatment. If I had tubes sticking out of me or leeches siphoning my blood, who knows how ape shit they would have gone.
The reality of the treatment isn’t too bad other than the seven horse pills I have to take, one at a time. Over the course of the next two days I endure a poke here, a stab there with a turkey baster-like needle, some weird, light cherry-colored liquid flowing through an IV that infiltrates my veins, and multiple prayers to the porcelain God afterward. This is nothing new and I don’t fake my enthusiasm to my parents.
Since I can’t travel the next day, we get home on Monday. I am beyond whipped. My eyes bear a resemblance to Edvard Munch’s Madonna, and my body feels like his Scream painting. I fall asleep fully clothed on the couch in the sunroom. Desi and I used to do it all the time as kids, and the allaying memory lulls me to sleep quickly.
When I wake, it’s Wednesday, and I am clammy and smelly in my own bed. Mom is sitting in the corner easy chair, looking nothing resembling easy. Apparently, Mom and Dad took turns staying with me as I threw up in my sleep. That’s new. She tells me Dr. Salavichne said this is to be expected. I wish he’d told me that sooner. I feel like ground up horseshit straight from the microwave. I probably emanate the same odor too.
Mom helps me to the bathroom and then has to help me shower; I can barely lift my limbs, let alone bear my own weight. This sucks. Being a ragdoll pisses me off, but I can barely muster up the energy to argue my case.
Desi arrives in two days. She’s only here for the weekend, and I vow not to look or feel like this when she gets here. I can’t put that on her.
I’M NOT MUCH BETTER WHEN Desi walks into the house and smothers me in a hug. My skin stings to the touch as if ultrasensitive needles are boring into my bones. Yet it’s Desi, so I willingly tolerate her arms around me with gratitude. She notices my flinch and the tiny tremors of my protesting muscles. I have to use a cane to get around, but I’ve put it behind the couch to hide it from her. She looks me over with those eagle eyes of hers, gauging the weight I’ve lost. I haven’t been able to hold much down since Dr. Salavichne’s treatment. I’ve lost another seven pounds since she’s seen me which leaves me standing a gangly 5’5” and 110 pounds. The doc says if I lose too much, he's going to have to admit me and feed me intravenously. Desi’s concerned thoughts are almost audible like ticker tape traveling across her forehead. She thinks I’ve lost too much already. She doesn’t say any of this or vocalize her worries, but it is heavy in her expression weighing down her forced smile.
Mom disappears to the kitchen, pulling Dad along. I know it’s to give us some privacy, as Dad is utterly hopeless in the kitchen, so there is no point in him being in there. Dinner is on the table faster when he doesn’t help. His protests makes me giggle, then I wince as my stomach muscles are still tender from the upchuck festival few days ago.
Desi and I make ourselves cozy on the couch in the sunroom. I curl up in her arms, taking in her scent. Her fingers thread through what’s left of my hair while fingers from her other hand rides along my arm. Her breathing matches mine, as does the beat from her chest. It is pure bliss as we watch the sun begin to dip below the horizon. I am floating in thoughts of doing everything we did as kids, but now as an adult with the one I love.
A sliver of life, that’s all I’ve been afforded. My heartbeat, my breath, and my dreams. Then again, I think they don’t actually belong to me; they belong to her. She is the everything that fills the space between my delirium and all that is tangible. She is the reason I wake every morning. She is why I must survive this. It is not hope that grows; it is a desperation to never be without her. Before her proclamation, I was good with my fate. But now, here with her, I want to fight it with every last bit of me.
AT DINNER, MY SEVEN MEDS wait for me next to a beading glass of water. The conversation is lively with both reminiscences and current events at school, plus Desi’s movie project. She tells us filming begins in Los Angeles sometime at the end of January. She will be on location for three months. A sodden feeling blankets my heart at the thought of not seeing her for that long. I push the thought that I may not even be here by then out of my head. All any of us know with certainty is today, this moment.
In the midst of surface conversations, everyone is watching my movements. They steal glances between bites of their meals and sips of their wine, making me feel like a lab rat in a drug trial. Mom turns to stone with every bite I take, holding her breath. There is a bucket and towel just to the left of my peripheral vision in the kitchen. They react to every cough, clearing of the throat, twitch, and tremor. I swallow my irritation because it tastes better than the clear broth and unseasoned, mushy carrots on my plate. My pummeled cutlet of meat remains untouched, as does the glass of thick, green, pulpy-looking juice that Mom found the recipe for on the Internet. Envy pokes at me as I eye their thick steaks and stupid baked potatoes with heaping mounds of sour cr
eam and chives. The meal is a special occasion kind of meal celebrating Desi’s arrival. I shouldn’t be jealous. I wouldn’t be able to hold it down anyway, and that’s just a waste of food.
Turning to Desi, I say, “I thought maybe we’d take PB and Jubilee out to the Jenkins farm tomorrow. Thank Mrs. Jenkins for the lovely cookie recipe.” I draw out the word “lovely” with sarcastic flair. I’ve been dying to take my horse for a ride, get outside really, but my joke silences the room. Slouching like a shamed child, I look around the table, meeting everyone’s eyes. When my gaze connects with Desi’s, she is gnawing the shit out of her lip.
“Oh, honey, do you think that’s a good idea?” Mom says, dropping her gaze to study her plate. It’s not a question. She pokes around her food, which is the same as mine. “I think you should take things slow. You just got better.”
I cringe and shut my eyes. Shit. Desi’s glare is burning the side of my face, though. I open one eye to confirm I am not wrong.
She grabs my chin, forcing me to look at her. “Were you sick? Why didn’t you tell me? I worry every day about you. What if something happened and I wasn’t here…” The hitch in her voice stops her from finishing the thought. Dad rubs his eyes, and Mom continues to push her food around her plate.
The artistic, culinary mountain of food Mom has made on her plate loses her attention. “I think you should stay in. Desi understands.”
My head drops into my palm. I massage my forehead with tiny pressured circles. Mom and Desi are immediately at my side.
“Are you ok, babe?” Desi asks, putting her hand to my cheek.
Mom is rubbing my arm. “This is all too much for your body. Let’s get you to bed. I’ll bring dinner up to your room.”
“I shouldn’t have come,” Desi says quietly.
Desi’s last words, coated with regret, shake me from my placating, tolerating state. Anger slams through me, boiling me to the core. I am so beyond being able to take any more of this. This type of conciliation is insulting and ignites my fury.
“Aaarrgghhh!! Fucking hell! ENOUGH! Stop babying me! I know my limits. Stop making me feel my sickness. I will not let this control me. I refuse to stop living before I’m in the ground!” My words are harsh and evoke tears around the table. I’ve gone too far, but it doesn’t stop me. My rage is a runaway train that blows through my sensibilities. “Don’t waste my time grieving for me when I’m still alive,” I hiss.
Only the faint whinny of horses fill the dining room. The animals can sense the crushing tension emanating from here.
Desi sits, rubbing her hands together raw. “We’re only trying to support you.”
“Then stop treating me like I’m dying.”
“You are dying,” Dad says. He’s remained silent through the exchange. Mom and Desi crumble into body-rocking sobs.
Retrieving my coat from the closet, he places it on my shoulders, giving them a squeeze. “Let’s go for a walk. You need a timeout.”
I shoot him an annoyed look, trying to shrug him off like a petulant child. Ok, ok, I see it, but I’m not about to capitulate to it. Then again…
“Uuugghhh!” gushes from my mouth when I let my head drop back. Unable to escape my dad’s impatient toe-tap, I shove my chair out to stand.
He stiffens. “Ok, then. I need a timeout. Keep me company.” Dad leads me out by the hand like he used to when I was a kid.
The sun has finally twinkled and winked goodbye under the remaining cumulous clouds, bowing out for the evening. Dad wraps his arm around me when I shiver. With the use of my cane, we walk purposely slow. I am still in recovery mode after all, and the gravel makes each step precarious.
Cool air seeps through my jeans and the warmth from the nook under my father’s arm create a nice opposing complement. Slipping back in time, I am fourteen again. My father is trying to console me after a humiliating performance at the state fair in Elkhorn. PB and I were performing perfectly until the final oxer obstacle. PB’s left rear coronet caught the upper pole of the ascending hurdle. I was thrown clear, but we both went down hard. I went from being a first place contender to not even placing in the top ten. The only trophies I walked away with were torn muddy riding pants and a broken arm. Desi drew hearts of all sizes, smiley faces, and rainbows on my casted arm to cheer me up.
The call of a Great Horned Owl rivets through the evening air pulling me back into the present.
“I’m not going to apologize, you know. I’m not sorry for what I said.” I sigh and kick a rock down the road. Dad remains silent and simply nods his head. It’s irritating. He’s letting me process what I’ve done wrong and figure it out for myself. I hate that shit, but I always piece together what he wants me to eventually.
We are almost to the gate to our property before I speak again. “Well, I guess I could have been a little nicer about it.” Dad smiles and pulls me in tighter. I hold my breath as he squeezes his approval. It hurts but doesn’t at the same time.
I move away to lean against the fence, staring out across the darkening pasture. Since all the horses have been put to stable, the sounds of crickets and toads have taken over the grassy field. Evening on the farm is just as magical as the early morning dawn. It brings a certain kind of peace and tranquility that defines home.
I’ve spent almost my whole life here in this touched-by-God beauty. Everything about it reminds me of who I am and where I am from. It is me. It is the peace one can only find when they say “home.” My eyes tear up as I think of all the memories; all the summers, autumns, winters, and springs. Thigh-high winter snow, spring’s annoying cottonwood flying around mimicking snow, the sight of the first new growth in the budding mornings, and the cooling swims at the lake in summer’s blistering temperatures under a canopy tree-covered alcove. Timeless. It’s in the name and where I want to be—always.
“Daddy?” I am hesitant to bring this up in light of my lack of grace and tact in the dining room. My heart beats with a calm knowledge that this is right. I am not sad, because I feel love all around me. Not just from my loved ones, but in every blade of grass, every whisper in a breeze, and every trunk of the trees.
He comes up next to me, matching my stance at the fence. “Hmm?”
Turning to face him, I take in his blue eyes. “I want to be buried here.”
He flinches, and his eyes soften, growing moist. Before he turns away, he wraps an arm around my shoulder and mumbles into my hair, “I know, honey. I know.”
WHEN WE GET BACK IN the house, Mom and Desi are busying themselves washing and putting the dishes away. I do end up apologizing for my hostility but not for my message. Treating me like some fragile china doll will not stop the inevitable.
To lighten the mood, I sit at the baby grand piano and plunk out a few notes, familiar ones to my mother. She emerges from the kitchen, wiping her hands. There is so much love in her expression that it overwhelms me. No matter what I’ve done or what I’ve said, she loves me unconditionally. My vision blurs as tears try to edge over my lower eyelids. I swipe them away quickly and pat the space beside me on the bench. She sits next to me and lays her delicate fingers on the smooth ivory keys, and gives me a spirited booty scooch. She has forgiven me.
As we play Mom’s favorite duet, Desi leans solemnly against the kitchen entryway with her arms folded. When the final note is played, Mom side hugs me and kisses me on the temple.
I start a new melody. It is slow, tender, and slightly haunting. My fingers make love to the song, and the notes fill the room with nothing but the clefs, heads, flags, and stems of the ballad. They float in my mind, every note and rest charged with emotion—with love. The melody possesses me, and the crescendo takes me to another plane. I’ve played this alone in my room a million times, a virgin to anyone else. It is the concerto I wrote for Desi.
The final key resonates with an intense vibration under my index and thumb. It permeates my whole body, and I am exhausted. My eyes are closed, and I feel a drop fall off my chin onto my hand. I open them t
o realize my face is soaked. For the second time tonight, I’ve made everyone cry. I hadn’t noticed that Mom moved from the piano bench and is now curled up in Dad’s arms.
Desi walks over and hands me a tissue. Everything I feel is mirrored in her eyes. “That was breathtaking, Reggie. When did you write that?”
My face flushes. “I wrote it years ago,” I admit with a small smile. “I wrote it for you.”
More tears spring from her. She grabs my face and kisses me desperately. “No more wasting time,” she whispers against my lips with our foreheads touching. “I love you.”
Nodding, I echo, “I love you too. No more wasting time”
MY SECOND TREATMENT IS WORSE than the first. Doc says it will get easier as my body gets used to the treatments and starts to respond to them. In the meantime, sometimes I have to use a walker to get around when I do actually manage to get out of bed. There is a chair in my bathtub, but Mom still has to help me bathe. I hate feeling like an invalid, though she loves it.
“Suck it up, or I’m going to put your hair in braided pigtails with giant, neon pink bows. Then I’ll take your picture and have Desi put it on her website thingy,” she says pointing the hairbrush at me.
I stare at her through the mirror in front of my vanity and my lips form a tight twisted line. “I don’t have enough hair to put in pigtails, let alone braid,” I respond sarcastically.
“I’ll make it work.” She bunches up my hair to example pigtails. The scarcity of my hair makes it look even more ludicrous. Mom gives me a big, toothy grin before bursting into laughter. She is re-donkey-lous!
For once, I am glad Maracella and school are keeping Desi busy. She’d be an active participant in my mother’s torture antics. Besides, I couldn’t bear the look on her face after I’m done with these treatment sessions. She texts and calls all the time to stay in the loop. But I’ve refused her attempts to Skype. Even though I want to see her, I don’t want her to see me like this. She and Mom talk all the time. I know they’re talking about what I do not bring up. I appreciate their discretion and the respectful space they give me. They don’t talk to me as if I’m dying anymore, even though I feel like it right now.
My Last Season With You Page 5