by Suzie Carr
“I’ll have you know, these skinny little ankles have swung from a bungee cord recently,” Dean said.
“What?” I barged into their conversation.
“Yes. Pat and his daughter and I partook in some bungee jumping three weeks ago.”
“Brave soul.” Yvonne shook her head.
“I also took Little Bugger to the dog park all by myself, and didn’t freak out when thirty dogs came running up to us to sniff our little girls’ behind.”
“Must be nice to have all that time off,” I joked.
“A person should play hooky for months at a time at least once in his lifetime. Or at the very least live as though he were going to die in a few weeks.”
“You are not going to die,” I said. I turned to the nurse. “Could you please tell the man he’s not going to die?”
She shuffled off, muttering something about needing to get more sterile tape.
Dean stared at her as she walked away, dropping his jaw in dramatic fashion.
“You’re not going to die.”
Just then, the doctor walked in, introduced himself to us again, and examined Dean’s lump again. “It’s just a small unremarkable mass still. Maybe even slightly smaller than I remember. It’ll be a simple procedure. We’ll get you in there nice and comfy, then I’ll perform the simple procedure and you’ll wake up in recovery. You’ll drink some juice, and they’ll put you in a room. If you want to stay the night, you’re welcomed to. Some patients thrive and want to go home the same day. We’ll see how you’re feeling and decide later on.”
He spoke so casually, like he was removing a zit from Dean’s neck.
He bid us farewell and the nurse came in to wheel Dean away.
I kissed his forehead and told him to enjoy the drugs.
He looked like he would throw up.
“Knock him out with the good stuff,” I said to the nurse, who wheeled him away still wearing her weak smile.
A few minutes later, Yvonne and I sat in the waiting area in quiet contemplation.
I broke the silence. “How’s Willow?”
She pointed her eyes to me. “Getting on with life, as you might expect.”
I sunk in my chair. “It’s that easy for her?”
She leaned forward, placing her hands on her kneecaps. “She’s gotten used to this game.”
“Game?”
She bowed her head. “What else is she going to call it?”
“It was not a game to me.”
She sat back and folded her hands in her lap. “She’s been treated like an outsider all her life. She wanted you to be different.” Discomfort sat on her face. “I did too.”
“I am different. I’m not like everyone else. I care for her. I don’t want people to treat her like she’s a freak of nature. The fact is, though, we live in a world where people judge, and I just tried to protect her.”
“Protect her from being herself? That’s like having your loved ones protect you from being gay.” Raising an eyebrow, she rose from her chair. “I’ll be back. I need to stretch my legs.”
I watched her walk off until she disappeared around the corner of the waiting room.
I stood up and fumbled with the spoiled byproduct of an illogical argument. I walked over to the window and stared down to the parking lot. Rain poured down, and people were jumping over the puddles it created.
I was not like everyone else.
I was just trying to protect her.
The world could be hateful.
I pulled out my cell. I needed to call her. I needed to hear her voice. I needed her to know that I was not the bad, judgmental person I showed myself to be the other night.
She picked up on the third ring. “Hey.”
“Hey,” I whispered.
“How’s Dean?”
“Still in surgery.”
“Oh. That’s not why you’re calling?”
I leaned my head against the window. “I miss you.”
Silence.
“A lot.”
More silence.
“I’m sorry for the way I acted the other night.”
Still more painful silence.
“Are you there still?”
“Lia, I meant it when I said this isn’t going to work.”
Embarrassment and regret settled over me. “I just—I just wanted to apologize. That’s all.”
“Listen, I have to go. I’ve got a client that just walked in the door. Please let Dean know I’ll be visiting with him soon.”
She hung up, leaving a trail of bitterness for me to confront.
# #
An hour later, Yvonne returned and offered me a smile. “I’m sorry about earlier. I guess I tend to get a little protective too.”
I sent her a knowing look before we resumed our sitting position.
Soon after, the doctor walked through the double doors I had been staring at all morning.
We shot out of our seats.
“The surgery got a little more complicated than I suspected. The tumor was deeper, and denser. Which means more recovery time, and possibly some short term paralysis on the right side of his face. He won’t be leaving today.”
My limbs went numb. Yvonne put her arm around my waist. I clung to the doctors every facial move, waiting on more. “You said he would be able to go home today.”
Yvonne gripped me tighter.
“He’ll likely be in here for another two days. I had to put in a drain, and I want to monitor it.”
“You said it was unremarkable and smaller than you remembered.”
“It’s still unremarkable.”
“I don’t understand then. Is he going to be okay?” I asked.
He relaxed into a grin. “He’s going to be fine. The tumor looked like a benign growth. We’ll send it to the lab to be sure. You'll be able to see him once he wakes up and we take him to his room,” he said, then walked away.
Yvonne patted my back. “Take a breath.”
I did as instructed, ten times over.
# #
A few hours later, I walked into Dean’s room with a cherry coke and a box of animal crackers, his favorites. He smiled, and half of his face rose while the other remained still. I tried my best not to stare.
I sat down on the edge of his bed. “How are you?”
“I feel fantastic.”
“Bullshit.”
“I no longer have to worry about that tumor taking up refuge on my neck. It’s rather freeing.”
His cheek didn’t move, and it freaked me out. I wondered if he didn’t know half of his face drooped.
“You’ll be scuba diving before you know it.”
“Perhaps I should get the movement back in my face before I start planning my first dive?”
Relief washed over me. “Oh thank God you know about your droopy face. I didn’t want to have to break the news to you.”
“The doc said it might take a few days.”
I patted his arm. “Well you still look handsome, my friend.”
Just then, the door opened wider. “Oh don’t go filling his head with lies,” Pat said, entering the room in a wheel chair.
He looked like a frail old man as his wife pushed him in.
“My face looks rather awesome this way,” Dean said, exaggerating the side that did work. “If my face stays this way for five more days, and I can convince Lia to take me to a Halloween party, I bet I’ll take the top prize for best zombie costume.”
Pat waved him off. “She’s right. You’re too damn handsome to be ugly. Even with a droopy face. If I wasn’t married and straight, I’d be all over you, buddy. All over you, I tell you.”
“Well, Pat, that would be my pleasure.”
His wife and I laughed. Then, Dean joined in.
“Easy does it,” Pat said. “You’re going to go and get the misses all jealous, and then what am I going to do for the last few weeks of my life?”
We stopped laughing as a group, as if unified under the same sad conclusion th
at he probably had a week or two left to crack such jokes.
Dean exhaled. “Thanks for coming. I know it wasn’t easy.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he bowed his head.
His eyes hung heavy.
His wife wrapped his jacket around his shoulders, rubbing his arms.
He looked back up. “How are you doing, man? They treating you okay in here? Are you chomping on those scrumptious ice chips?”
Dean’s smile strengthened. “I’m doing just fine.”
“You plan to remain out of work for a little while longer, I hope?”
Dean shrugged. “I’ll be fine to go back in two weeks.”
“Why the rush?”
“It’s time.”
Pat looked at me. “He’s only going back because in his mind, he’s obligated. Let him off the hook. Tell him to take some time to do a few more of those things he wanted to do.”
“Pat,” he said. “Stop.”
A lump formed in my throat.
“No,” Pat said, grunting. “Hang on.” He bowed his head and groaned, clutching his belly.
“He’s okay. He just needs a moment,” his wife said.
We froze and waited for him to recover.
He cleared his throat and looked back up. “As I was saying. The guy told me you work like dogs. You’ve got to stop working yourselves like that. Take a vacation. Enjoy yourself. Work smarter instead of harder.” He paused as if waiting on me to say something. “Just slow down for Christ’s sake.”
He coughed and gasped, clutching his stomach again.
For the love of God, please don’t let him die right here.
He wagged his finger. “Listen. I’ve got a beach house in the Outer Banks. We spend every Thanksgiving there. Every single one. We’re not going to make it this year, so the ghosts will be very upset that no one is there to entertain them. So, here is the key.” He pressed his fingers against its shiny surface. “Go down there and cook the best fucking Thanksgiving Day dinner you can manage. I mean go all out. Cook everything from scratch. Put on some Billy Joel and sing your hearts out while you chop potatoes and turnips, cut slices into the turkey and stuff garlic cloves in it, bake apples pies, and drink lots of wine. Bring everyone with you, including Little Bugger. Just get the hell out of Rhode Island for that week and enjoy yourselves.
Dean and I looked to each other.
“For me. Please,” he whispered, clearing his throat. “Promise me,” he said more sternly.
I jumped in. “Dean promise him, will you.”
“I promise. We promise.”
Tears streamed down his wife’s cheeks.
I grabbed the key and handed her a tissue, fighting back my own tears.
“It would mean a great deal to him,” she said.
I cradled her arm, and searched Dean’s eyes for tears. Sadly, not even a dying man initiated them for him.
Pat drew a long inhale and said, “I’m tired. I’m really tired.”
His wife stood tall. “Let’s get you back home.”
She unlocked the wheel brakes. Dean climbed out of his hospital bed, and, with his IV stand by his side, rolled his way over to Pat. “Thanks for coming all the way here.” He leaned in and hugged him.
“Anything for you, man.” He sniffled and wiped his eyes as Dean stood up.
I bent down and hugged him too. “Take care of yourself.”
“Take care of that girlfriend of yours,” Pat said. “She’s crazy about you.”
I nodded as if I had any right to do such a thing.
He tensed his chin as his wife rolled him away. He glanced from me to Dean and flashed a look of acceptance that told us he understood that this part of his journey was coming to an end. For the briefest moment, I caught sight of a tinge of regret staining his tired eyes.
Long after I left the hospital, and deep into the night, I couldn’t get that look of regret out of my mind, the regret of a man not quite ready to leave his journey and move onto the next, wherever that might be.
# #
My father called me later on that night. “We wanted to see how Dean is making out with his surgery.”
“He’s doing remarkable.” I smiled at my word choice.
“Good. We’re glad to hear that.”
I didn’t want to talk to him. I was still upset with how he treated us on my birthday. “I should go, Dad. It’s been a long day, and I’m tired.”
“Listen kiddo, another reason I’m calling is because, well, your mom said I was rude to Willow the other night.”
I swallowed hard. “You kind of were.”
“I’m sorry about that. All that psychic stuff is weird. I don’t like to hear about it.”
I ran my hand over my face. “Well, that was obvious.”
“I don’t like things that I don’t understand,” he said. “That’s how people get hurt. They play with fire, not understanding its power.”
We were more alike than I realized. “The only thing you need to understand is that Willow is a nice person who’s not out to hurt anyone.”
“I guess time will convince me because as they say, proof is in the pudding. Especially with these kinds of things for me.”
“Sometimes you just have to trust, Dad.”
# #
Just one day after Dean’s release from the hospital, Yvonne called me to tell me that Pat had passed away at his home, comfortable with his wife and daughter by his side.
I cleared my throat and asked if I could do anything.
“Go check on Dean and make sure he’s going to be okay.”
“I sure will.”
# #
I stopped by Dean’s apartment as soon as I hung up with Yvonne. Little Bugger sat on his lap curled up in a ball. “Yvonne dropped Little Bugger off yesterday to keep me company,” he said with a full smile. He paused a video playing on his iPad.
I sat down next to him. “No more droopiness, I see.”
“All gone.” He petted Little Bugger’s head.
“What are you watching?”
“One of Pat’s recordings from a talk he did at Yvonne’s a couple of months ago.”
I leaned over and pressed the play button. Pat stood before a room chocked full of people. They were laughing at something he just said. “I’m telling you, it was kismet. The week after my doctor told me I had only a few months left to live, my wife took me to the flea market to get my mind off of everything. I love those places, man.” A grin spread across his face.
I looked over at Dean who sported a grin of his own.
“Of course, she hates flea markets.” He winked at her in the front row. “She invited me to go anyway. So, we walked into this crazy place and ran right smack into a psychic set up with a stack of tarot cards and colorful signs. She took one look at me and called me over. My wife tried to pull me away, but I was like, ‘No babe, let’s see what she has to say.’ So I walked over to her and handed her a five dollar bill and asked for a palm reading. She stared at my hand like she was reading the f’ing Wall Street Journal’s stock options. I started sweating, you know?” He wiped his hand across his forehead.
The crowd laughed.
“With this serious tone, she looked at me and told me I was going to live a long ass life and that I was going to have three children. I tossed her another ten dollars and she kept going on, talking about how I was going to go back to college and get a degree in finance and my children were all going to get married and have a couple children of their own. She colored my future like a fucking rose parade.” He laughed. “We walked away from that crackpot psychic completely entertained.”
I clenched my jaw, bracing for something hurtful to come barrel rolling out of his mouth about Willow. Even Dean scoffed. “Oh, hell, don’t go there Pat,” he said. “I can’t listen.” He aimed for the pause button, but I pushed his hand out of the way.
“Shh,” I said.
Dean cocked his head. “Fine,” he muttered.
“So, we walk further into the flea m
arket and what do we see but this adorable blonde lady standing behind her psychic table.”
“Aw,” Dean said.
I smiled, and leaned in closer.
“I say that respectively knowing my wife equally crushed on her.” He turned to her. “Didn’t you?”
“Just get on with the story,” she said.
The crowd chuckled.
He opened his arms up wide. “Willow. Sweet Willow. I wanted to have more fun with this. I mean, maybe she was going to tell me I would win the lottery and spend the rest of my life traveling from one exotic bar to another slurping fruity drinks straight from a coconut.” He smirked and waited on the audience to respond. “Okay, so no one here is into slurping drinks from a coconut. Whatever, peeps.” He paced the floor. “So I walked up to her and asked her for a palm reading. I handed her twenty bucks because that’s what her sign said. She wouldn’t take it. She stared at me with this look of innocence and peace.” His voice softened to a mere whisper. “It was surreal, like time stood still for the three of us.”
He pulled in his lower lip, as if struggling to maintain his grip on humor. “I asked her to read my palm, and she shook her head no, saying she didn’t need to. She just continued to gaze at me and offer me peace. ‘I’m dying,’ I told her. She nodded. Just a sweet simple nod.”
He looked over at Willow who sat to the far right. “She handed me a card to the wellness center and told me Yvonne would take good care of me. Up until then, I never trusted people. But for some reason, I trusted her. I took that card and called her, ending up here where they’ve helped me manage my treatments with dignity.”
He looked around the room wistfully. “So the moral of the story here is—and I have to tell you this so I don’t go to my grave with the regret of not revealing it to you—is never, I mean never, go to the first psychic table you see in a flea market. Imagine the mangos I could’ve bought with that fifteen dollars I wasted?”