Today & Tomorrow

by Susan Fanetti

  And just like that, as if they were in some cheap-ass movie, Analisa got what she wanted. She was a skinny, sick girl in the middle of a biker bar brawl. Jesus fucking Christ.

  The guy Nolan had backed into shook off the beer and then took a massive swing. Nolan ducked to the side, but still got caught hard in the ribs, losing his breath. He did not want to be throwing punches right now, right here.

  Brawling was fine. Havoc had loved a good brawl. Nolan didn’t share that enthusiasm, but he didn’t mind some recreational punching. He also knew that most of this brawl would be exactly that—men, and women, taking advantage of the chaos to have some fun.

  But he needed to get Analisa the hell out of here. He was furious and afraid, and he still couldn’t believe she’d actually done what she’d done. His only interest now was in getting her safely clear of the place.

  But before he could get to her, a guy, not wearing a kutte, grabbed at her. She turned and punched him, catching his arm.

  And the guy punched her back. Nolan vaulted over the fallen man between him and them and pushed her behind him, as gently as he could. The guy who’d punched her was bigger than he was—taller and broader both. But he was soft; Nolan could see it in his face. Nolan was not soft. He charged and threw his whole body, shoulder first, into the guy’s midsection, driving him backward into a table. And then he got down to the business of breaking the face of the asshole who’d hit a girl.

  ~oOo~

  Police lights flashed all around them, strobing the night sky. Nolan sat on the ground, his hands tied behind his back with a zip tie. He reeked of beer. Analisa sat next to him, in the same condition. Around them, a dozen or so others were languishing likewise. Waiting for a paddy wagon.

  Awesome.

  He’d never been arrested before. Despite the things he’d done, he’d stayed clear of the law. Killing, he’d gotten away with. Running drugs, some theft. Assorted other sins and infractions. All clear. But being nice to a rich, sick girl had landed him here, his shoulders aching, gravel digging into his ass, his eye swelling shut.

  Just awesome.

  Analisa looked perfectly happy. Well, sure. She’d gotten what she wanted.

  “Why is a fucking bar brawl on your list?” He heard the anger in his voice, but he didn’t care. He was angry. She should know it.

  But she fucking grinned back at him. “I want to be bad. I never got a chance to be bad. I was sick before it occurred to me to rebel. Plus, my dad is annoyingly great. My mom was, too. It’s hard to be bad in a family like mine.”

  “And you thought a brawl in a biker bar was a good way to be bad?”

  If anything, that grin got bigger. “They always look so awesome in the movies. I’ve seen my dad film fights, and everybody always has a great time. I thought it’d be cool.”

  “You are fucking insane.”

  “You’re just pouting because that guy punched you in the face—that was so cool, by the way. The way you came to my defense. Like a hero. That was the best part. I’m so glad he hit me.”

  She had a shiner of her own. Nolan was beginning to think that she truly was nuts.

  “But,” she went on, “I think I’m going to call ‘frisked and cuffed’ close enough to ‘arrested’ and go ahead and cross that one off my list. My arms hurt. My face hurts. I need to pee. I’d rather go home now. Officer!”

  A female uniform came over. “What?”

  “Can I call my dad? Or maybe you could call him?”

  “You’ll get a phone call after you’re booked.”

  “Yes, but I think we can fix this right here. If you check my ID again, you’ll see I live just down the road. I’m Analisa Winter.”

  The cop was unimpressed. “Congratulations.”

  “Behind my ID, there’s a medic-alert card. I have that card because I’m very sick. It has my father as my contact. You should check it.”

  With a Malibu beat, the cop was probably used to rich kids trying to get over, so she sighed heavily and went over to the pile of wallets they’d collected. She found Analisa’s and took out her medic-alert card.

  And then she stared over at them, her mouth open. She wasn’t too jaded to be starstruck by the notion of meeting Analisa’s father, three-time Sexiest Man Alive.

  Fifteen minutes later, Donovan Winter, with his trusty mountain, Ed, was standing in the front lot of the bar, signing autographs, agreeing to cover the damages, and arranging for everyone to be released from their zip ties and sent home.

  When they were free of their plastic restraints, Donovan pulled Analisa to his side. The look he gave Nolan was full of blame and disappointment. “You can say goodbye here, Nolan. I’ll get her home.”

  “Daddy, wait.”

  Her father turned the same look on her. “No. You don’t get to talk right now. What the two of you did tonight…my God. Analie, you’re hurt! Other people were hurt! After the day you had? What the hell were you thinking?”

  Forgetting Donovan’s anger, Nolan turned to Analisa. “What kind of day did you have?”

  “None of your business,” her father answered for her. He tried to pull her away.

  But she refused to budge. “Had my regularly-scheduled look at my innards. It’s gotten frisky, so I’ve got a revised prognosis. It wants me dead by Christmas. Cool, huh?”

  She called her cancer “It.” The capital letter was audible. Like a name.

  Nolan reached for and caught her hand. “What? Shit. Ani, no.” She wasn’t sick. She didn’t look or act sick at all. It made no fucking sense. Christmas was only three months away. How could this beautiful, vibrant girl be dying so quickly?

  “Yep. Oh well.”

  “I—”

  Her father cut him off and pulled them apart, his face contorted by anger and sorrow. “Goodbye, Nolan. Whatever is happening with the two of you is over now. Enough is enough. My daughter needs to be home. With her family.” Donovan Winter pulled her toward his Range Rover, where Ed was waiting. Analisa looked over her shoulder and locked eyes with Nolan for as long as she could.

  Fuck.

  No. Fucking no. To all of it, just fucking no.

  SIX

  Analisa tucked her windblown hair behind her ear and wrapped her mother’s big shawl more tightly around her shoulders. The October morning breeze had a bite to it, but the sky was clear and the day was bright.

  She liked the beach best on days like this. Too chilly and early for many people to be out, but still a visibly California day: blue skies, the sun making diamonds on the surface of the Pacific, the gentle sound of a light surf washing the sand. Their neighbor’s dog barking as he chased shorebirds.

  October. Fuck. In the back of her mind, It was playing the Final Jeopardy theme. Time was running out.

  She knew it was true. Her insides were starting to hurt, and she was losing energy. Not so much that anybody needed to know—in fact, most days, the change was so subtle she wondered if she weren’t feeling more than was there, now that her death sentence had moved up—but no. She did feel it. Or, rather, It. Creeping in, taking over, turning off switches.

  The cancer was in pretty much all her organs now. Not her brain, thank God, but that was probably only a matter of time. At the first sign that it had dug into her brain, she’d take matters into her own hands. She was willing to deal with a lot, but she wouldn’t tolerate losing her sense of self. She wanted to die as the person she was, not some stranger It had made her. She hadn’t told her father or anyone about that decision, but it was iron-clad.

  In the latest scans, Its newest incursion was light, more shadows than tumors, but still her doctors had been surprised—and not the kind of surprise that came with streamers and noisemakers—at how quickly It had infiltrated so much of her body. Again, they’d suggested an intensive course of ‘treatment,’ but Analisa knew what that ‘treatment’ meant. She knew how it felt, what the ‘treatment’ did to her. And now she also knew that It wasn’t going anywhere, regardless. It had moved in to stay. But sh
e would not end her life lying in a bed, full of tubes, too weak to enjoy what she had left.

  Nope.

  Though what she was living now wasn’t that much different. Since the night at the bar, almost two weeks had passed. Two weeks in which her father had doted on her but had not let her out of his sight. Two weeks lost, stuck at home with her father and It, and occasionally her brother. She was marinating in her impending doom. What she wanted to do was take her destiny in her hands.

  The door opened behind her. “Analie, come inside. It’s too cold, and Marica’s got lunch ready.”

  She ignored him. Her stomach hurt, and not just because It was in there ransacking the joint. Impatience and frustration made it ache. Sorrow. The clock was fucking ticking.

  Her father walked up and stood next to the chair she was in. “Sweetheart, please.”

  “I just want to sit out here alone, Daddy. I’m not hungry.”

  Instead of leaving her to her thoughts, he sat in the nearest chair and leaned in. “You haven’t eaten at all today. Are you feeling sick? Do you need something? Would tea help?”

  ‘Something.’ Yes, she needed ‘something.’ She turned and looked at him and his sad damn eyes. “I need you to let me live my death. Tick-tock, Daddy.”

  He winced. “I hate it when you talk like that.”

  At that, her frustration gave way to real anger. “Like what? Like a realist? Daddy, I’m dying. Right now. Sitting here right now, It is running around breaking things inside me. Wrapping me in blankets and making me tea is not going to change that. The time I have left can be counted in weeks, and you want me to just sit here and wait to die. It sucks.”

  When he got mad in response, she was surprised—but also pleased. Anger was so much better than his sad-sackery. “And starting fights, getting punched in the face, marking up your beautiful skin, who knows what else? That’s how you want to—as you say—‘live your death’? It’s ridiculous.”

  “What I want is to be left alone to make my own choices. The bar thing was dumb. I get that. I won’t do something else like that. But I want to live what I have of my life the way I want to live it. I’m the one who’s dying—I should get to choose.”

  His anger gone, he reached out and picked up her hand. “What about the people you’re going to leave behind? What about your brother and me? We already lost your mom. We don’t want to lose you any faster than we have to. When you go away, we have to stay behind.”

  Analisa thought of something Nolan had said to her that first day, sitting on the brick wall in the office park: hurting was scarier than dying. That was an absolute truth, she thought. Then, she’d been thinking about her own hurt—her fear of crashing the bike, her fear of the pain she’d feel when her end was nigh. But what her father had just said made her see it in a new way. There was a way in which she was getting the better deal. When she was dead, her pain would be over. Her suffering was finite, its limit fast approaching. That wasn’t true for the people who loved her and would live on without her.

  She wondered what that would be like. She’d gotten sick so soon after her mom had died that her period of grief had had a strangely concrete ending. She still missed her mom, she still thought about her every day. She missed her, but she didn’t exactly mourn her. Her mother had quickly become a presence in her head, while she’d focused on being sick, getting well. In an odd way, being diagnosed with lymphoma had helped her accept that her mother was gone.

  The tattoo she’d gotten was meant to commemorate her—and Analisa herself: two stars, one embracing the other. Her mother, Stella, and her. The quote had been her mother’s favorite, from Carl Sagan.

  The one thing that would be true in this life and after it was that they were and would both always be star stuff. They all were.

  She put her other hand over her father’s, which still held hers. “I love you, Daddy. I’m sorry I’m leaving you.”

  He dropped his head, his hand clutching hers even more tightly.

  Rather than let his grief get hold of him, she pushed her point. “There’s still stuff I want to do. I don’t want to leave without experiencing everything I can. I won’t do anything else that’s dangerous, though, okay?”

  He looked back up. He was crying now, tears streaming down his cheeks. “The bar wasn’t on your list. Is there other stuff that I don’t know about?”

  “Yes—but I promise there’s nothing else dangerous. It’s just stuff that’s only for me. Stuff I don’t want you to fix up for me.”

  He wiped his free hand down his face and regrouped. “Like buying a house?”

  “Yes—I want to do the house myself. And I want to do this other stuff myself. But I’ll be careful. I promise.”

  “You’ll tell me when you start feeling sick? Right away?”

  No, she wouldn’t. Not until she had no choice. “I will. I promise.” That was a promise she felt right making, and would feel right breaking, too.

  “Okay. I’ll stay out of your way.”

  ~oOo~

  Four days later, he made good on his word and went to New York for a series of meetings, as he’d had scheduled, and then had cancelled, and then rescheduled. Tris was off on a Tahoe trip. She and Marica had the house to themselves.

  Marica wasn’t like Alice from that old show The Brady Bunch. She wasn’t like a surrogate mom. She worked for them; that was it. She lived with them, too, but when she was off duty, she was gone. Analisa had always entertained an idea that Marica went off to some glamorous secret life on her off hours.

  She’d been with them as long as Analisa could remember, and she was a great cook and housekeeper, but she was a stoic, reserved woman who still had a thick Romanian accent even after decades in the States. She wasn’t a part of the family, despite spending most of her life with them.

  Tristan and Analisa had been raised by their parents, who had always kept their schedules so that one or the other, or both, of them were home with their kids. That had remained mostly true even after their mom had died. Their father worked a lot less, and not at all during the first years of It. When Analisa went into remission, he’d starting working again. But he’d stayed local, refusing any location shoots.

  So when he went off to New York, it was a big statement that he was finally allowing Analisa the space she wanted. And she was essentially alone in the house, even though Marica still lurked about.

  She called Nolan. There was something she wanted to cross off her list. Two things, actually. Possibly even three, except one was pretty much crossed off already.

  ~oOo~

  It had required a couple of phone calls and a lot of convincing to get him to come to her. He was as mad at her as her father had been—maybe even more. She’d been stupid and selfish, not taking into account that she might get him arrested, too. Not to mention hurt.

  Like her father, he was more than merely mad. He was worried. She’d laid the news about her revised deadline on him and had then been dragged away right after, and they hadn’t had a chance to talk. Taking her father’s cold shoulder to heart, he’d been unwilling to engage her in texts after that night, which was why she knew to call him instead of texting him this time.

  She heard him pull up. His bike was different from the one he’d tried to teach her on—different from most bikes she saw on the road. It was older. Vintage. Even the art on the tank was retro: the words Wreaking Havoc in stylized red script across the top, and the Horde patch on either side. It was weird to see such a young guy on such an old bike, but it suited him. There was something ‘vintage’ about Nolan himself.

  Her mother had always told her she was an ‘old soul,’ which meant, she’d come to understand, that she’d had a lot of past lives, and had thus been born wise and empathetic to the ways of people and the world.

  If you believed that sort of thing. Her mother had. Analisa wasn’t sure what she believed, but she understood the sentiment behind the idea. And she thought Nolan was an ‘old soul,’ too. There was something in his
dark blue eyes that made her think it, though it was tired more than wise, in her estimation.

  Taking off his helmet now, he definitely looked tired. And wary. But he smiled and hugged her.

  “How’re you feeling?”

  “I’m good. I feel okay.” That was the truth, even. She’d woken up that morning excited and happy, and she’d been able to eat without much trouble. Eating was starting to get a little tricky. Not every day. Maybe about half the time. She felt sure that the shadows on her digestive system were becoming actual tumors now. But there wasn’t much pain yet, so she kept it to herself.