People Who Knew Me

by Kim Hooper

  Perhaps there is truth to the notion of two people growing apart.

  Perhaps we don’t want to say we’re unhappy—out loud, to ourselves, to the world—because then we’d have to do something about it.

  Perhaps the truly courageous thing is to leave.

  “I’ve had my exciting times, Em. I’m ready to settle down,” Gabe went on. “Somewhere, right now, my mother is thanking God.”

  I laughed, then changed the subject: “You hungry?”

  “I am. You?”

  “Starving. Should we go out into the world?”

  “Let’s stay here,” he said. “Order in.”

  He got out of bed, put on his boxers. He ran into the kitchen and returned with a small stack of take-out menus.

  “Tell me what sounds good,” he said.

  I picked Chinese. I had a distinct craving for oil and salt. He paced back and forth in front of the bed while he was on the phone calling in the order. I watched him and wanted him, every part of him. The late afternoon light through the window hit his body just so, shadowing each muscle. He was like a charcoal drawing of the perfect man.

  If Gabe and I were ever unhappy, we’d admit it to each other. Somehow, I just knew that. That was the difference between what I’d have with him and what I had with Drew. Drew and I were living the common lie lived by all people who fall out of love, until one person musters the courage to be honest. I would have to be that person; he never would.

  I wanted to tell Gabe, right then and there, as he finished repeating back the take-out order on the phone, that I’d decided. I would do it. I would leave Drew and move in with him. I wanted to scream it. I wanted to jump up and down on the bed with excitement. I wanted to tell him about the baby, to paint a complete picture of the life we’d have together. But I told myself to be calm, to sleep on it—if sleep was even possible in the midst of exhilaration. I would tell him the next day, at a nice dinner: So, I’ve decided. Then nothing would be the same ever again.

  “Food will be here in a half hour,” he said with a smile.

  He dove back into bed next to me.

  “We should do this every day,” I said, which was the closest I’d come that night to telling him what I’d decided.

  He kissed my still-flat belly as if he knew what was within.

  “You make me happy,” he said, letting his lips linger on my skin.

  “You make me happy, too.”

  His BlackBerry on the nightstand flashed red—there were messages, emails waiting. He didn’t seem to care.

  “Do you think it’s possible for two people to always make each other happy?” I asked. It was one more question I needed him to answer.

  “I wouldn’t ask you to leave your husband if I didn’t think it was possible,” he said.

  I sighed.

  “Are you looking for a guarantee? Because I can’t give you that. Nobody could—not with a clean conscience,” he said. “I can promise you I’ve never felt this way before. About anyone.”

  “What else?” I asked, searching for something close to the guarantee he wouldn’t give.

  “I can promise you I’ll be honest with you—even if you don’t want me to be.”

  That was good enough, the most I could ask for.

  “It’s a risk,” I said. “Love, in general, I mean.”

  “It wouldn’t be meaningful if it wasn’t.”

  I kissed him, the words I want to take the risk primed on the tip of my tongue. I withheld, though, exhaled the breath saved for that sentence into his mouth.

  * * *

  We ate chow mein and fried rice and egg rolls in bed, using chopsticks to pick out grains of rice when they fell into the folds of the sheets. He fed me, I fed him. We read each other’s fortune cookies. Mine read: “A package of value will arrive soon.” His read: “The past is gone. Tomorrow is full of possibilities.” We played the adolescent game of adding “in bed” to the end of our fortunes.

  “Tomorrow is full of possibilities in bed,” he said with a satisfied nod. “Does that mean you’ll spend the night again?”

  “Maybe,” I said, with a teasing smile.

  “You should take the day off tomorrow, be waiting here when I get home.”

  I climbed into his lap, straddled him.

  “I have a feeling I’m getting special treatment since I’m sleeping with the boss,” I said.

  “So? What of it?” he said. “You don’t have clothes here. You should start moving some, see how it feels. I’ll clear drawers for you.”

  This—the drawers—excited me to an embarrassing point of giddiness. I did my best to hide it, but I was sure my face was flushed.

  “Sleep here. Bring some clothes back. We’ll play house for the week.”

  I’d tell Drew I was still really sick, that he needed to keep Bruce with him at his mother’s house. He’d probably insist on visiting me, caretaker that he’d become, but I’d tell him to stay away. I don’t want you to get what I have, I’d say.

  “I’ll need at least two drawers,” I told Gabe. “For now.”

  Still lying in bed, we ate spoonfuls of Neapolitan ice cream out of the carton. It had frostbite, the way ice cream does when it’s been sitting in the freezer for months.

  The sun set and I said, “This has got to be one of the top five best days of my life.”

  He said, “If it’s any lower than number three, I’ve failed you.”

  He turned out the bedside light early—around nine o’clock. Even with all the resting, all the gluttony, we were tired. He had an early meeting, had to be at the office by seven to prepare a PowerPoint. He told me he’d be quiet in the morning, said he didn’t want to wake me. He detailed the contents of his pantry so I knew my breakfast options. And then he kissed me good night and wished me sweet dreams.

  “Right now I think reality is sweeter than any dream could be,” I said.

  It was hokey, but I didn’t care. My heart beat wildly as I thought about the next night. I’d call around in the morning for a reservation somewhere fancy. I’d tell him about leaving Drew and he’d lean across the table, take my face in his hands, and kiss me hard. He’d be surprised about the baby, but happy. His face would light up. We’d spend hours imagining our future together. The restaurant manager would have to kick us out. And when we went to bed together that night, I’d say, This is it—the number one best day of my life.

  TWENTY-THREE

  I’m walking through the produce section of the grocery store, apples and bananas in my basket, when I see Drew. Right there, analyzing the yellow onions, trying to pick a good one, though it’s impossible to see through all the layers. I’m frozen, standing on a square tile as if it is surrounded by thrashing ocean water. This tile, my lifeboat. He looks up, sees me. There is no flash of recognition on his face, no confusion. He puts two onions in his basket and disappears, turning the corner to another aisle. I drop my basket on the floor, apples rolling out, and leave.

  I wake up in a sweat. The sheets are cold, sticking to my skin. I’ve been having these dreams—or nightmares, rather—more often lately. Sometimes I run into Drew, sometimes my mom, sometimes Marni or Nancy. People who knew me. It’s always in an everyday place such as the bank, the post office, the grocery store. Sometimes they recognize me, in spite of the blond dye job. I still have hair in my dreams. A look of shock registers on their faces and I wake up with a jolt, like when I take an unintentional nap at the movie theater and flinch awake thinking I’m falling off a cliff. Sometimes, more often, they don’t recognize me. I’m not sure which version of the nightmare is more disconcerting. Regardless, I can’t sleep after.

  I keep thinking about Claire’s request for total honesty. If Dr. Richter has bad news, if the much-feared end is near, I need to tell Claire about New York, about what happened. I owe it to her.

  * * *

  When I go to see Dr. Richter, she repeats the same thing she did before starting me on Taxol: “It’s not working as well as I’d hoped.”


  Hearing her words, I’m not so much sad as I am angry.

  “The chemo is doing nothing?” I say, incredulous.

  She tilts her head from one side to the other, as if she’s evaluating the first sip of a glass of wine someone’s just poured for her.

  “The swelling in your breast has gone down a little, the breast tissue isn’t as thick, the redness isn’t as bad. So the chemo hasn’t done nothing,” she says, defensive of the drugs. I guess she has to be.

  “So what now?”

  “Well, I’d consider this a partial response to the chemo. I want to do the mastectomy and radiation, see how much we can get that way.”

  Her corny parting words this time: “Stay hopeful.”

  The Internet tells me that hope is for fools, that even if I get through this round of treatment, the cancer will likely come back somewhere else. I’ll be playing a game of chemotherapy Whac-A-Mole until my body gives up completely.

  * * *

  I’ve been talking more and more to Paul. It’s gotten to the point that we have each other’s phone numbers and text when we’re going to the infusion center. Chemo dates, Nurse Amy says. Paul’s my first friend in California. Al and JT are different. They started as necessities and are like family now. I suppose I’ve gone all these years without friends because I haven’t needed them. I’ve had moments of needing them, but those moments just pass. Cancer doesn’t just pass. And if you don’t talk to someone about it, you’ll go crazy. I could see a shrink, but what I picture is someone speaking to me in a soft voice—as if anything above normal volume would disrupt my peaceful dying process—using a bank of psychological terms to explain away the basic fact that I’m fucking afraid of dying.

  So I have Paul. And, occasionally, Nurse Amy. She’s on vacation now—Hawaii. People’s lives go on.

  Paul finishes chemo next month and he should be in the clear, for good. It’s hard not to resent him, and it’s hard not to hate myself for resenting him.

  “I wish I had prostate cancer,” I tell him.

  “That would make you a man,” he says, “which would be far less appealing for me.”

  I’m never sure if he’s flirting. Amy says he is. Whatever he’s doing shouldn’t be allowed in infusion centers.

  “I don’t even know why I’m sitting here,” I say, disregarding his potential flirtation. “The chemo is barely doing anything.”

  “I bet the surgery and radiation kill it,” he says.

  “Maybe,” I say. “And then it could come back. I might make it this year, but die next year.”

  “Isn’t that true for anyone?”

  It’s a valid point. I hate when Paul makes valid points.

  “I’m doing the genetic testing,” I say, changing the subject. Nurse Amy’s fill-in, an all-business Latina named Desi, comes to check on me. She doesn’t make small talk. She must overhear us chatting, but she never chimes in. She doesn’t get involved. It’s a good skill to have in her line of work.

  “Are you? That’s a good decision, I think,” Paul says.

  I’ve hemmed and hawed about it before. I’ve been avoiding the test, but now, in the name of honesty with Claire, I have to do it. It’s strange to think there’s a gene for cancer, that I may have been destined for this. Could it be that I was walking around New York all those years ago, blissfully deaf to the ticking clock buried in my body, thinking that I had everything under control? I’ve put off the test this long because I don’t know how I can live with myself if I have the gene, if I pass it on to Claire. But the thing is, if the Internet is right, I may not be living with myself that much longer.

  “Claire should know,” I say. “It’s selfish of me not to find out.”

  “Ignorance is bliss, as they say.”

  “Until it isn’t.”

  “When are you doing it?” he asks.

  “This week.”

  “Look at you, taking the bull by the ol’ horns.”

  “Reluctantly,” I say.

  Getting my affairs in order. That’s what people say. I did a living trust online. It’s not so difficult when you don’t have a lot of things, and when you have only one person to leave them to.

  “I’m also thinking about contacting that person in New York.”

  I figure if I have to be honest with Claire from here on out, I can use Paul as practice. I decided this morning that I would tell him the story—the messy, strange story.

  “The infamous person,” he says, an eyebrow raised.

  “She should know,” I say. “If I don’t tell her and I die, she’ll never know.”

  He lowers his eyebrow.

  “Then contact that person,” he says.

  “It’s kind of complicated,” I say.

  “Complicated how?”

  “Well, the person is Claire’s father.”

  “Oh,” he says, a little more intrigued. “I thought he was out of the picture.”

  I never said that, exactly. I just told him once, when he asked, that I had full custody of Claire.

  “He is out of the picture,” I say.

  “I’m confused.”

  “He doesn’t know about Claire.”

  He shifts in his chair, turns to look me in the eye. Normally we just talk to the air, facing forward.

  “Go on,” he says.

  I finally let go of my breath.

  “I used to live in New York. I left a week after 9/11. Came here to start over.”

  “Left the guy behind?”

  The way he says it—the guy—rattles me, as if Claire’s father meant nothing or, worse, as if he was an awful person, a drug addict, a convict, a deadbeat.

  “It’s not what you think,” I say. I’m defensive even though I have no right to be. Paul doesn’t know anything.

  “I read in The New York Times that lots of people left the city after 9/11,” he says.

  Oh, Paul. He’s trying to give me a pass I don’t really deserve.

  “I was pregnant with Claire.” That’s not the reason I left, or not the only one. It’s all so convoluted now.

  “I was married in New York,” I say. “Drew was his name—my husband.”

  “Oh,” he says. He shifts in his chair again, noticeably uncomfortable. Maybe, in his eyes, I am just a woman who left her husband. Like his ex-wife.

  “So you just left without saying anything?”

  This, the judgment, is what I feared.

  “It’s a long story,” I say.

  And then I tell him about Drew and me, from the time we fell in love to the time I fell out. I tell him about the night we met, about the fateful date I canceled to stay up talking to Drew until early morning. I tell him how we got married so young—too young. I tell him about our little apartment. I tell him about my career in advertising, about Drew’s failed taco shop and his subsequent career in taking care of his sick mother.

  “That’s hard,” he says, when I elaborate on the part about his sick mother.

  “I know,” I say. “It is. It was. But that’s the thing. Love is supposed to survive hard. It’s supposed to withstand hard.”

  “Ideally, I guess. That’s not always the case.”

  There’s a slight tension to his voice. I think of his wife leaving him after he was diagnosed. I think of how that was probably a long story, too.

  “It gets worse,” I say.

  He grips the armrest like he’s bracing himself. Maybe it’s selfish to tell him all this, to attempt to exonerate myself like this.

  “You know how I said I ditched a date the night I first met Drew? In college? That date was with a guy named Gabe,” I say. “Well, years later, Gabe and I crossed paths again.”

  I make it sound happenstance, even though the truth is somewhat different. “Gabe and I ended up getting close.”

  I’ve never told this story to anyone. It feels just like that—a story, someone else’s life.

  “Oh,” he says. I wish he would stop saying that.

  “One thing led to another?
” he ventures.

  He’s packaging up my story into something so ordinary, when there is nothing ordinary about what actually happened.

  “To put it simply,” I say, jumping, leaping, skipping over so many details.

  “And then you got pregnant.”

  I nod sheepishly.

  “Connie, Connie, Connie,” he says. He doesn’t know I used to be Emily. The more I tell him, the more I realize how little he knows. He’s shaking his head disapprovingly, the way you shake your head at an adorable child sneaking an extra cookie off the kitchen counter. He’s making light of it, for my sake but also his own, I think. Paul wants to like me, for some reason.

  “Gabe was Puerto Rican—brown skin. If I had the baby, Drew would have known everything. It would have killed him.”

  “So you didn’t tell either of the guys.”

  The guys.

  I shake my head.

  “And then you made a case for moving out here to start over.”

  This isn’t how it went down, exactly, but I’m swept up in the momentum of his conclusions.

  “And now I’m dying.”

  “Stop saying that,” he says.

  I’ve learned through this whole experience that some people cope by denying the possibility of death and some people, like me, cope by talking their way into apprehensive acceptance of it.

  “Okay, well, regardless, I realize there are things Claire needs to know.”

  “What does she think happened to her dad? She must’ve asked.”

  “I told her he died in a car accident.”

  He grimaces. “Fuck,” he says. I liked it better when he was saying “Oh.”

  “So you’re going to have to contact the guy and then talk to Claire,” he says.

  “Right.”

  “What are you going to say?”