Stephanie
The phone call came the next morning: We have your biopsy results. Can you come in to discuss them?
That led to only one conclusion, confirmed shortly after she arrived and which she now mulled over, driving toward the house as she cultivated the functional numbness required to continue working, to continue being Anya’s mother and not slip full bore into post-partum depression, that being the best-case scenario. Worst case, she was starting to wonder what was so bad about taking a page from Alex’s playbook and being done with it all.
Stage two bronchioloalveolar carcinoma. Lung cancer. A type less responsive to chemo and for which surgery was the recommended treatment, as if she hadn’t already been cut open a thousand times. They referred her to a thoracic surgeon to schedule it. One more affirmation that Alex had made a terrible mistake in marrying her, because the large family he, as an only child, longed for was beyond her capacity to give. Her lungs simply could not bear the stress of pregnancy again.
No tears or they’d never stop. She prayed Alex wasn’t home. He usually kept the Mercedes in the garage, so the empty driveway meant nothing. Stephanie spotted the housekeeper’s car parked across the street. She’d answer the door before Alex did.
Stephanie checked her face in the rearview. Bags under her heavy, bloodshot eyes, as dark as bruises. She got out of the car and with slouched shoulders lumbered up the walkway. Knock, or ring the doorbell? Even the simplest decisions had become crises of the highest order. She depressed the button once, and the doorbell chimed its two tones. Footsteps, faster than Alex’s. A small miracle. Their housekeeper, Daisy—there’s a name you don’t hear anymore, Stephanie had thought when they hired her, except for certain dog breeds. Maybe a beagle—answered the door.
“Ms. Hartwell!” The inevitable raising of the brows. “Are you all right?”
“Yeah. Tired. Is Alex home?”
“No, but I can—”
“No, no.” That meant he’d taken Anya, Stephanie’s entire purpose for being there in the first place. He trusted no one with her. “I came for Anya, but—”
“Oh, she’s asleep in the nursery. He said he couldn’t take her with him, and he didn’t want to leave her with me, but there was no one else…” Daisy wrung her hands. “I’m taking good care of her, I promise.”
“I believe you. How long ago did Alex leave?”
“Maybe ten minutes ago?”
“Okay.” Stephanie mounted the stairs. In the nursery, she gathered diapers, blankets, clothes, and other necessities and crammed them into Anya’s tote, then unfolded the padded travel bed and placed Anya in it. She shut out the image of the vintage Pooh, her own beloved treasure all these years, tucked into one corner of the crib to serve as Anya’s plush guardian, a symbol of her father’s steadfast love passed down to her. Stephanie slung the tote over her shoulder, hefted the travel bed by its handle with both hands, and hurried back downstairs as quickly as she could without disturbing her daughter. She shifted the bed to one hand so she could open the door.
“Ms. Hartwell—”
“I’m sorry I can’t explain,” she said over her shoulder. She scurried down the walk. Daisy was almost certainly dialing Alex already. Stephanie set the tote on the back seat floor, buckled Anya into the car seat, and scrambled into the driver’s side. You’re really doing this.
In a life whose plot she had lost, nothing else made sense.
Her phone was jangling before she reached the Whites’ house. Alex. She silenced it, then collected Anya and the tote from the car and locked the guest room door behind her. Her phone lit up again.
Brandon. She pressed Accept.
“Hey, Steph. How are you?”
“I, uh…” Her lips were trembling. “Hey. I’ve been better.”
“Are you at work?”
“No. I had to take the day off. Doctor appointment.”
“Everything okay?”
“No. Not really. Nothing is okay.” I walked out on my husband. Kidnapped our daughter. Oh, and lung cancer. She bit her lip so hard she tasted blood. Her eyes glazed over with tears.
“Have coffee with me. Get away from it all for a little while, eh? I haven’t seen you in ages.”
The best idea she’d heard all week. Without a doubt, Alex would arrive at the Whites’ in a fury any moment now. “Yeah. I can do that.”
“Excellent. Caffe Aroma, half an hour?”
“Sounds good. Do you mind if I bring Anya?”
“Not at all. I’d love to meet her. See you soon.”
She bundled Anya into the travel bed, grabbed her tote, and rushed into the living room. Jacob had just come home from his workout, judging by the sports bag he was tossing into the foyer closet.
“Hey, Steph. Heading out?”
“Yeah. Coffee with a friend.”
“Nicole and I are going out to dinner tonight. You’re welcome to join…us.” His gaze fell on Anya. “Steph, what did you do?”
“I’ve had a bad day, Jake, and I need to go. I have a feeling you’re going to find out soon anyway. I’m sorry I dragged you into this. ”
“Steph—”
She didn’t bother closing the door. No time. Jacob stood in the doorway, calling to her as she secured Anya in the car seat.
She had almost made it around the bend when in the side mirror she caught sight of a black roadster barreling up the street and screeching to a halt in front of the Whites’ house.
Stephanie stepped on the gas.
***
Anya fell asleep in the travel bed two minutes after they reached the café. Stephanie’s tolerance for people who brought their shrieking offspring to coffee shops or gastropubs, what she deemed “adult” establishments, had always been low. She did not desire to join their ranks, not that Brandon minded. He kept cooing at Anya and touching her velveteen cheeks. He had no children, clearly not out of dislike for them, but Stephanie didn’t pressure him for further information.
“She’s beautiful.”
“Looks just like Alex.” The taste of his name on her tongue made her want a glass of wine or five. She settled for a filled chocolate cupcake and a latte.
“Has your eyes, though.”
Stephanie hazarded a glance at him, and what she saw there confounded her. She was starting to hate eye contact the way Alex used to, hated the way people’s inability to censor their innermost emotions placed an undue burden on the viewer to process and contextualize them. Right now, she could not cope with the gaze that was sticking to her, absorbing her.
“You either have something to say, or you’re about to puke.” Brandon’s knee bumped hers under the table.
“Possibly both.”
He sipped his mocha. “Maybe you do need to tell someone what’s going on, eh?”
She didn’t doubt that. Pressure was building in her like a magma chamber, ready to burst in a Plinian eruption obliterating everything around her until, depleted, she caved in on herself. No point in resurrecting the video, which was dead and buried despite the pictures scorched into her brain and the echoing ramifications. Those were hers and Alex’s to tackle.
“Long story short? Alex and I are living apart right now, and I was diagnosed with lung cancer.”
Brandon blinked. “Wait—what?”
“You’re the first person I’ve told.”
“Shit,” he sighed. He took several thoughtful swallows of coffee, then licked his lips. “Where are you as far as stages?”
“Stage two. Hasn’t spread so far.”
“And Aleksandr doesn’t know.”
“Not yet. Like I said…”
“Why?”
“Come on, Brandon. You’ve seen what’s been all over the internet.”
“It’s not just that. You guys have been through worse.”
She stared into her coffee.
“You should tell him this, don’t you think?”
“I still have to figure out whether I want to be sliced open.”
Br
andon openly stared at her. He scratched his jaw. “You can’t be seriously debating this. Your daughter deserves a mother, eh?”
Stephanie’s chin wobbled. She really was a terrible mother. That she could consider choosing fear over Anya proved it. Her stomach cramped. A bubble of puke rose in her esophagus. If Alex had suffered anything like this, no wonder he’d have deemed any option viable as long as it guaranteed emotional relief.
“Oh, Steph, no.” Brandon closed his warm hand over hers on the table. “I’m sorry—”
“No, it’s fine. You’re right. I’m just a fucking mess.”
“Listen. Let me take you out. We haven’t hung out since last summer, and you need it.”
“I do,” she said with a clipped laugh.
“Then it’s settled.” Brandon scuffed his chair closer to the table. His eyes were wide, glowing, barely blinking. All too eager. He stood the most to gain if she and Alex couldn’t fix this. He had surely not forgotten her drunken attempt to seduce him last summer, and maybe he regretted walking away when he’d had the chance, nice guy or not. “You pick the night, I’ll pick the place.”
A smile tugged at her lips. She didn’t want to encourage him, but she had little else to look forward to. “All right. How could I say no?”
***
Alex
“She just walked in here and took her? And you let her?”
“She’s Anya’s mother, and I didn’t know you two were…”
Alex pounded his fists on the breakfast bar. First Courtney’s sudden, portentous silence, now this. He was always waiting for the other shoe to drop while everyone but him claimed ownership over his life. “Proklyat'ye!”
Daisy was hugging herself, her face ashen and her breath bursting in and out with an impending sob. This was his thanks for hiring some college kid trying to pay for school. She kept glancing into the great room.
“You want to leave? Then go! You’re fucking fired!” He jabbed a finger toward the door. “Get out of my house!”
She ran for it, bawling, but by then he was already on his phone. Stephanie’s number went to voicemail. He tried again with the same result.
Alex grabbed his cigarettes and lighter and stalked out to the garage. In control, confident, caring. But he was none of those things. Not in control, not confident the situation would become anything except uglier, and not caring what he must do to get his daughter back. That part scared him the most. He had strived so hard not to let anyone or anything dominate him to the point that hurting Stephanie again was a mere postscript to ridding himself of the pain.
But it was for Anya, and he understood now that nothing in this world rivaled a father’s love for his daughter.
Tell Stephanie that.
He jammed a cigarette into his mouth and lit up, then sped down the road to Jacob’s house.
Jacob opened the door and greeted him with a bright smile—bright except for the gap on the upper left side where he was missing a bicuspid. “Hey, Coach! You look better.”
You lying shit. I look like I’ve lost my mind. “Where is my wife? And my daughter.”
He shifted from one foot to the other. “She said she was having coffee with a friend.”
“What about Anya?”
“Took her with her.”
“Do you know where?”
“No, she didn’t say. Sasha, look. Don’t go following her or whatever you’re thinking. Let things cool down—”
“Don’t tell me how to handle my marriage.”
Jacob held up his hands, palms out. “Hey, man. I’m just saying to give her some time.”
“How much is enough? You get to see her every day. I haven’t seen her in over a week, and now she’s stolen the only thing that matters to me.” Alex crossed his arms. His jaw muscle began to tick. “I have to go.” He charged down the walk and into the Mercedes, his shoulders strained and his neck aching. He’d drive to every coffee shop in town if he had to. And if he failed to uncover her, he would wait at the Whites’ house. Buffalo wasn’t big, and he had time.
Buffalo did have many coffee shops. But she hated chain coffee, which cut down the options considerably. No Tim Horton’s, no Dunkin’ Donuts, and absolutely no Starbucks. Alex cruised down the streets like some creep searching for a victim, the convertible top up to obscure him from pedestrians. He drove slowly west along wide, tree-lined avenues and scanned the sidewalks, the bistro tables set up outside. The vexatious idea that he was doomed to do everything wrong gnawed at him, a rat chewing its way out of the walls. The path forward through life seemed so certain and obvious to everyone else, who purposely communicated in a language beyond his comprehension.
Stephanie had believed in some glimmer of goodness visible only to her eyes, had thought she’d carved away enough of his defenses to construct something new from the scraps. Yet he was the same shambling monstrosity that could not help but crush anything decent. She had left for herself but because of him.
He clutched the steering wheel so hard his knuckles throbbed. His doctor had increased the lithium dosage; until it took effect, his broken brain compelled him to do stupid shit like stalk his wife with full awareness of being an asshole. Alex switched on the left turn signal before the next intersection. He was hardly in the right mindset to talk to her even if he did find her.
To his dismay, he did just that.
She was coming out of a coffee shop with Anya in her travel bed and a man at her side. Alex pulled into a spot across the street and put on his glasses. Brandon Johansson. He remembered Brandon from the centerman’s days playing for Toronto. An average player, a workhorse but no one’s idea of a standout star. He had centered the checking line, if Alex recalled correctly. He’d never been good enough offensively to crack the top six, and every couple of years he’d bounced to a new team.
They stood on the corner, their conversation animated, punctuated with flirtatious smiles. You’re being paranoid.
Brandon leaned in and brushed his lips over Stephanie’s cheek. She beamed and gave him a little wave before carrying Anya up the street to the BMW.
Alex slumped over the steering wheel. Seeing Brandon on her own would have been bad enough, but she had no right bringing another man around Anya.
Was he the “friend” she mentioned last year?
He banged the heel of his hand against the wheel, breathing in frustrated grunts that signaled an imminent meltdown. Logic demanded he examine the facts, which were that he possessed no evidence of anything adulterous. Jealousy, aided and abetted by illness, dictated he kick Brandon’s ass and wrest the truth from Stephanie by any means necessary.
You told her to leave.
He inhaled for four counts, held for two, and exhaled for four. In control, confident, caring.
Keep it together for Anya.
His phone rang.
***
Stephanie
“How’s my favorite sister?” Matt chirped on the other end of the line.
“Or only sister. How are you?”
“Great. Nervous. Were you this nervous before your wedding?”
“I was two months pregnant. I was more concerned about not throwing up.”
“Ha! Yeah, that makes sense. I wanted to thank you and Alex again for offering to host the reception.”
“Happy to do it. I’d rather you put Dad’s money toward a house than a party we can easily afford to throw you.” Even if I have to pretend my husband and I are speaking to each other. “By the way, Matt, do you have a minute?”
“Of course. Everything okay?”
She’d assumed the one luxury she possessed was time. She was young; she’d visit those far-flung cities, check those life goals off her bucket list. Her dreams were not mere fantasies but unrealized potential, a template for the life that was hers to achieve. Each time she reached for the stars and came away empty-handed was an incentive to fly farther and higher. Now she lay dying on the ground, her wings smashed and the sky so far away. Each year, each orbit around t
he sun, tighter and tighter, a noose. And faster, so that even standing still she felt she was running, each second slipping from her grasp as she chased them with arms outstretched, knowing the edge of the cliff was looming just beyond her line of sight.
“No. I—I found out I have lung cancer.”
Silence.
Maybe it was all a dream, or had been, those ephemeral moments where everything had fallen into place and she was not pitching headlong into a meaningless future. “Matt?”
He puffed out a breath. “I’m coming out there.”
“No, I’m fine”—now she was insulting his intelligence—“Okay, not fine, but this cancer has a high survival rate.”
“Is that supposed to comfort me or you?”
“You’ll be here soon enough anyway. They want me to have surgery because it doesn’t really respond to chemo, so I’ll do it. Does that make you feel better?”
“Were you actually thinking about not getting it?”
“I just had this argument; I’m not up for it again. I haven’t scheduled it yet, but I will. Soon. All right?”
“Better be scheduled by the time I get there. Got it?”
“Loud and clear. Get back to Allen, and don’t worry about me.”
“I’ve been doing it your whole life. I’m not about to stop now. Love you, sis. See you soon.”
“Can’t wait. Love you too.”
Stephanie sifted through the paperwork she was stashing in the travel bag and located the surgeon’s number. Anya depended on her. And she owed it to Matt, after everything they had endured at their father’s hands, to stick around. Matt and Allen planned to adopt, and she intended to meet her future niece or nephew.
She made the dreaded call. The surgeon could fit her in tomorrow afternoon, at which point they’d schedule the surgery, verify insurance, and send paperwork to the hospital. But there remained one document left to tackle, a reminder of how wrong surgery could go. She had recruited Jacob to sign as a witness and Nicole, a commissioned notary, to validate it. The Living Will unfortunately required two witnesses.
What's Left Of Me (The Firebird Trilogy Book 2) Page 7