“God, I want you,” he says as his mouth moves down my neck and I arch my head to the side, silently telling him to keep going.
My fingers get tangled in his hair and my head is arched back. When his first kisses land on the top of my breasts, something painful, yet brief, penetrates the fog of lust but I’m still too lost in his touch to pay much attention. When he pulls the fabric of my dress away from my skin, he mutters a curse as my breasts are bared to him and mumbles, “Beautiful.” For a split second the look on his face and the feeling of his touch makes me feel beautiful too, but when he places his mouth on me, I freeze.
I can no longer ignore the feeling that’s worked its way to the forefront of my mind, because it’s paralyzing. With each touch, caress and kiss he gives my breasts I feel my body increasingly tense and three words keep repeating themselves in my mind like a mantra. ‘I have cancer. I have cancer. I have cancer.’
The words are like a bucket of cold water over my skin and they inevitably cause me to jerk away from his touch. “Stop,” I tell him, voice soft at first before getting louder. “No. Stop.” I push against his chest in an attempt to extricate myself from him.
“Remy?” Oliver questions as he stops immediately and lifts his head. His brow is furrowed, his lips wet and his eyes foggy with lust. “Are you okay? What’s wrong?”
“Please, let me up,” I tell him softly, but firmly.
He immediately moves off of me so I can stand. “What’s wrong?” he asks again. “Did I hurt you? Did I do something wrong?”
“No,” I choke out but clearly he doesn’t believe me. I get it, I feel just as confused as he is. Why now? Why is this an issue now? I’ve wanted to kiss Oliver, to have his hands on me, to know what it would feel like to have him look at me like that for as long as I can remember.
Replacing pieces of clothing as quickly as possible I move away from the bed, away from him.
“What’s going on?” he asks again; concern lacing his tone.
“Why are you doing this?” I blurt. I’m surprised by my own words in part, but the words are out there now, I can’t take them back. Plus, the question is a valid one.
“This? You’re going to need to elaborate.” Oliver sits on the edge of the bed. His bare chest could easily be distracting so I do my best to ignore it.
“Why are you kissing me?” Part of me feels embarrassed for my reaction, but on the tails of that is anger. I’ve loved Oliver for years, but it takes my getting cancer to get his attention? I feel anger at my treacherous body. “Why are you choosing now to show an interest in me?”
“I’ve always been interested.”
“Are you kidding me? No you haven’t been.”
“I have too.”
“Really? Because it seems to me that the minute you find out I have cancer, then you take a renewed interest in me. Why? Because you know it’s only temporary? Because you feel sorry for me?”
“No. That’s not it at all.”
Before he can say anything else, I run to the bathroom and close the door behind me, sliding down to the floor. I’m hiding and it’s childish, but I can’t do this right now. Not when I feel like it could break me. Not when the emotions I’ve been trying to keep at bay for the last couple of days feel so close to exploding.
Oliver knocks on the door, “Remy, please come out. I want to talk to you.”
I can’t respond. Emotion, no longer willing to be contained, chokes my throat. I can hear him sigh, hear him try to enter again even though the door is locked. “Please talk to me,” he begs and it makes the silent tears fall faster down my cheeks.
“I can’t,” I choke out.
“Remy,” he says and his voice, it sounds as broken as I feel.
“Please, just give me some time,” I beg.
“Okay,” he replies and after a moment I hear him move away from the door.
Standing I look at myself in the mirror. After a moment I slide my dress off and let it pool on the floor at my feet. Then I remove my swimsuit as well. Turning, I start the shower water and then return my gaze to the mirror and stare at my bared breasts. They look like they always do, like they always have. It’s funny now, remembering how much I wanted them to grow when I was younger. In fifth grade I was jealous of my friend Rachel because she was getting breasts already. I remember the day she came to school and bragged about her first bra – white with black polka dots – and I oohed and aahed over it like a good friend should do. All the while I was secretly distraught that my own chest was flat as a board.
If only I had known that the things I coveted, the things I rejoiced over when they finally started growing, would become the death of me. Anger – fierce, raw and savage runs through my body. Thoughts of ripping them off my body fly through my mind. Insane and ridiculous for sure, but a satisfying thought never the less.
My breaths come faster once again, my eyes fill with water until my eyes can no longer contain the tears and they spill down my cheeks. Hate fiery and harsh floods my veins and with savage brutality I rake my hands across one breast, and then the other. I claw, smack and scratch at them, marking my skin over and over. “I hate you. I hate you.”
With each scratch I hear the doctor tell me I have cancer, with each sting I see my mother dying again, with each burn I see what the rest of my life could have been – what I can no longer have. Sobs make me choke and bring knocking and pleading to the bathroom door. In a haze I stop, I stare at my marked partially bleeding skin and I mourn. I mourn the life that I want, but can’t have. I mourn the fight I wish I had within me but don’t.
Oliver’s words somehow penetrate my mind, “Remy! I will break down this door. Please. Please. Open the door,” he cries.
Moving to the door, I open it. I feel nothing when Oliver’s horrified gaze sees what I’ve done to my body. “Oh god, Remy. Oh my god.”
“They just looked so innocent, so normal. Like they aren’t infested with a cancer that’s killing me. I couldn’t… I couldn’t-” I choke on a sob once more and my legs give out from under me, my emotions finally taking their toll.
Oliver holds my naked and self-battered body in his arms. I can feel him trembling. He walks me to the toilet and has me sit while he removes his clothing except for his swim trunks. Turning the water off in the shower he instead begins to fill up the large bathtub. When the water is to the temperature he desires, with much tenderness he picks me up and places me in the water. When he leaves and then returns with a cup in his hand, I obediently move my head back as he wets my hair. “I can do this,” I tell him, my voice sounding raspy.
“I know you can. But I’m going to.” I shake my head, “Please,” he says firmly.
At that word, I look into his eyes. Seeing what’s there, I drop my gaze immediately in shame. I hate that I caused the emotions I’ve stirred. . But no matter how crazy it may appear. I needed to allow my anger to come forth, to tear my nails into my skin. I needed to let myself feel and react emotionally for the first time since this has happened. Looking at him, I see his need to provide comfort, to tangibly support me – and so I acquiesce and let him.
The fact that I’m naked for the first time in front of him doesn’t faze me. I don’t feel embarrassment; I don’t feel anything other than exhausted. He even uses my body wash sponge and puts soap on it to wash my body. When I inhale sharply at the sting when soap meets my scratches, his jaw hardens but he continues his work until he helps me out and I dry off.
When I’m finished, he waits for me to dress and then picks me up and lies me in bed. I almost tell him I can do it for myself but stop myself again.
He lies next to me and pulls me onto his chest. We’re quiet for a while and he strokes my arm up and down. Time passes and I can feel myself relax and calm bit by bit. He’s a balm that soothes the fire within me and if I wasn’t so exhausted from my emotion explosion, I’d be embarrassed. Instead, I let myself relax further and sigh deeply, I hear Oliver say, “I’m sorry.”
Lifting my hea
d I look at him in confusion, “Sorry? For what?”
His face flushes and if the circumstances were different perhaps I’d tease him. I’ve never seen him blush before. “I shouldn’t have… I didn’t know that…” he stops and seems flustered.
“Are you apologizing for kissing me? For being intimate with me?” He nods quickly, his eyes meeting mine before looking away. I shake my head, “This is not your fault.”
“Yes it is. You’re… you just found out for Christ sake and here I am practically mauling you.”
“Oliver,” I sit up to look at him more directly, “Oliver,” I say his name again, on purpose, so he will meet my gaze. “I wish I could explain what happened, other than I simply needed to be angry. To rant and rage and be pissed, but that has nothing to do with what you did, okay?”
I can see the doubt on his face still, so I take it a step further, “I loved it when you kissed me, when you touched me. I didn’t want you to stop and I am pissed that my stupid pent up emotions chose that time to surface. I’m the one that’s sorry.”
Without a word he pulls me back to lie on his chest. He holds me close and then finally says, “We can talk about it more later.”
Closing my eyes I take a deep breath and the smell of him, salt and musk, a smell I’m coming to crave, calms me. “Oliver?”
“Yeah?”
“Can you give me one of your reasons?”
He’s quiet for a while and I don’t think he’s going to answer. I close my eyes and just about succumb to sleep when I swear I hear him say, “You. You are all my reasons, Remy.”
Flattening myself as much as possible, I slide my body across the bed inch by inch until I can roll off the side. Knowing I looked ridiculous, I pop my head up over the side to determine if Oliver has moved at all, but I see operation sneak out is successful thus far.
We barely slept through the night. We were both clearly trying to be considerate of the other and did a good job pretending. The thing is, I can tell a difference between a sleeping and non-sleeping Oliver. He held me tight through the night, but his body never relaxed, his breathing never deepened. At some point we both managed to sleep for a while, physical and emotional exhaustion taking toll, and he released his hold on me. I have no idea what time it was at that point, but our room was just turning a lovely shade of pink when I finally succumbed to the persistent Sand Man.
Now, stealth is the key because I have somewhere I’d like to go and while I do so, Oliver can be left to finally get the sleep he needs after such a crazy night – which was my fault. As quietly as possible, I grab what I need from my suitcase before escaping into the bathroom.
Several times during the night as we both lie in silence, I thought about biting the bullet and talking to him about what happened between us, what I’m feeling and what I did in the bathroom, but I couldn’t bring myself to open my mouth. Part of me is embarrassed and ashamed. I wish my emotional dam hadn’t chosen that specific moment to break and make me lose my composure. It wasn’t Oliver’s fault by any means, he didn’t do anything wrong. In hindsight I shouldn’t have buried my feelings. His touch and what was happening between us triggered a tsunami of feelings within me. I could no more control the rage that erupted from me than I can the color of the sky or the phase of the moon. They needed to rise up, be heard, be felt, be seen. There was no stopping them.
I do wish the timing had been better. I’ve dreamed of something happening between Oliver and me for a really long time. Perhaps it was less of a dream and more of a fantasy. I’ve long since accepted the fact that we would always be friends, and that option I would claim. It was far better than the alternative.
Somehow I’ve managed to keep my feelings reigned in all these years. And when that felt difficult, feigning busyness and creating distance were my solutions. Then, unexpectedly, something happens, something amazing and of course that’s the time I have a moment of pure insanity. Who in their right mind would want to deal with this, with me? I’m a mess and I don’t expect that’s going to change any time soon.
I’m not sure if I didn’t talk to him after the event last night because I wasn’t ready to talk to him or about it, or if it’s because I wasn’t ready to listen. I know Oliver – I’d hedge better than anyone – and I know he’s been holding back on me the last few days. He has things he wants to say, things I know he will say at some point. I need to brace myself for that.
When I initially woke this morning, I thought about snuggling back down into my pillow, letting myself fall asleep once more, but a thought occurred to me during my restless night and I woke wanting to see it through today. So, here I am, getting dressed as quickly and quietly as possible so I can make a solo escape. Pausing briefly as I remove my pajamas and get a look at my chest, I run the tips of my fingers over the red, slightly raised, marks on my chest. Regret fills my heart. Not only for my outburst, but for doing this to myself. In the light of day it all seems foolish now. Acting in such a way isn’t going to change anything. It isn’t going to make the cancer go away, isn’t going to change my fate. It’s wasted emotion, wasted actions. Pushing the feelings aside, I finish dressing, pull my hair back, slip in my earrings, and brush my teeth.
Finding the resort pen and paper, I leave Oliver a short note and then grab my purse and the room key. Just as I reach the door, I about jump out of my skin when I hear, “Going somewhere?”
Whirling around, I find Oliver standing there. Hair sticking up every which way, tired eyes, a shirtless chest and a frown greets me. He looks adorable; frown notwithstanding. “Oh! You’re awake. I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“I’ve been wondering what you’re up to ever since you slithered out of bed like a snake having a seizure.”
Feeling embarrassed I look away, “Saw that did you?”
His only response is a smirk. “Where are you going?”
“There’s just somewhere I want to go. I won’t be gone too long.”
“You were just going to leave without saying anything?”
“I wrote you a note,” I defend.
“No, that’s not what I mean. If you want to go somewhere, that’s fine, you know that doesn’t bother me. I’m in no way the boss of you.”
“Okay, then I guess I don’t know what you mean if that’s not the issue.”“My ‘issue’ is that you’re going to leave without talking to me about last night.”
“There’s really nothing to talk about,” I defend. “I lost it for a moment and behaved foolishly. I’m sorry you had to see that. It won’t happen again.” I turn to exit but Oliver steps in front of me.
He sighs and shakes his head, “God, Remy. Who do you think you’re talking to here? It’s me, Oliver. Don’t speak to me like I’m a stranger or work associate you merely embarrassed yourself in front of. You’re acting like there’s something wrong with the fact you let down your walls. There’s nothing wrong with emoting. You haven’t-” he pauses.
“Haven’t what?”
He looks me in the eyes, “You haven’t really said a word. You’ve tried to be better matter-of-fact, business-like even. Not since we’ve been here, not since you told me about your diagnosis. It’s like you think you can’t talk about it or refuse to, I don’t really know. But, you haven’t acknowledged it at all. It’s like this big giant elephant in the room.”
“What’s the point in talking about it? My feelings about this, my thoughts, my wishes, they don’t matter. What’s happening is happening no matter what I want. Screaming, yelling, maiming myself – it’s pointless.”
Oliver shakes his head and the look on his face, his stance - I instantly feel ashamed and it frustrates me. “What happened to you?” he whispers and his words feel like a slap. The disappointment, the sadness… it’s so prevalent in the sound of his voice that I’m not sure how to respond at first.
“What do you mean?”
“What do I mean?” he repeats almost laughing to himself. “I mean, where’s the Remy I’ve known my whole life? The Remy
that never lets life get her down, the one that’s a damn force to be reckoned with, that doesn’t ask for things in this life, but demands them. The one that other people are envious of and count themselves lucky just to know – in the hopes that some of your spirit will rub off on them. The Remy that used to laugh without restraint, always sees the day as promising, sees potential in everyone and finds the optimistic outlook in everything. The one who fights for what she wants instead of lying down and taking it. I want to know where that girl is.”
“’That girl’ watched her mom suffer and die from cancer. Then just as she started to feel like herself again, started to heal and found each day a little bit easier to bear, she was told she now has the same cancer that took her mother’s life.”
“Then fight dammit! Do what your mother did, fight with everything you have, don’t just lie down and be its bitch.”
“How dare you say that to me,” I begin to shake with anger. “I’m not a warrior. I do not serve in the military. I have no artillery, no weapons.”
“No! How dare you! How dare you think so little of yourself. How dare you not value your life. How dare you not use every resource at your disposal to fight for your life - the same life your mother would have given anything to save. She continually requested just one more hour, one more day. What a disservice you do to her and her memory. What would she say? What would she think?”
“I’m warning you, Oliver. Stop now.”
“I won’t. I will never stop, Remy. Not ever. This diagnosis doesn’t automatically mean the end of you. Anyone with half a brain knows there are many potential outcomes. It doesn’t mean you’ll be just like your mother. You’re so afraid; so afraid and unwilling to take a risk. A risk to save your life. And you’re so afraid you’ll become a shadow of who you are, like she did. But her body finally couldn’t go on, and it did give out, but you know what? She fought. She fought to the very end. But not you. You already are quitting. Quitting before you’ve even started. You’ve barely been diagnosed and already you’ve given up and become someone I don’t recognize.”
Give Me A Reason Page 12