Love Me Tender

by Susan Fox

  “I hope so,” Ms. H said. “I truly do.” She turned to Cassidy. “This is because of you.”

  “That nudge I gave you, at the bottom of my note?”

  “Partly. And partly because after you left and I guessed you had MS I hoped you’d have the courage to face the truth. It made me realize how long I’d been avoiding an important truth of my own. I thought perhaps if I had the spunk to find Irene and contact her, then maybe you . . .” She gave a small, embarrassed laugh. “I’m not generally known for superstitious thinking.”

  “Well,” Cassidy said, “I’m glad you found her and she’s coming to visit.” How much more should she say, when Dave didn’t know the story?

  The retired teacher gazed at her former student. “Irene and I were in the same program at university, studying to become elementary school teachers.” Her chin lifted. “We fell in love.”

  Cassidy smiled at her. How well she knew that saying something like that took courage. Knowing you’d likely say those words many more times, and sometimes get a negative reaction, was scary.

  Dave’s mouth opened, then slowly closed again. After a moment’s reflection, he said, “That would have been a tough thing, back then.”

  “It was. In fact, we decided it was more than tough; it was impossible. We went our separate ways.”

  “I don’t mean to pry,” he said, “but why didn’t you keep in touch?”

  “It would have made things harder. Looking back, I wonder if we should have fought for what mattered. But in our early twenties neither of us realized how rare our feelings were. We thought we’d get over them, perhaps fall in love with someone more suitable.”

  “But you didn’t.” He nodded. “There’s no getting over that really special kind of love.” Cassidy knew he was thinking of Anita.

  “There wasn’t for me. Nor, as it turns out, for her. Even though she married.”

  Ms. H had already shared much of the story with Cassidy, so she sat quietly, but Dave said, sounding surprised, “She’s married?” Then, “Sorry, I don’t mean to be, uh, intrusive.”

  The older woman shook her head. “I think you, Cassidy, and I will get to know each other rather well. Besides, I’m tired of secrets. Irene did marry, a man she liked very much, and they had two children. But she and her husband were never truly happy. When the children were in their teens, he fell for another woman. He and Irene divorced. They shared custody.”

  “And ever since the children grew up, she’s lived alone,” Cassidy said.

  “Yes,” Ms. H said. Again, that gentle, vulnerable expression touched her face. “She says she learned her lesson. If she couldn’t be with her true love, it was better to be alone.”

  Cassidy did a mental eye roll. No, it was better to stop moping and enjoy life. Would any “true love” want their loved one to be miserable? “Getting back to where this all started—you say Irene’s coming to visit?”

  “We spoke on the phone last night. For hours.” A tender smile lit her face. “She lives in Nelson. Her son’s in the Okanagan and her daughter’s in Vancouver, both of them married with children. Irene says she’s used to climbing on the bus to make visits, and she’d like to come here and see the Cariboo.”

  Cassidy smiled. “And to see you.”

  “Perhaps we’re old fools, thinking that a fire that burned hot almost sixty years ago may still have glowing embers that will reignite.” Again her chin went up. “But better to know than to always wonder.”

  Dave leaned forward. “I hope it works out. And if it does, then I hope Irene likes Caribou Crossing. We’d hate to lose you, Ms. H.”

  “Why, Dave Cousins, what a charming thing to say.”

  Cassidy tossed him a teasing look. “He’s such a romantic.”

  “Hah,” Ms. H said. “This, coming from the woman who urged me to contact Irene.”

  “Okay, maybe I have a soft spot in my heart,” she admitted. “I don’t believe that most relationships will succeed long term, but . . .” Hmm, how to phrase this?

  “If we start out as octogenarians, how long is long term anyway?” Ms. H said.

  “Uh, yes, I guess. Sorry, is that horribly rude?”

  “No, it’s practical.” She winked. “Despite which, I will persist in believing there’s a closet romantic lurking under your jaded, blasé façade.”

  “Persist away,” she said. “That won’t make it true.” And thank heavens she wasn’t a romantic who was looking for a happily ever after of her own. What man in his right mind would want to commit his life to a woman with an unpredictable, incurable disease?

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  I hate, hate, hate this! I’m sick of being sick! I hate not knowing what’s going to happen to me!

  Cassidy stared at the notebook she’d bought four weeks ago. Her scrawled words dug deeply into the paper. She curled her yoga-pant-clad legs and sock-clad feet closer to her body as she hunched into one end of Dave’s couch, the afghan over her lap. Feeling shivery, she tugged the sleeves of her cotton hoodie over her wrists. A minute from now, she might be feverish.

  She attacked the page again:

  I hate having to remember to take meds and I hate sticking needles in myself. I’m sick of feeling nauseous and tired and achy. I hate waking up each morning not knowing if today I’ll suffer another attack. I hate it that any time I have some physical problem, I don’t know if it’s a side effect of the meds, a new attack, a pseudoexacerbation—

  Her hand slowed as she wrote the complicated word, the term used for symptoms that were caused by things like heat, fatigue, or stress, not by a fresh attack. She went on:

  —or just some perfectly normal thing like everyone gets all the time. I hate that I sometimes miss work—and when I am at work, sometimes I feel like I’m barely functional. It’s not fair to Dave or to the other staff.

  She pressed her fingers to her temples, took a deep breath, then began writing again, more slowly this time:

  Fair? Hah! I learned as a kid that life isn’t fair, but I figured that if I moved lightly through the world, if I was nice to people and the environment, then the world would be nice to me too. That’s so not true!!

  There’s no justice. There just isn’t. I’ve been good, I’ve done these stupid injections religiously, and I feel worse than I did when I was first diagnosed. Way worse.I feel like crap!

  “Cassidy?” Dave said. “Are you all right?”

  She glared up at him, where he stood over her looking all big and strong and healthy in jeans and a blue and green flannel shirt. “Of course I’m not freaking all right! I have MS and it’s not going away.”

  “I know that,” he said patiently. “It’s just that you’re crying.” He put out a hand as if he intended to brush her cheek.

  She jerked away and swiped at her own cheeks, surprised to find that they were wet.

  “I know you’re sad,” he said, “but—”

  “I’m not sad, I’m mad!”

  “And that’s perfectly normal for someone—”

  She snapped her notebook shut and leaped off the couch. “Do you always have to be so damned understanding and patient? So freaking nice?” Oh great, now she was being mean to one of the two friends who knew about her disease and were standing by her, yet she couldn’t seem to stop herself.

  His expression wary, he asked, “What’s wrong with being understanding and patient?”

  “You make me feel . . . Oh, I don’t know.” Sweat broke out on her skin. She peeled off her socks, then yanked off the hoodie that she wore over a skimpy tank top, and tossed it on the floor. “Like I’m some spoiled child throwing a temper tantrum. Like I ought to suck it up and be all rational about it, but I don’t feel rational.”

  “I know,” he said cautiously. “That’s why I said it’s normal to be mad.”

  “You said it, but you don’t do it.” She glared at him. “How come you never get mad? Don’t you care enough about anything to get mad?”

  The stricken look in his hazel e
yes made her recant immediately. “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean that you didn’t care about Anita.”

  He swallowed. “Yes, I got mad about Anita’s cancer. And I’m mad about your MS too.”

  She tilted her head. “Are you? Tell me about it.”

  “How will that make you feel better?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe it won’t. Maybe neither of us will feel better. But I want to hear it. These days, it’s all about me. My stupid MS, my symptoms, my meds, my feelings. I want to hear about you for a change.”

  “I, uh, I’m fine, Cassidy. I mean, yeah, this is hard, but I’m fine.”

  She shook her head. “Cop-out.”

  “Leave it alone. Leave me alone.”

  Maybe she should, but some instinct told her to keep poking. “Tell me. What are you mad about, Dave?”

  He walked across the room, absentmindedly picked up the hoodie she’d discarded, then turned to face her. “What am I mad about?”

  She nodded.

  “Like you, I’m mad that you got this disease.”

  When he didn’t go on, she said, “That’s it?”

  “The rest sounds too awful.”

  She barked a humorless laugh. “Believe me, what I’ve been writing in this notebook for the past month is awful. Come on, Dave, stop being so nice. Tell me the awful stuff.”

  He ran the hoodie through his hands, from one to the other, then said slowly, in a controlled voice, “Don’t get me wrong, I want to be here for you, but if you didn’t have MS, our lives would be the way they used to be.”

  She nodded. “Go on.”

  “I’m mad that our lives have to be juggled around injections and how you’re feeling. I’m mad that we have to make excuses when you need to pull out of going riding or going to my folks’ for dinner.” His voice rose; his words came faster. “I’m mad that we’re lying to Robin and my family, to my employees. I hate keeping secrets.”

  His hands clenched into fists as he gripped the hoodie. “This disease has changed us. I’m lying to my daughter. And you’re not the fun, happy, free-spirited Cassidy I used to know. You’re moody and depressed, quick-tempered and—”

  He shook his head and flung the hoodie back on the floor. “Shit! That sounds awful. And that’s what makes me the maddest. What kind of person am I to be angry that my fucking life isn’t so neat and tidy and fun because you got this horrible disease? It’s . . . twisted. I’m twisted to think that way.” His body taut with tension, his expression agonized, he stared at her.

  “Wow,” she breathed. This was a new side of Dave. Definitely a less perfect one. And yet . . . “I don’t think it’s twisted. Everything you said makes sense. In fact”—surprised, she found a slight grin curving her lips—“it sounds completely normal.”

  “Seems to me it’s selfish and petty,” he said gruffly.

  Her grin widened and she went to stand in front of him. “Yeah, kind of. But that’s normal. Hey, I finally get what you’ve been saying. You’ve been trying to tell me not to get so down on myself over my feelings, because those feelings are normal.”

  “Pretty much.”

  “And so are yours.”

  “Huh. I guess maybe they are.” He sighed. “This is new for us. Over time, as we get your treatment and the side effects under control, we’ll both adjust and start to feel better.”

  She thought about the things he’d said, and the pain he was going through because he’d chosen to support her. Slowly, she said, “There’s something we could do now that would help with one of the problems.”

  He cocked his head. “What’s that?”

  Now she felt chilled, either from the meds or from what she knew she had to do. She bent slowly to retrieve the hoodie, pulled it over her head, and stretched the sleeves down so she could grip them with her fingers. “Tell people,” she muttered.

  “Really? Are you ready for that?”

  Of course not! Rather than let the words snap out, she used a relaxation technique she’d learned. A deep breath in, a long breath out, seek a sense of internal calm. “Honestly? I’m not sure I’d ever be ready. But you’re right, it’s terrible to lie to people. I only hope . . . Well, you told me how Anita felt when people found out she had cancer. I don’t want people to treat me like I’m damaged, diseased. I don’t want pity; I don’t want avoidance. I just want to be me.”

  He took her shoulders, holding her gently. “You are you. But the truth is, you’re a different you. People change all the time, right?”

  She leaned her forehead against his flannel-clad chest. “This isn’t a good change.”

  “Cassidy, if you tell people about your MS, will you also consider joining the counseling group Dr. Young recommended, with people suffering from chronic illnesses and disabilities? She said it would help to talk to others who are going through the same kind of things as you.”

  A bunch of depressed sick or disabled people sharing their woes? Yeah, that sure sounded like fun. “I’ll think about it. One step at a time, okay?”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Three nights later, a Friday, Dave glanced over at Cassidy in the passenger seat of the Jeep. She hadn’t said a word since she’d greeted him when he picked her up at Ms. H’s.

  When she’d decided to tell people about her MS, he had thought they should start with the adults in his family: Jessie and Evan, and Robin’s three sets of grandparents. He wanted to make sure it was okay with Jessie to tell their daughter, and also to have a sense of how his family was going to deal with this. Although he was sure they’d offer support.

  He was sorry Cassidy had to go through this, but he’d be so glad to have the truth out in the open.

  The living room of his suite at the Wild Rose was too small to comfortably host the group, so he’d prevailed on his parents. Earlier, he’d had dinner with Robin, then delivered her to Kimiko’s house for a sleepover.

  It was mid-October now, the night outside dark and chilly. He had the Jeep heater working, and on CXNG Willie Nelson crooned “Always on My Mind.” It should have been cozy, but the stiffness of Cassidy’s posture told him she was anything but relaxed. Stress wasn’t good for her. It could trigger a pseudoexacerbation. “Why don’t I tell them?” he offered.

  Her head turned toward him, but it was too dark out here on the country road to see her features clearly. “Because you don’t think I’ll do it right?” she asked, an edge to her voice.

  Seemed he’d said the wrong thing. That was happening a lot these days. “No. I figured it might be easier for you.”

  “Easier? Crap, Dave, nothing about this is easy!”

  Man, she could be a pain. As soon as he had the thought, he forced it away, feeling guilty. “I know. I said easier, not easy. You’re supposed to be keeping your stress level down and I’m sure it’s hard for you to say the words, so—”

  “But I’m going to have to sometime, aren’t I?”

  He kept his mouth shut and his gaze on the road, feeling the force of her glare.

  She went on. “I’m a grown-up. I can suck it up and do this. You don’t have to protect me all the time, like I’m, I’m, Robin or something. Not that she’s a baby who needs an overprotective father hovering over her all the time either.”

  Anger surged, quick and hot. “What the hell do you know about parenting?”

  “Enough to know that kids, like adults, need some independence and room to do things their own way.”

  He clenched his jaw to prevent more of his anger from spewing out. Breathing fast, he told himself she was striking out because she was hurting. Striving to sound calm, he said, “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—”

  “Oh crap, I’m being a bitch.” Her words cut across his.

  “You’re anxious about tonight.”

  “Well, duh.” Then she clapped a hand over her mouth. “We should both just keep quiet.”

  Maybe she was right. He was smarting from her criticism of his parenting, and she was in a mood to take everything the wrong way. Wh
ich didn’t augur well for the family meeting. “I hear you,” he said evenly. “Maybe we should postpone the announcement until, uh . . .”

  “Until what? Until I’m more reasonable?”

  “Until you calm down a little and don’t misinterpret everything someone says.”

  “How freaking condescending,” she huffed.

  On CXNG, Elvis began to sing “Love Me Tender,” the song Dave and Cassidy had first danced to. He remembered how she’d felt in his arms that first time. His reaction had been physical: such shock and such pleasure, holding a sexy woman. Now that sexy woman was his lover and his friend. He needed to get over his injured ego and be there for her.

  The song was so gentle, filling the dark night and the tense space between him and Cassidy. Slowly, the stress eased from him. He hoped the same was happening with her, because he was now driving the benchland road that led to his parents’ place. Below them, the lights of Caribou Crossing were sparkly decorations scattered across a dark landscape. At another time, he’d have pointed out how pretty they looked, but tonight Cassidy would likely find some way to fault that comment.

  Instead, he said, “I’m sorry if I’m saying things wrong. I’m here to support you. Just let me know what you need.” Guessing that she’d immediately think that what she needed was a cure, which no one could provide, he quickly clarified, “What you need from me tonight.”

  Her head, pressed back against the headrest, turned slowly toward him. “Any way you can stop me from being a bitch?” She sounded tired, but the note of wry humor in her voice encouraged him.

  “You’re not a bitch. I guess we both need to think a little harder before we speak, and before we react. Can you try to remember that my intentions are good? That’s going to be true of my family as well, even if they inadvertently say things that seem uninformed or inconsiderate.”

  “You’re right.” She reached over to rest her hand lightly on his thigh. “This is all so foreign to me. Not being in total control of my life. I don’t like what it’s turning me into.”