500 Acres and No Place to Hide

by Susan McCorkindale

  I stepped into the hall and was immediately bowled over by the silence.244 Had the kids finally made good on their threats to run away? And if so, please tell me they took Tug.

  “Hem!” I shouted. “Honey? Can you come down here a sec?” No response. Behind me, Deputy Gray’s radio went off. How cops can understand what’s being said with all that static, I don’t know. But he said something and they said something and he said something back, and all I could think was, Oh, my God, they’re probably telling him to reel me in already.

  So of course I started to scream.

  “Hem? Hem! Can you please come here and talk to this nice policeman for me? I need you to tell him, hon, please, please tell him that I’m silly, really silly, okay, stupid, and impulsive, let’s not forget impulsive!—but I’ve got a good heart and there’s really no reason to arrest me for being outside in a bath towel. I mean, they let Stacy’s mom skate and she actually talked to the kid. Remember that song? ‘Stacy’s Mom’? She may have had it going on, but I saved a baby bull, for Pete’s sake!”

  “Susan.” Deputy Gray was through waiting. He tugged on my arm.

  “Hem!” I screamed. “Hem! Help!”

  “Susan, come on now.” He was shaking my arm, hard, and pulling me back onto the porch.

  “No! Let go!” I tried to twist out of his grasp. “Hem! Hem, where are you?”

  “Susan. It’s okay.”

  “You bet it’s okay. I didn’t do anything!” He pulled; I pulled back. Any harder and he was going to rip my arm right out of its socket. But at least then I’d be able to run. “You’ll never take me alive!” I cried.

  “Susan! Susan, dammit! You’re not supposed to take Tylenol PM with wine!”

  Huh?

  “Hem?” My eyes popped open and I sat up. Oh, thank God, I thought. I’m in bed! I’m in bed with my honey in my thousand-year-old p.j. pants and the Jonas Brothers’ concert tee I bought and promptly bleached to death.245 And there isn’t a towel in sight.

  “You were having that dream again, the one about Tug, and the bull calf, and the cop.”

  I could barely breathe, and worse, I was actually crying. “They wanted to take me to jail. And I couldn’t find you.” I sniffled. “It was terrible.”

  He pulled me to him. “I’d never let anyone take you to jail, Suz. But you’ve gotta stop this business of running outside in just a towel or your bathrobe. What if you’d gotten stepped on that day? Or knocked down and dragged? Whatever’s happening with the animals can wait—”

  I cut him off. “Till I’m dressed, I know. It won’t happen again.”

  “It’d better not,” he said, hugging me. “I can’t afford for you to get hurt. And we really can’t afford the shrink fees for all of Cuy’s friends.”

  Chapter Forty-five

  PUTTING MY FAITH IN THE FUNNY STUFF

  I’m ashamed to admit this, but it’s true: Hemingway and I were once cheaters. Not in the Scarlet Letter sense of the word, of course. But in the fact that long ago, when we were wild and childless, we’d go to the movies, see the feature we paid for, and then sneak into one of the other films and watch it (shhhh) without buying another ticket.

  We were strolling down memory lane and laughing about this and a dozen other things we did preparenthood on our way home from the hospital. It was a wonderful way to pass the ninety-minute ride, way better than wondering what kind of Tug havoc we were coming home to or rehashing every single detail of the doctor visit. We see Hem’s oncologist about every three weeks, and every time I show up with my purple pen and my big green Day Runner crammed with Hem’s med list, pain log, chemo schedule, latest blood work results, past and pending test dates, and occasionally history homework somebody was supposed to hand in (but I scooped up by mistake—sorry, Case!), and a heart so filled with hope I’m surprised my head doesn’t pop off.

  And every three weeks I leave a little less hopeful, a little more frightened, and certain only of the uncertainty of my husband’s cancer.

  It’s not the doctor’s fault, by any means. He’s a brilliant guy. He radiates concern and care and most important, optimism. He never rushes Hem, listens like he’s got all the time in the world, and answers all our questions. He always has a plan and, it bears repeating, is always positive and optimistic. It’s just that I want what he can’t give us: a cure.

  Or, barring that, a crystal ball so we can see what’s coming and when. Too bad they don’t teach fortune-telling in medical school.

  “Remember when Spike ran through the white paint and tracked paw prints across the gray couch?” Hemingway’s cracking up at the thought of a cat we had way back before the boys were born. “And it was new, too.”

  “It wasn’t just the couch,” I respond, glancing quickly at him, then back at the highway. “Remember how hard it was to clean the rug?”

  He squeezes my knee. “We didn’t spend too much time cleaning it, if I remember correctly.”

  Ah, the good old days, when we were footloose and cancer-free. Before tumors and Whipples and metastases and ERCPs and a stash of narcotic painkillers that could give the Medellin drug cartel a run for its money. Before jaundice and nausea and weight loss the likes of which The Biggest Loser’s never seen. Before mediports and infusion centers and scared kids who keep asking whether Dad will ever get better.

  Screw medical school. The crystal ball should pass with the placenta.

  I know they say whatever doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. But I’m pretty sure that expression means shit. At least when it comes to cancer. Despite the fact that at this point I could probably lift a crystal ball the size of one of those Hampshires I so wanted but didn’t get246 over my head, I sometimes think it would be easier to declare myself the ninety-pound weakling of the caregiver world and lie down and die.

  All right, maybe not die. But sleep would be nice. A really, really deep sleep, for a really, really long time. Or at least more than the four hours a night I typically get before Cuyler appears on my side of the bed shaking and mumbling, “Another bad one, Mom,” as he scrambles into his favorite spot between me and Hemingway, aka the man of his dreams.

  Or, more accurately, the man of his bad dreams.

  Almost every night, the poor kid has nightmares about his dad. He dreams his dad never gets better. He dreams his dad dies. And then, as if that’s not enough to make him afraid to close his mischievous blue eyes for the rest of his little life, he dreams I die and there’s no one to take care of him and Casey. Or keep them in cookies.

  This, of course, leads me to one of the other things they say. And that’s that when someone in your family has cancer, the whole family has cancer.

  They got that right.

  In addition to the fact that Cuy can’t sleep, Casey doesn’t have a single mood that seems to last for more than five minutes. He’s up, he’s down. One moment, he’s threatening to run away and join the marines. (Please don’t, honey; I’ll worry.) The next he’s threatening to “stay right here at home with you, Mom” for the rest of his life. (On second thought, I could give you a lift to the recruiter’s office!)

  Even the four-legged members of the family are feeling the effects of Hem’s illness. The dogs sleep all day at his feet, the cattle still loiter in the pasture closest to the house, and the goats would like nothing more than to join the dogs on guard duty. As for Coca, Hem’s favorite cat, he refuses to leave Hem’s side even to pee. Which means I wash sheets, blankets, pillowcases, and the mattress cover’round the clock, spend several nights a week in the guest room, and have given serious thought to moving my husband and his menagerie to the living room. The pups already treat it like a Porta Potti; why not let the cat make a contribution? At least it’ll keep the stink in one spot.

  As for me, I’m losing my hair. No, it’s not falling out. I’m pulling it out. All along my temples, around my ears, and at the base of my skull. Hemingway’s had several rounds of chemo and he hasn’t lost a single strand. I, on the other hand, am beginning to l
ook like Britney Spears during her breakdown. Remember? They took away her kids.

  Hmm. Maybe they’ll take mine, too.

  Just joshing; they can’t have my kids. They have to pay me for them.247

  Of course, the fun doesn’t really start until my hair pulling progresses to scalp scratching. This quickly leads to bleeding, which leads, less quickly but much more satisfyingly, to scabbing. And who can resist a scab?

  You’re right. A mature adult can resist picking a scab. And if one shows up, I’ll tell her to keep her hands off my head.

  In the interim, Miss Self-inflicted Bald Spot is doing her best to help her stressed kids and sick spouse navigate the nasty world of cancer. I’ve got the little one taking melatonin before bed, the big one taking driving lessons so, should he decide to flee, he won’t have to do it on foot, and the whole family on a strict diet of situation comedies, Dave Barry books, and funny movies, several of which were playing at the Regal Cinema, coming up fast on our right. Fourteen movies: a veritable feast for former film filchers like us.

  “Good to see you getting all hot and bothered, farm boy.” I laugh. “Want to duck into a movie and make out?”

  “Only if we can sneak into a second.”

  “With our luck we’ll get arrested and the boys will have to bail us out.”

  The thought cracks us both up.

  Sure, I cook and clean, do laundry, shoo cattle back into the pasture, dole out meds, fix the occasional fence board, make the doctor appointments, and drive everybody everywhere—with one hand, no less; the other’s practically superglued to my scalp—in an effort to keep things as “normal” as possible around here. But I firmly believe it’s the funny stuff—and the fact that we still find stuff funny—that’s going to save us.

  Nothing about cancer is easy, and most of it’s absolutely exhausting, but on the days it threatens to get the best of us, I just keep repeating the two expressions I totally agree with: Laughter is the best medicine, and, If God brings you to it, He’ll bring you through it.

  I can’t be sure I’ll have any hair left by the time that happens, but I’m certain we’ll all be smiling.

  You Know You’re Overtired When . . .

  • You give the stock clerk at the home farm co-op your husband’s med list and the receptionist in the radiology department your farm shopping list. It’s bad enough the kid at the co-op suspects you’re trying to score OxyContin (for the cows, no less), but having to explain to the hospital staff that Laymore is not a new erectile dysfunction drug is really embarrassing.

  • You discover the dogs disemboweling a chicken and think, Thank God. Now I don’t have to lug that damn big bag of dog food.

  • You give the last of the Kibbles N Bits to the cats,’cause it’s late, you’re out of little Friskies, and you just can’t count on your two pacifist kitties to go kill their own grub.

  • It’s easier to buy more clothes for the kids than face the mountain of laundry that’s been wrinkling in the dryer for over a week. (Sure, I keep hitting “fluff.” But there isn’t enough wine in the world that will get me to “fold” at eleven o’clock at night.)

  • You find the goats eating out of the window boxes and your first thought is, Too bad they can’t take ’em down and put ’em away for the winter, too. (Except for the one the hens call home, of course. Who needs more complaints from the poultry?)

  • It’s four o’clock in the morning, you’re racing to the hospital with your husband, who’s sick with pain from what you’ll soon learn are kidney stones the size of raisins, and you’re wondering why Route 66 is so dark. Hmm. Might help if you turned on your headlights.

  • Both your kids want cake for dinner, and not only do you say yes; you—the fitness freak—go get three forks.

  • Your internal alarm clock fails, you awaken at seven rather than four, and think, Screw it; the boys can skip school. Which they’d be happy about if they went on Saturdays.

  • You put your Schick Slim Twin in your mouth so you can use both hands to lather your furry legs, and you bite down on the blade.

  • The message light blinking on the kitchen phone makes you cry.

  • The messages themselves, from folks worried you’re as overtired as they think you are, make you cry even harder.

  • A cop pulls you over for writing this list. While driving. He thinks you’re texting and isn’t the least relieved to learn you’re “Just good ol’-fashioned paper-and-penciling, Officer!” He lets you off with a warning and a stern, “Ma’am, go home and get some sleep.” Which you intend to do. Right after you find the cure for cancer.

  Part Four

  EPILOGUE 500 ACRES AND NO PLACE TO HIDE

  Back when Hemingway and I were engaged, and I mean way back, when he was Stu “Master of the Universe” McCorkindale and I was Sue “Wrinkle-, Pouch-, and Crow’s Feet–free” Costantino,248 and we were both kicking ass and taking names at our big jobs in the Big Apple, we lived in a brand-new condominium in a brand-new condominium complex in an ugly old town right outside New York City.

  Why live in a brand-new home in an ugly old town? For its beautiful commute. Thirty-five minutes via express bus from front door to desk, with time to spare to pick up and eat breakfast249 and enjoy a few more chapters of whatever book on tape I was listening to.

  We got to work fast and we got home fast. And home, once we whispered the secret password that opened the huge iron gates to our courtyard, unlocked the two locks on the exterior door and the four on the interior door, turned off the alarm, and stored the Mace and billy clubs we carried just in case things got dicey on the walk back from the bus stop, was lovely.

  Small, but lovely.

  Now, I’m all for small. In fact, you could say I’m a big small fan. (Which is kind of a funny thing to say, don’t you think?) Small means less time vacuuming and dusting and scrubbing and scouring, and more time hanging out with my honey.250

  But small also means that when I need a good cry there’s no place to hide to have one. Hey, I’m a woman. Women cry. At least, this one does. I also suffer from depression, and that makes me a tad more prone to tears. Not all the time, of course. Just in the spring. And when I miss my medication. Or when I can’t buy a particularly cute Coach bag because, while it’s only the fifth of the month, I’ve already blown my clothing budget on a pair of boots I just had to have.

  In all seriousness, no matter where I went in the condo, Hem could hear me. And, sweetheart that he is, he wanted to console me. But I didn’t need to be consoled. I needed Kleenex, my trusty Pond’s cold cream (’cause, God, my mascara would be a mess), and ten minutes under the kitchen sink or in a cabinet (’cause really, privacy is crucial to a good cry), and I’d be cured.

  Or at least tear-free for the foreseeable future.

  And so, despite the fact that I really did like our brand-new condominium, and I certainly loved the beautiful commute, when Casey was born and I couldn’t stop blubbering, 251 I knew the time was right to push for a bigger place.

  Casey needed a bedroom.

  Hem needed space for the HO scale train layout he longed to build.

  And I’d have been happy with a dusty attic, dank basement, dirty garage (preferably detached), or dingy crawl space to call my own. And guess what? When we bought our house in Ridgewood I got all four.

  I just neglected to specify that they be soundproof.

  In the ten years we lived in that pretty, bustling town of yummy restaurants (the signature dishes of which were delivered almost nightly to Chez McCorkindale by the Takeout Taxi—oh, how I miss the Takeout Taxi!), cutting-edge hair salons, chic boutiques, and what had to be two banks and an Edward Jones a block,252 I built a business, had another baby, and made a dozen dear friends with whom I sat on the sidelines during every junior football game and practice, freezing our buns off rooting for our respective sons (“Go, Casey!”) and several of our husbands (“Go, Hem!”) who coached. I went back to work in the city,253 took the top marketing spot at
one of the country’s top women’s magazines, and helped my honey launch his career as a Web site writer. That’s also when I started kidding around, calling him Hemingway. Up until then it was Stu or Mac or Buddy or sometimes even Puddin’, which he found totally distasteful and I found surprising, considering how much he loves the stuff.

  My point is, I accomplished a lot while we lived in what I firmly believe to be New Jersey’s best suburb. But I never did find a place to be by myself when I got the blues.

  No, that little quest came to a close the first time I set foot on the farm....

  “It’s too quiet.” Hem and I were standing in what would eventually become our front yard, staring at what would eventually become our house. He was smiling. I was sweating and trying not to hyperventilate. Some people panic in crowds. I panic from a lack of crowds.

  He put his arm around me. “Don’t you hear the cows? Listen,” he whispered. “They’re saying, ‘Soooozy, there’s a shooooe sale at Neiman Moooocus.’ ”

  “And I’m missing it ’cause I’m here at what’s obviously the end of the earth with you.” I laughed nervously, like I do at the dentist when I get great news, like my gum recession’s so severe Alan Greenspan couldn’t save me, and leaned my sweaty self into him.

  “Jeez, you’re warm.”

  “I can’t believe you’re not hot. I’m sweating like a pig.”