Lost on the Way

by Isabel Jolie

  “I love you too.” So much. He wants me to get over Adam. He’s so clueless. It’s not Adam I need to move past. It’s him.

  Chapter 5

  Jason

  Support Group Day

  Fifteen identical chairs created a circle, and the therapist sat in one, sipping his coffee.

  I sat in one of the plastic chairs as far away from any other participant as possible. Pushed it out of the chair-made circle, creating an amorphous shape. Other people milled around the coffee table. Some talked to one another in low, discreet voices. Most of the people in the room were middle-aged. The only guy about my age dropped into the chair next to mine.

  He smiled. He didn’t offer his hand. You didn’t do that in this group. Fear of germs and all. But he smiled and seemed friendly enough. “Hey, I think you’re in my psych class.”

  “Dartmouth?”

  “Yep.”

  He had short brown hair. A skinny guy. He looked familiar.

  “Hauser?”

  “Yep. I like him. Even though his TA gives more lectures than he does.”

  The therapist at the front of the room spoke up to start the session. “Welcome. This is our support group for those battling a disease. Many here have cancer, but not all. We start out each session with a little check-in, going around the room and letting everyone introduce themselves and maybe mention how things are going. If you’ve got any good news or bad news, this would be the time to share it. Then we’ll move on to discussions.” He paused and tapped the toe of his shoe on the vinyl flooring.

  “Before we begin, I’d like to remind you, everyone here is in a similar situation. At home, you may feel you need to guard what you say for the sake of your loved ones. You may not want them to worry. Here, there is no need to guard what you say. There is no need to protect the person you are talking to. This is your space and time to share how you really feel. To put those emotions out there. Now, who would like to start?”

  A bald man sitting two empty chairs away from the therapist raised his hand. His light brown cardigan reminded me of Mr. Rogers from the kids’ TV show.

  “Okay, Howard. Please introduce yourself.”

  Tears streamed down the man’s face. I was sitting pretty far away from the guy, but I could see the tears. The man started sniffling before he ever spoke. Some folks looked down at the ground, and one old lady leaned forward in her chair, as if by leaning closer she’d do something for him. The guy mumbled stuff, but between his tears, you couldn’t understand him.

  The whole situation was weird. My oncologist encouraged me to come to this group. Maybe he didn’t know the average age of folks who attended group therapy. I wanted to laugh. Clearly an inappropriate reaction, but it was so awkward. Howard, man, get it together.

  I stood to make my way to the coffee table. Moving around probably violated group therapy behavior etiquette, but it was too uncomfortable. Too weird. The guy was crying buckets before he even said his full name.

  I pumped coffee out of one of the stainless steel dispensers, cursing myself for showing up for what appeared to be some sort of adult version of Camp Kumbaya, but instead of telling scary stories around a campfire, each person took turns crying.

  The guy from my psych class came up beside me. “Wanna get out of here?”

  I set my coffee down on the table, pointed toward the door and mouthed, “Let’s go.”

  We both speed-walked out of that church basement room faster than two girls walking to lose weight. It wasn’t until we were on the sidewalk outside the church that we both busted out laughing.

  “Howard, dude!” the brown-haired guy shouted, clutching his side from laughing so hard.

  “That shit’s supposed to make you feel better? I thought someone in there was going to slice a wrist.”

  “Right? I know. Fuck. Hey, my name’s Adam. What’s yours?” Then he stuck his hand out to shake mine. I’d just met the guy, but I knew if he was in that room, he probably had something that meant he shouldn’t be shaking hands during flu season. But he looked alive. Vibrant. And I shook his hand.

  “My girlfriend’s studying tonight. You want to go grab dinner?”

  We left the quack session and went out for burgers and beer with our fake IDs. We talked about a lot of nothing. He told me about his girlfriend, this amazing girl he met during orientation. When he found out I wasn’t dating anyone, he kept pointing out girls, asking if I’d want to meet that one. I’d shove his hand down so the girl wouldn’t see him pointing. A subtle wingman, Adam was not.

  Thinking back, that night sort of started it all.

  Chapter 6

  Maggie

  There is always a sense of something missing after a patient passes. It hits me the second I step onto the floor, a sense as I wander down the hall that the patient is with me, watching the activity in the hall. A sensation that the soul is yearning to reach out and hug those of us who feel his absence. Or maybe he’s hanging back to see what kind of food has been mangled by the cafeteria today or who’s going to get the extra cup of Jell-O. Whatever the reason, it feels like the soul lingers.

  This evening is no different. I pause in the doorway of room 333, and sadness flows through me like an ebbing tide. I’m told I just missed Johnny’s mom.

  Sadness permeates the hall and infiltrates the crevices. When a life ends, it hurts. Our days are numbered. It’s true for every single soul blessed with the miracle of life.

  There’s a song out that I love. The singer wishes his loved one pain. I think he’s actually talking to his child. It doesn’t matter who he’s talking to. His point is a good one. Pain allows us to more deeply appreciate our time on this Earth. If we lived life in a magical place—say, a Garden of Eden for all—where there is no pain or suffering and food is plentiful, would we fully appreciate a crisp, fresh apple? If we could live forever, would we waste our days?

  Obviously, I don’t know for sure. But I suspect it’s the disappointments and losses in life, the challenges, that at the end of the day, truly make it worth living. Volunteering at the hospital and hospice remind me to cherish life. And I enjoy knowing that I’m making a positive difference for someone currently experiencing so much pain. Either the patient or the loved one. The pain hits both.

  I’m putting away the craft cart for the night when Gloria comes up behind me. “You know, your gentleman friend is waiting in the lobby for you.” I can’t help but smile at how she describes Jason.

  “Jason’s here?”

  “You got any other gentleman friends hanging around?” She holds the closet door open for me, waiting for me to finish up. I dump the remaining mints from a bowl into a plastic bag. They’re individually wrapped, but leaving them out in a bowl on the craft cart overnight grosses me out. I don’t like to think of them getting dusty or attracting ants or who knows what.

  “No other gentleman friends. But you know, Ms. Halloway, like I’ve told you before, I don’t think Jason meets your criteria of a gentleman friend.”

  “Uh-huh,” she responds in a deep, drawn-out tone with a mischievous smile.

  I roll my eyes and step out of the closet. “Where is he?”

  “Downstairs in the lobby. By the main entrance.”

  “Have a goodnight, Ms. Halloway.”

  “You too, sweetie.”

  The elevator doors open, and I head out into the lobby. Visiting hours are over at nine p.m. It’s not exactly packed, like, say, at rush hour on the subway platform, but there’s a noticeable uptick in the number of people passing through the lobby. Jason’s sitting by himself on the pleather sofa, one ankle resting on his knee as he flips through a Sports Illustrated magazine that someone left behind on the side table. This hospice subscribes to a number of publications, but I don’t know why. It seems people are always leaving magazines on the tables in the lobby. It’s a good pass it forward, do something good for the world, kind of thing.

  I stand a few feet in front of him and observe. Under the fluorescent lights, his r
eddish hair has glints of a brighter, coppery shade. His shoulders slouch down and inward in this way that he has as if he’s carrying a great weight and it’s all he can do to remain upright. Understandably, he hates hospitals of any sort, and he shouldn’t be here. That thought has me striding over at a quick pace and kicking his running shoe that’s flat on the ground.

  Startled, his head lurches up. He smiles until my harsh words hit him. “What’re you doing here?”

  He drops the magazine on the table and shoves his hands into his pockets, sheepish. “I thought this evening might be tough for you. I figured you might need a friend.”

  Right. A friend. “Come on, let’s go. You have dinner yet?”

  “Yeah.” It’s after nine p.m. Of course he has. “Want to get a beer? Or we could head back to my place and watch TV. Anything you want. Something to take your mind off things, you know.”

  We turn right out of the Hospice of New York building and automatically head to his apartment. He’s talking about taking my mind off hospice. He always acts like it hurts me. He’s my best friend, but he doesn’t get me. He doesn’t understand that I love helping out, here and in the hospital.

  He also doesn’t get that a lot of the time when I seem sad, it’s because of him. For years, I’ve wanted more with him. And I’ve settled, simply happy to be with him. Happy to be there for him. But I’m almost thirty-two. And I get that he’ll never see me that way. He’ll never see me as anything other than Adam’s girl. Maybe by now he even sees me as a little sister. After all, I’m probably the closest thing he has to family.

  As we stroll down the sidewalk, he drapes his arm around my shoulders, and I wrap my arm around his waist. It’s our walking embrace that somehow developed over time. I fit perfectly under his arm. I especially love when we do this at the end of a long day. Having him close is like a balm on sunburn. Soothing.

  He stops in the middle of the city sidewalk. We’re on a side street, between the avenues, and it’s not super busy, but I do notice one man grumble as he passes us. Then he tilts my head up, and the rest of the world fades to black. My breath catches, and my chest tightens in anticipation beneath his intense gaze. His lips are inches from mine. His thumb strokes my chin. I lean forward, holding my breath, as his face inches closer. Ready.

  “Are you sure you’re okay?” In the space of a nanosecond, he’s a foot away with both hands shoved in his pockets.

  I close my eyes to hide my emotions. I’ve got to stop this. He’s not going to try to kiss me. Not when he’s sober. He sees me as a friend.

  There’s a saying that only an insane person does the same exact thing time and time again and expects a different result. Well, I don’t expect a different result. I hope for a different result. Does that make me a little less insane?

  Time to stop hoping. When I open my eyes, his dark orbs peer back through a squint, deepening his crow’s feet, evidence of his concern. I shift and push forward, one foot in front of the other.

  “Yes. I wish you’d listen to me. I’m good.”

  “Well, if you’re all good, maybe I’ll pick the TV show.”

  I shove him to the side, and he nearly rams a teenager rambling down the sidewalk with white earbuds jammed in his ears. The distracted guy dips to the side, barely registering his near hit. Jason pushes me back, and we both slip into our soft shove on the sidewalk game, chuckling as we go in the sophomoric, Beavis and Butthead kind of way we have.

  The last thing my almost thirty-two-year-old self needs to be doing is going back to his house for a beer and TV watching. I should tell him no. Text Yara and meet up with her. Or text that TNT guy and see what he’s up to. That’s what I should do. But what will I do? Yep. I’ll keep walking with him straight back to his place. Because that’s what I do.

  Chapter 7

  Jason

  The Day We All Met

  I saw her first. Sitting in the quad, in front of the library.

  You might not know this, but that library, the Baker-Berry Library, is ranked as one of the most beautiful university libraries in the country. It is. There’s this huge lawn in front of it. Designed to mimic the Independence Hall in Philadelphia, it’s impressive. Memorable. It’s one of the things that attracted me to the school when I did my first campus visit. But it’s nothing compared to Maggie. I know, it’s a nonsensical comparison.

  But, if you could have seen her that spring day, out on the lawn. Standing beside a blanket spread out on the grass, surrounded by a couple of girlfriends. Laughing, the sunlight reflecting along her hair, shimmering like the surface of a lake on a summer day. She looked carefree. Happy. Really, she’s like that on almost any day, but this particular day, it’s timestamped in my memory. When I’m lying on my deathbed, I’m going to close my eyes and remember how she looked that day.

  I stood there on the lawn, near a tree, watching her from afar, in shock we’d crossed paths once again. I’d figured the best I could hope for would be to have her in a class next semester. I kept an eye out for her everywhere I went. Even when I spent time in the hospital, I remained watchful.

  And on that random Tuesday, I found her. Wearing cut-off denim shorts, a big burgundy sweatshirt, and Uggs. Her faint tan highlighted the muscular lines of her long legs. Her hair spilled over and around her hoodie.

  I don’t know why I stood there for so long, watching her. Like a creeper. I guess maybe trying to figure out how to approach her. What to say. But, as I stood there, frozen, Adam walked up.

  Since that day at the whacked group counseling session, Adam and I, well, we’d hung out some. Even ended up in the hospital together for a brief bout with high fevers. He’d come to Dartmouth to play lacrosse, but he couldn’t play this year. He’d been diagnosed with Hodgkin’s the year before starting school. We didn’t talk much about cancer and all that stuff. But he served as my guide to all things cancerous. I got my diagnosis after school started.

  Since we had the same kind of cancer, if I had questions, I’d text him. He’d been through radiation. My plan was to tackle a full course that coming summer. Adam was the only person on campus who knew what I had. It wasn’t something I wanted stamped on my head everywhere I went, so I kept it quiet. No one on campus knew except Adam. I liked hanging out with him because I could just be. No hiding. At that point in time, we shared perspectives on the world. Cancer sucked. Bad grade on a test? Who cared? Bigger things to stress about. Pity? We didn’t want it. We had one script for cancer-free friends, one script for friends like us. Out of everyone, Adam knew me best.

  So, imagine my surprise when he looped his arm around Maggie and brushed a quick kiss across her lips. It felt like someone sucker-punched me. Boom.

  Then the pieces fell in place. That day at the oncologist, she’d been waiting for him. It had to be. He’d mentioned once that he had a girlfriend. He’d said she’d been awesome during his treatment. Told me I was smart to be going back to Texas. Said I wouldn’t want to be alone during all that.

  Adam saw me before she did. “Hey, man.” Adam seemed to know everyone on campus. Outgoing. Charismatic. The kind of guy you’d expect to be both class president and valedictorian. A born leader.

  “Hey. How goes it?” I was trying to be casual, cool. Not give away that I was reeling from figuring out my girl crush and his girlfriend were one and the same.

  She looked up to see who Adam was talking to, and her whole face brightened as she smiled. Genuine happiness. Her girlfriends waved goodbye, and she joined us.

  “Hey! There you are. You took off for your appointment without us exchanging contact info.” Then she tugged on Adam’s shirt. “This is the guy I told you about. The Dartmouth student I met in the waiting room.” Adam sat down, and she did too, close to him, touching him. Books were spread out on the blanket.

  Turning his attention to me, he welcomed me in that Adam way. No one was ever unwelcome with Adam. “Come on, sit down, and join us. Gorgeous day.” He toyed with her hair with one hand while directing me to a s
pot on the blanket with the other.

  I had a few hours before my last class of the day. A lab of some sort. I sat down on the edge of the blanket. We talked.

  We exchanged numbers, Maggie and I. Adam and I already had each other’s numbers. By virtue of knowing Adam, without me saying anything, she knew what I was going through. Even back then, she knew what I needed before I did. And by virtue of being Adam’s friend, I became the recipient of her friendship.

  Without a doubt, if you are the recipient of Maggie’s friendship, you are one lucky, lucky human being. She’s truly such a caring person, it’s unreal. She cares deeply. And, there’s nothing in this world like being her friend. The whole campus knew it too. Everybody loved Maggie.

  After that day and hanging out on the blanket for that couple of hours, I kind of became their third wheel. And I was in a weird place, waiting for the academic year to end so I could follow this course mapped out for me to kill the cancer. My oncologist was optimistic. No one seemed super worried. But I didn’t want to talk about it. So, it wasn’t like I was reaching out and trying to make new friends. Maggie and Adam knew. They always invited me to places. So, if I was up for it, I went. Lunch. Dinner. Beers. Library. By the time we wrapped up freshman year, they were without a doubt my two closest friends. Adam and Maggie.

  Chapter 8

  Maggie

  Jason has this incredibly deep, soft, plush sofa. I still remember the day we picked it out. We were standing in the middle of this massive furniture store, people milling all around, and he spread out across it, shoes and all. I screeched, “Your shoes!”

  He gave me his usual smile, the smallest of smiles others don’t usually see. Tugging on my hand, he pulled me down beside him. Spooning, he whispered into my ear, “Let’s make sure this works before we do this.”