by Isabel Jolie
“But when you’re with her, you still feel this deadness, a sense of suffocation?”
Yes. The pain in the center of my chest never goes away, not completely.
Shannon’s waiting for an answer. I tell her, “To some extent, yes.”
“Has anyone ever talked to you about survivor’s guilt?”
I shake my head. I’ve never been to a shrink before. Or at least, I’ve never talked to one. Not like this. But something has to change. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have asked her to squeeze me in on a Saturday.
“When I read your journal, it occurs to me to some extent you might be struggling with survivor’s guilt. We can explore that. Do you fear your cancer might return?”
“Wouldn’t anyone?” I’m sitting in the fortune teller’s lair, and she’s telling me obvious things like I loved my mother. The doctor smile returns.
“Yes. It’s natural. Can you tell me, do you change anything in your life because of that fear?”
I should have Maggie here. “I drink vegetable and herb juice. Some concoction Maggie believes helps improve immunity. And she’s careful about selecting every brand of anything in my apartment. Toothpaste, detergent, cleaning supplies. She’s always reading about ingredients and switching out what I buy or bringing stuff over.”
“She sounds like she cares for you very much, to do all of that. Do you participate too?”
“No. She’s been doing it for so long. And I know I should be more proactive. Do more research. Keep up with advances. But…” I don’t like reading about it. Once, I read everything. Every journal, blog, health magazine, top-selling and never-heard-of books. Then Adam died, and it felt like it was a waste of time. All those so-called experts know shit. For the most part, it’s a cesspool of groups trying to make money.
“But?” Her question is soft.
“Maggie keeps up with it all.”
Shannon glances over her shoulder, at her desk. “Jason, we only have thirty minutes today. But I think there are many things we can work on. I believe we can help with that pain you are feeling.”
Wait for it. She’s selling something.
“Have you ever heard of EMDR? Or brainspotting?”
“No.”
“I’m going to email you some links about them. I’ve found great success using those techniques, and they don’t require that you relive past experiences, which can be quite traumatic. At our next session, we can talk about it and see if it’s something you might be interested in trying.”
* * *
Come Monday evening, I’m standing on the sidewalk on Manhattan Avenue, beside Maggie’s nondescript apartment entrance. There are four concrete steps up to a glass door with an iron frame and seven iron bars designed to match the low iron fence and gate that defines the front of her building. A small panel of buttons with names scribbled and marked out beside black rectangular buttons lies beside the entrance door. I have a key and could have let myself up to wait for her, but I want to be here when she arrives so I can carry her luggage up the stairs.
Trees line Manhattan Avenue, and as I wait, I notice the color of the leaves is changing. Two trees across the street, near the Hesperus apartment entrance, hold leaves transitioning directly to the crinkly burnt look unhealthy trees get in the fall. Soon, those trees will be barren. But the tree closest to me, on my side of the street, is ablaze in shades of red.
I return my watch to the street, scanning passing cabs for the one Maggie’s in. She hasn’t responded to any of my texts. She’s always busy when she goes home. She and Zoe talk nonstop. I hope that’s why she hasn’t responded. But nausea has been circulating through me ever since she left. My temperature has remained normal, my glands aren’t swollen, and all signs are beginning to point to the nausea being psychological. It could be my gut instincts kicking in, telling me all is not okay with Maggie and me.
I’ve been an idiot. I’ve pushed it. Crossed lines repeatedly that should have never been crossed. When the cab pulls up, and she sees me through the rear passenger window, I breathe air through my mouth like a guppy out of water, seeking oxygen.
The corners of her lips barely lift in greeting. I stiffen at her cold response. This isn’t Maggie. She pays the cab as I tap the trunk so the cabbie will pop it open.
I come around to greet her. When she exits the back seat, there’s a flash of awkwardness, then like a resolved glitch, it’s gone. She’s wearing her black business pantsuit, and her wavy hair rests in a low, neat bun. It’s formal Maggie, but when she hugs me, and I breathe her in, she’s familiar. The way my body reacts as I hold her close, you’d think I hadn’t seen her in months. My skin tingles, the dead zone in my chest stirs, and that crushing pain rises, forcing me to blink back tears.
“I’ve missed you.” You have no idea how much. “How was the trip? The interview?”
She pats my chest a few times and steps to her apartment door. She digs down into her large brown shoulder bag for her keys. I have them on my key ring, in my pocket, so while she rummages in that bottomless pit, I reach around her and unlock the door.
“Thanks.”
We make it up the stairs without saying anything. This is not our normal. My nausea elevates. I breathe deeply and swallow back some of the extra saliva pooling in my mouth. We’re entering her apartment when it occurs to me she never answered my question.
“Are you taking the job?”
“Sit.” She points at her sofa.
I take my normal spot on the right end, and she joins me, shoulders back, sitting prim and proper on the edge with her thighs squeezed tightly together, hands folded in her lap. This is not normal.
“The interview went well. They called me when I was at the airport and offered me the job.”
“Maggie, that’s great. You’re going to take it, right?” She deserves this.
“I am.” She’s not smiling, and the absence of her smile tells me something isn’t right.
“I probably won’t be able to move until after spring semester. When do they want you to start?” There’s a chance I could swing leaving Columbia after the fall semester, but it’s highly doubtful I could do so without burning bridges.
“Jason, what are we doing?”
It becomes harder for me to breathe, and I press two fingers to my wrist. I should go check my temperature. I haven’t had a fever, but some viruses don’t immediately deliver a fever.
“Jason?” Pressure on my knee brings me back to the room. She squeezes, not comforting—no, in frustration. Shit.
“I’m sorry. I’m not feeling well.”
“I can check your temperature.” That’s good. I nod to tell her that, yes, that’s a good idea. “After we talk.”
I suppose that’s fine. Although, if I’m contagious, I don’t want to get her sick. I back up on the cushion, far enough away that her hand returns to her lap.
“Jason, I realized some things this past weekend.”
“Yeah?” I’m a little dizzy, so I lean back on the sofa and focus on what she needs to tell me.
“I want a family. I want children. I want a marriage.”
“You’ve known this. That’s not new,” I say because it’s true. One look at Maggie, and it’s abundantly clear she’s going to be a phenomenal mother one day. She’ll be the kind of mom who will have all the neighborhood kids coming over for cookies and hot chocolate.
She breathes in loudly, and her brown irises penetrate me, glassy, full of emotion. “I want those things with you.”
I can’t breathe. My lungs stop functioning. A numbness spreads across my skin.
“I know you don’t want those things with me. I don’t fully understand it, because I think we’re great together. Maybe it’s because you see me as Adam’s girlfriend? Maybe you can’t get over that?” Her words fly out of her mouth at a rapid pace.
The walls bear down on me. I know I need to say something, but what? The pain in my chest intensifies. It could be a heart attack or some undiagnosed heart issue.
/> “Don’t worry. You’ll tell me when you want to. But here’s the thing I realized. The thing that is new. I’m almost thirty-two. If you and I live in the same city, I’ll fall into old patterns. All my time will be spent with you. I’ll never meet someone. I’ll never…I don’t want you to move to Chicago. This needs to be my break. This needs to be my chance to start something new.”
She swipes at her face. Tears mar her cheeks. Nausea curls up the back of my throat, and I rush out of the room, down the hall, and into her bathroom where I hurl the contents of my stomach into her toilet. The only thing I’ve had today is her juice, so a disgusting green, slimy mess swirls in the porcelain bowl.
“Are you okay?” I hear the tap water running, then it stops. Maggie hands me a warm washcloth and gently caresses my neck. “Let’s take that temperature.”
There’s no fever. She leaves me with my toothbrush after placing a small swab of toothpaste on it.
When I open the bathroom door, her back is to me. Her shoulders quiver, and I hear her sniffling. She’s crying.
“I’m okay. Probably just a bug.”
“I know.” She doesn’t turn around.
“I should probably go so I don’t get you sick.”
She still doesn’t turn around.
“Maggie, if you change your mind, I’ll move to Chicago in a heartbeat.”
“And if you’re a good friend, you won’t.”
Chapter 30
Maggie
“No words are sufficient. I know this, but I do want to tell you how sorry I am for your loss.” Mr. Wilcox’s fiancée passed away hours ago. When I came in for my volunteer shift at Bellevue, someone pointed him out. He’s been sitting on a bench outside of her hospital room, lost. He’s not in the area where I volunteer, but I’ve met him a few times, simply because he’s been here so much for the last couple of months.
Mr. Wilcox’s shoulders sag. He’s in his late twenties, early thirties, tops. Far too young to have this life experience, and I do know what he’s going through. Although I wasn’t engaged. He’s lucky, in a way. Chances are good her family will treat him like a family member, although it’s not guaranteed. If I remember correctly, her family is on the west coast. Still, I’m surprised they aren’t here. We had known the end was near for quite some time. Maybe they were waiting for hospice before flying out.
The empty hospital bed has a chilling effect, and he reminds me why I’m standing before him when he asks, “You know this? How do you know?”
The words could be confrontational, but they aren’t. He’s not angry…yet.
I sit down on the green metal bench beside him.
“I lost my boyfriend when I was younger. We weren’t engaged, but I loved him. We were in college.”
He lifts his eyes and sees me now. A fellow human who doesn’t know his exact pain, but a similar pain. A pain close enough that I’m not going to tell him it was god’s plan and expect those words to be a balm.
“I’m not religious. I declined to talk to the hospital minister. I don’t believe I’m going to see her again.” He chokes on the last few words through tears.
“I believe she’s not in pain anymore. She’s not conscious of her death. Like you, I’m not particularly religious, but I envision death as a deep sleep. Returning to the darkness that we came from, an unawareness similar to the womb. I know that’s not comforting to everyone, but it’s comforting to me.”
“Me too.” He wipes his face, sniffles, and gazes at the hospital bed. After an extended silence, he says, “How long does the pain last?”
I get the sense he doesn’t expect an answer, but I offer one anyway.
“The stages of grief are individual. It can last years. Many say the second year is harder than the first. But here’s what you hold on to. You will always miss her, but as time goes by, functioning without her will get easier. At first, you’ll have to remind yourself to breathe. You may find yourself having conversations with her or checking your phone for a text. You may leave her voicemail messages. I actually recommend that last one. I think it can be therapeutic. Or writing her letters. You see, she’s still in your heart. She’s still a part of you.”
He bends down, elbows on his knees, head in his hands.
“The days are going to blend into months, seasons will go by, possibly years. The day will come when it doesn’t hurt to remember her. You’ll always miss her, but it won’t always be painful. You’ll find that your memories with her are some of your favorite memories. Eventually, without knowing exactly when, you’ll find you’re ready to make memories with someone else.”
He leans back against the wall, shaking his head, refusing to believe he can go on without her. I understand. He’s lost. His pain threshold borders on unbearable.
“I just don’t understand how this could happen. She was a good person. She didn’t even cuss. It doesn’t make sense.”
“It doesn’t. Unless you think about the chaos of the universe.” The fluorescent lights above blind me as I home in on the artificial yellow. He doesn’t want to be alone, so I let my theories flow. “There are seven billion people on this Earth. I know many people want to believe there’s a predetermined plan for all of them, but that’s irrational. I believe Richard Dawkins said it best when he compared life on Earth to the grains of sand on the beach. The chances of anyone of us being on Earth are the same as the chances that we could walk out on a beach and pick up one particular pre-chosen grain of sand.”
His red-rimmed eyes stare straight ahead at the opposite wall.
“Once we’re here, that DNA mix, the family we’re born into, the country we’re born in, it’s all a crapshoot. When it comes right down to it, we’re on a giant rock, hurtling through space. Just like other giant rocks and suns and black holes. The universe is vast, dark, and cold. We found ourselves on Earth. A planet protected by an atmosphere, filled with color. By all accounts, we’ve stumbled into the heaven of our universe. Right here, right now. That pain you feel, one day, it’s gonna help you appreciate each sunrise more.”
His lips contort, and he tilts his head. He’s not ready to look forward.
“Yes, it sucks. But I meant what I said. She’ll remain one of your favorite memories. She’ll always be in your heart. You will always have her love. The most important thing to hold on to is that it will get better, and when it does, don’t throw it away. She wouldn’t want you to. Each day on this planet is a gift. It sounds so cliché, but it’s true.”
He stares at the empty hospital bed, and I force myself to stop before I spill over into my notions on us all having an exit date. Some people find comfort in the idea that everything, even diseases, are part of an intricate plan. I don’t. I don’t want to believe some higher power picked a three-year-old to get sick. I don’t want to believe some higher power gave my first love cancer.
I spend a lot of time in hospitals. One thing I’ve noticed is that even those people who say they believe god has his reasons, well, I’ve noticed they pray. If everything is preordained, why pray? Is the hope this higher power doling out horrible punishments according to his grand plan will change his mind? Grant clemency? No, it’s desperation. There’s nothing else to be done, so they pray.
“How can you bear to volunteer at a hospital? Marcia, she told me you also volunteer at hospice. How do you do that?” He’s not the first person to ask me, but it’s unexpected that his thought process would lead him to these questions right now.
“It’s comforting to me.” I pause then watch him. “Weird, huh?”
“No idea. I should get going.” He makes no move to get up.
“Did you live together?”
He nods, and fresh tears flow. I’ve seen this before. He doesn’t want to return to his empty apartment.
He wipes his forearm beneath his nose.
“Her family is flying her home. They’re planning everything.”
Ah. There’s nothing for him to do. He’s probably in shock right now too. Even when it’
s expected, it’s surreal when it happens.
I reach out and touch his knee. “Have you scheduled your flight out yet?”
“No.”
“Here’s what I recommend. Go home, book your flight. Drink water. Get in bed. Sleep. You’ve been up all night. Sleep. When you wake up, decide on your next action item. Something like pack. Or eat.”
He stands, takes one step away, and stops. “Are you happy now?”
It’s not the kind of question that should make me smile, but I’m lost in my head, and not only do I smile, but I almost laugh. I hold it in, but barely. “I think I might have gotten lost on the way to happy.”
He blinks several times. “Well, I hope you get there.”
“I hope we both do.”
When I return home to my empty apartment, I flip open the lid to my laptop. I read through the offer letter I received earlier today. Then I draft my acceptance email. I could wait and call in the morning, but I don’t want to wait.
Chapter 31
Jason
Boats float by on the Hudson. Big ones, little ones, and a singular dragon boat crew. I’ve spent the entire day sitting on this bench. No energy or desire to do more than sit.
Maggie officially accepted the job.
What I hear, on repeat, are Maggie’s words. I need space. She doesn’t want me to move to Chicago. She doesn’t want me around her. She’s moving, she won’t be here much longer, and she doesn’t even want me there.
I don’t know how we got here. On some level, I know it’s what needs to happen. It’s time for her to move on to that next stage of life. She’s probably right that it’s not going to happen if I’m with her all the time, and she absolutely deserves everything. I want her to have everything. It hurts like a mother, though, because I wish with every part of my being I could be the one to give it to her.
I miss her so fucking much. At this moment, she’s two blocks away, but she might as well be in Chicago.