by Isabel Jolie
Shannon shifts in her chair and crosses her leg with that doctor smile plastered on her face, only there might be a hint of amusement. Maybe. It’s gone in a flash.
“Jason, the last time I asked, you were NED. In remission.”
“Yes.” It’s come back before. It can come back again. Or a different form of cancer. Something worse.
“Jason, do you often find yourself with a need to control?”
I stare off into my corner.
“Let me ask a different question. When things don’t go how you want them to, do you believe you are responsible?”
“What?”
“Think about your parents. You told me you believe you could have prevented their deaths.”
“I could have. If I had just…” I stop. I know she believes it’s not my fault. I do too, on some level. I couldn’t have known what would happen that day. Skiing with my friends, doing runs my mom wouldn’t do, it was an understandable choice.
Shannon waits.
I swallow. “You’re right. It’s not my fault.”
“Do you believe you’re responsible for Adam’s death? Has that ever crossed your mind?”
“Not responsible. He had cancer. But…it would’ve been better if it had been me.”
“I saw a reference to that in your journal. Do you remember what we call that?”
I shake my head while staring in my corner.
“Survivor’s guilt.” She likes that concept.
“Okay. What does that have to do with Maggie?”
“I suspect it might be part of the reason you haven’t let your relationship with her grow.”
“The reasons I think it should’ve been me who died is he had parents who mourned him. And he had Maggie. His death tore her up. If you could’ve seen it, you’d understand.”
“I read some about it in your journal. If I understand correctly, and I don’t want to put words in your mouth, you believe you can prevent Maggie from future heartache by not being with her.”
“Yes.”
“That’s trying to control the future.” She pauses, and silence fills the room. “No one can control the future.”
“I know that.”
“Then you must realize Maggie’s future husband could die prematurely, even if it’s not you.”
“Yes, but it’s statistics. It’s more likely to happen if it’s me. I want her to have the best possible chance.”
“Is Maggie dating someone now?”
“I don’t know. She asked for space.”
“Space for what?”
“Space from us. So she can find someone else.”
“Jason, if you could have a guarantee that you could live a full life, would you want to be with Maggie?”
“Yes.”
“That’s the only thing that’s holding you back?”
“Yes.” The picture on my dresser of Adam with his arms around her comes to mind. “I mean, her being Adam’s girlfriend complicates it, but yes, if I could get a written guarantee, I’d be with her.” No question.
“You do know there’s no guarantee for anyone, right? Ever?”
“That’s why I’m not with her,” I snap.
“No, Jason, I’m telling you that no matter who she’s with, there’s no guarantee.”
She doesn’t get it. She doesn’t understand my risks are higher.
“There’s no guarantee for anyone.” Shannon likes to repeat herself.
“Can you make it so the idea of Maggie being with someone else doesn’t hurt so much?”
She smiles. “With time, it won’t hurt so much. But it sounds like you love her.”
“Of course I love her. That’s never been the question.”
“Then maybe we can work on some of the control issues so you can be with her?”
“I don’t have…” Control isn’t the right word. “Why don’t we do a brainspotting session?”
She smiles, but this time she also looks like she wants to laugh. None of this is funny.
She straightens in her chair then reaches for the headset. “Okay. But in your journal this week, can you do something for me? Can you write about what you see your life like if you were to allow yourself a relationship with Maggie?”
When I close Shannon’s office door and exit the building onto the street, I do something I haven’t done in months. Words from one of Maggie’s favorite chick flicks come to mind. The whole scariest thing about distance bit. Maybe she misses me, but maybe she’s forgotten. Moved on. Shelved me in the “old friend I used to know” category.
Me: Hi. Checking in. How’s Chicago?
I slip the phone into my pocket and have crossed two blocks when the vibrations let me know I’ve received a text.
Maggie: Hey, you! Things are good. Love my new job. How’re things there?
I step to the side of a deli to respond.
Me: I’m still seeing a therapist.
Maggie: Is it helping?
Me: Yes and no. Can I call you? Or do you still need space?
I make it all the way home before she responds.
Maggie: Sure. I’m an hour behind you. I’ll call you when I get home.
Chapter 36
Maggie
“There, that should do it. It’s all hooked up. Want to hand me the remote?” Xander slides a screwdriver into the back pocket of his well-worn jeans and reaches his arm out.
I reluctantly pass him the remote. It’s not that I don’t see a reason to have a television. I do. After Xander’s incessant prodding, I finally broke down and went out and bought one. He told me he’d install it and get it set up. I’m not paying for cable, so he’s helping me with all the apps I’ll need to download shows through Netflix, Apple, or whatever he recommends.
It’s a transition to a new chapter in my life. For over ten years, Jason was my sofa partner. Now everything’s in place for me to find a new TV companion.
I’ve been making excuses. Keeping things at the friend level with my neighbor on the floor below. Zoe says I’m nuts. He is hot as sin in a boy band kind of way. His real name is Alexander, but he goes by Xander and has this dark curly hair he keeps tied back in a man bun. Tattoos peek below his sleeves when he wears t-shirts. His irises are almost violet. A bizarre color that had me wondering if he wears colored contacts for the first few weeks I knew him. It’s still a possibility. I don’t know him well enough to ask, but I haven’t detected the telltale circular disc yet.
There’s a knock on the door, and I spring to get it, practically bouncing on the way, as I have an idea who might be showing up early.
I love my walk-up apartment, but it’s not exactly difficult to slip in without buzzing. Half the time, the door is propped open because some of the downstairs tenants love to smoke cigarettes on the stoop. Plus, it’s early summer in Chicago, and there’s a general feeling every door and window should be open.
I crack the door then swing it wide.
“Jason.”
It feels like years have passed since I last saw him, even though it’s only been months. He reached out recently. A couple of weeks ago, he said he’d be in town and asked if he could stop by to visit.
To visit. My best friend asking if he can stop by to visit. Times have changed.
We stand in the doorway, holding each other tight. My feet leave the floor as he lifts me, and I breathe in his soap scent. I didn’t buy him the soap I smell. It’s not even what I would pick. There’s a hint of lemon.
Tears sting, forcing me to blink several times. I’ve missed this moody ginger so freaking much. No part of me wants to let go, but the television playing in the background reminds me I have company.
“So good to see you,” I whisper against Jason’s neck. Then, in a louder voice as I break the hug and return to the ground, “Let me introduce you to Xander.”
Xander steps around the couch, his hand extended. “Good to meet you, man. She’s talked a lot about you. I’m Xander.”
Shock crosses Jason’s features, but he recovers quickly.
“Hi. I’m Jason.”
Xander chuckles and points around my den. “Yeah, I know. Not hard to pick you out.”
I’m a candid photo lover. Framed photos decorate any available surface. Some line the mantel, some decorate a small table sitting between two windows, some line the narrow table behind my sofa. Jason’s in almost all the photos. There is clear photographic evidence almost everywhere he’s been an important part of my life.
Jason steps inside and swivels, taking in my new apartment. It’s a much better space than my New York pad. This job pays significantly more, plus the cost of living is so much better in Chicago. The walls are painted white, and, given the abundance of sun streaming in through the open windows, the whole place feels bright and airy. I’ve been hitting thrift stores, and all the wooden pieces are finds I’ve painted in shades of navy. My Jennifer Convertible sofa is my one brand new piece of furniture, and I chose white. Bursts of happy colors pop against the white in the form of throw pillows and large abstract paintings.
My old pad with Yara was fine, in a post-college with roommate sort of way, a hippie chick transitioning to thirty-something kind of apartment. But this place, it’s all me. I love it.
“This place looks like you.”
“Thanks.” I beam up at him, loving how well he knows me.
“What brings you into town?” Xander asks. His arms are crossed, and he rocks back on his feet.
We’re all standing in a cluster right in front of the door. The sound of the television drones on, and the noise grates my nerves.
I reach for the remote Xander’s holding as Jason responds, “Business.”
The TV clicks off at a touch of the button.
“Thank you so much for setting this up,” I tell Xander.
“Do you want me to take you through it all? I need to add Netflix.”
“I’ll deal with it later.” The last thing I want is to mess with the TV right now. Setting up accounts. He has the Apple TV working. That’s plenty. I’ve actually enjoyed being TV free. Listening to music, reading, painting furniture. I haven’t missed the TV at all. It’s been a source of contention between Xander and me.
“Are you thirsty?” I ask Jason. “Can I get you anything? When did you get in?” I haven’t seen this guy in ages, and we’re huddled by the door talking about a glass screen over the mantel.
“My flight got in a little early.” He seems apologetic.
I take off toward my kitchen. He’s been on an airplane and in the crowded airport.
“You can wash your hands at the sink if you want,” I tell him as I pour a glass of veggie juice for him. I restocked since he was coming into town.
He steps past me to the sink. On the windowsill behind the sink are three framed photos. One is of Yara and Jason sitting on the beat-up futon in our old apartment. A nothing moment but a cute picture. Another is after a Team-in-Training event. It’s a group shot, and Jason didn’t compete, but he’s wearing a team t-shirt, and down by his legs you can read his poster that says “Run Maggie Run!” The third photo is one of my favorites of him. It makes me laugh every time. It’s his Halloween costume from our senior year when he dressed up like a 1970s basketball player, complete with short shorts and tall socks. This place is all mine to decorate. It’s filled with the things that make me happy.
Xander calls from the hall. My kitchen opens into the den, so I can see him. “I’m gonna head on down and let you guys get in a good visit. Is seven p.m. still good to pick you up?”
“Yep. That works. I can come down to you. It’s on the way.” I smile and force a laugh to bring life to my sort-of joke. His place is on the way out of the building.
“Not a chance. I’ll be knocking at seven.” He holds out a fist to Jason for a fist bump, a signature Xander move. “Nice to meet ya. Hope we connect again before you head back.”
Jason holds out a stiff arm, and in slow motion the two men’s fists touch.
I hunt in the refrigerator to find something to drink while Jason and I catch up. The juice I poured Jason is an easy option, but I have an urge for a beer. Maybe it’s the blue sky outside or the Saturday summer feeling. “You want a beer?”
“Sure.” He chugs down the juice and sets the empty glass on the counter as I set about pulling two brown glass bottles out and popping the top.
“So, are you and Xander…” He lets the question linger as he washes his hands at the sink.
“No,” pops out as my answer, but I don’t want to give the wrong impression either. I set his beer beside the sink. “He’s my neighbor. Lives one floor down. We’re going out on a date tonight.” Guilt lances through me. The emotion annoys me because I have nothing to feel guilty about.
I grab my beer and charge into the living area. Jason follows me. He slides a small black backpack off his shoulder and lays it on the wooden coffee table before sitting down.
“All this stuff is new.” He angles his beer to my coffee table. “And white cushions. Mags. That’s ballsy.”
“Well, it’s just me. I don’t have a guy to worry about spilling Chinese or leaving pizza crust crumbs all over it.” I regret saying it the moment my response falls out of my mouth and exhale louder than normal. “So, tell me why you’re here. What business does Columbia University have in Chicago?”
In a way, I’d hoped he was coming to see me. But he never asked if he could stay with me, and it never felt like a good time to ask him why he was coming, so I didn’t. His reasons don’t matter. It’s good to see him.
“I’m interviewing at The University of Chicago on Monday.”
“You might move here?” He was well on his way to a full professor role at Columbia, an Ivy League college. That doesn’t make sense.
He shrugs. No big deal, he communicates through his silent body language I know so well. There’s got to be more to it. I open my mouth and lean forward, my body language telling him to tell me more.
He doesn’t say anything, but instead unzips his backpack and pulls out a Mead notebook, the kind that looks like someone ran a stripe of white tape on the side in lieu of binding with a spiral. He places the notebook before me on the coffee table.
“What’s this?”
He lifts his shoulders. His dark eyes are pensive, with a steady focus on the notebook. “My therapist had me answer questions in it.”
I angle my head and squint, another gesture he’s familiar with that tells him to explain.
“The therapist I told you about. Dr. Clemmons. Shannon. When I first started seeing her, it was hard for me to talk. So, I put a lot of stuff in there. Some stuff I want to share with you, and talking about it on the phone didn’t feel right.”
“Now? You want me to read it now?” I stare at the notebook, reluctant to touch it.
“Why not? Not sure there will be a better day. You were planning on spending the afternoon with me anyway, right?”
I pull the notebook onto my lap as he lifts his beer and takes a long swallow. Flipping through, I see it’s all in his handwriting in black or blue pen. His handwriting has sharp edges, controlled, each letter an identical size. I’ve often said he could sell it as his own font. Easy to read with an edge.
The first page is titled “The Day We Met.” I slide my beer onto the coffee table then pull my legs underneath me. It’s about the day he and I first met when I went with Adam and his parents to an oncology appointment our freshman year. He noticed me that day. I had no idea. I remember that day too. I remember how alone he seemed. And when I realized he was a patient, I remember hoping he wasn’t too sick. I drag my finger over the words, “if she’s here for cancer, please let her kind be totally beatable.”
The next titled page reads “Support Group Day.” I find this fascinating. I always wondered why the two of them made jokes about support groups. Why the two of them were so anti-therapy. I never pushed Adam to explain. And later, when I tried to push Jason, he’d give one of his non-answers. His reaction to Howard, the older man crying, is insightful. Human be
ings all mourn, but we react to it so differently. I’m not at all surprised that at nineteen Jason wasn’t comfortable. I’ve met grown adults, men and women, who couldn’t handle raw emotion from others, especially strangers. Some people can, and some people can’t.
The next titled page reads “The Day We All Met.” It’s about the day we all met on the lawn in front of the library. He thought I was beautiful. I finger the letters on the page. When I’m lying on my deathbed, I’m going to close my eyes and remember how she looked that day.
All these years. His words aren’t incredibly descriptive, but reading them is like flipping the pages in a photobook. Only it’s from his perspective. He writes that he felt sucker-punched when I kissed Adam. That’s an accurate description of how I feel at this moment. I pause on the last line of this section, They were without a doubt my two closest friends. Adam and Maggie.
“The Days at Hospice” sends my tear ducts into overdrive. I let the tears fall, swiping them away with the flat of my palm. He gets up and returns to the sofa with a tissue box. As I read, my perspective on these moments strikes full force. The shock. That someone so young, one of my friends, might die. The helplessness. My first personal experience with death.
Adam did tell me to take care of Maggie. To look out for her. “She’s a good one.” He got that part wrong, though. She’s the best.
I’m not surprised Adam told Jason to take care of me. And I’m not surprised Jason was looking out for me, even back then. We look out for each other. That’s what we do. We’ve been doing it a long time.
Jason’s description of “The Funeral” tugs at long-buried emotions. I had no idea he was watching me. There were many things I said that day to Adam when I said goodbye to my first love. Over time, I came to realize Adam and I had a young love. I had been angry and hurt he hadn’t been honest with me about his diagnosis.
When we drove cross-country that summer, I thought cancer was behind him. As we approached California, there were moments when he’d grow quiet, contemplative. In retrospect, there were signs throughout the trip a dark cloud loomed overhead. But, like they say, hindsight is twenty-twenty. At the time, I had no idea.