by Melody Grace
Hope didn’t even try. God was dead to her, and even if they’d ever had a relationship, cancer was a deal-breaker, she’d say with a smirk. The end was the end was the end, so what difference would any of it make?
I still didn’t know what to believe. In sacred places like this, with the sweet carols circling up around me, I could almost convince myself that there would be something more, after that end. A part of me wondered, and quietly dreamed, but over the years it had never grasped me with conviction, and that, itself, was an answer, I guess. But no matter how much I wrestled with it, trying to find that thread of faith, I couldn’t escape the one certainty I kept arriving back on, the rip-tide current that wouldn’t let my mind go.
If there was a God, like they believed, then He’d planned this for me, or worse still, was standing idly by.
I couldn’t reconcile that great betrayal, couldn’t even come close. Infinite love and power were nothing compared to the cancerous cells slowly multiplying in my brain, and my years of grief and fear and pain—there was no good way to justify them, and even though Mom did her best, her faith was for her own broken heart, not mine. My life now was the only thing that was sacred, and pinning my desperate hopes on a tomorrow beyond death wouldn’t change how vital each moment was, right now.
But I sat there with them that Christmas morning, and let the music wash over me, felt the stillness of those soaring skies, and for a moment, at least, the rest of the world—and my own decaying body—seemed far away. There was a purity in those sweet, restful notes, songs that soothed and brought all our hearts together, singing in unison for a few precious bars.
It was Christmastime, and we prayed for joy, for all mankind.
After the service, we walked back to their hotel and my parents loitered, awkward on the wet pavement. My father tried to slip an envelope into my hand.
“Dad.”
“Humor your old man.” He gave me a crooked smile. “Take your friends out, or have a nice dinner with Theo. You deserve it.”
I relented. “Thank you.” I hugged him tight and swift, pressed my lips to his cheek. “Merry Christmas.”
My mom hung back. She looked tight and pinched, those bit-back words still all rippling beneath the surface of her brisk smile. “Mom?” My voice cracked, just a little, as I reached for her. She hugged me hard, almost like it was too much to bear, then stepped back, quickly smoothing my hair down as she looked away, eyes wet. “Remember to call us every day.”
“Or a text,” Dad interrupted. They exchanged looks. Mom slowly exhaled.
“Or a text,” she agreed. “But you need to let us know you’re OK, or if there have been any changes. New symptoms. I know you don’t want to,” she added, “but we need to be realistic now. We need to know how things are progressing.”
Things.
I nodded my surrender. “I’ll text.”
“And you won’t pretend things are alright when they’re not,” she continued, as if she knew how I would try to hide it from them. “If you can’t tell us, at least keep up appointments with Doctor Benson.” Her brisk mask slipped for a moment, and pure, aching desperation shone through. “And maybe you’ll think about the trial some more? I know you don’t want to but—”
“Susan.” My dad put a gentle hand on her arm, warning.
“I know we agreed, but I can’t just watch her . . .” Mom’s voice twisted, and she looked away. “There are still things left to try, this doesn’t have to be the end.”
“It already is, Mom.” I took her hands in mine, beseeching. “I promise, I’ll call you guys, I’ll check in with the doctor, I’ll take all my meds. But you have to let me do this. I have time now, a couple of good months, maybe. Please don’t try and make me give that up, because I won’t do it. I can’t. Not even for you.”
She pulled away and wiped her eyes, but there was a faint nod before she hitched her purse and looked around, raising her arm to flag down a cab. “You should get going then. You don’t want to be late meeting Theo.”
“Travel safe,” I told them softly. “See you soon.”
I knew tears were coming, but I held them back long enough to slide into the backseat of the car and wave brightly out of the window as we pulled away. I watched them recede, small figures on the snow-drenched sidewalk, until we turned the corner and were gone. The next time I saw them, I knew, I would be in a hospital bed, but I couldn’t think of that now. The cab driver turned up the radio, and Frank Sinatra crooned softly as we wound our way through the empty city streets. I rolled the window down, and breathed it in, the crisp, clear scent of winter, snow clouds still hanging grey in the sky. I loved how this city turned over between the seasons. Only two months ago, these trees had blazed with burning color, and the skies shone a vivid blue; now the city blocks were dressed in monochrome, a smudged palette of sophistication, greys against charcoal, pale white lights splashed against midnight black. I remembered the envelope in my pocket, and imagined the art supplies it would buy, the studio that sat waiting for me and my canvas, just across the steel-tipped river.
My parents couldn’t understand, but if I could have chosen any way to see out the last days of my life, it was right there, with paint smudging my fingertips, and Theo—Theo—greeting me with a kiss. This was all I wanted, for better or for worse.
Chapter Twenty-Four
I found him on the corner in a part of the city I hadn’t been before, where the old row houses were crammed together, and the snow was already melted into grey rivers of slush that wound around potholes and trash as I clambered out of the cab.
“Welcome to my neighborhood,” he said, a wry note in his voice hiding the tension I could already see in his jaw.
“Merry Christmas,” I answered, leaning up to kiss him. I took my time about it, feeling the same rush of gladness that always sparked at his touch, to exist there in the circle of his embrace, to be a part of the world that had him in it. His mouth was as delicate as the snow still resting on the telephone wires above, but we finally came up for air; Theo’s tension seemed to have eased. He gave a rueful smile.
“It’s not too late,” he said. “We could still bail.”
I shook my head, and tucked my arm through his. “You said, it’s tradition.”
“A tradition of dysfunction.”
We began to walk, slow on the wet street. I could feel Theo’s reluctance with every step, and I wondered how many years he’d been traipsing back here for a holiday that was anything but merry. “How about this,” I suggested, wanting this year to be different for him. “How about we have a safe word?”
His lips curled in a smirk. “Oh, really?”
I laughed. “Not like that! I just mean, if things get too weird or difficult, you say the word, and I’ll come up with an excuse to leave. We’ll be out of there in ten seconds flat. I’ll fake a migraine, or something. Women’s troubles.”
He managed a smile. “You don’t have to.”
“I know, but think about it. Get out of jail free, if it gets too bad.”
“What word would it be?” he asked.
“Cranberry. Serendipity. Geronimo.”
Theo was laughing for real now. “Geronimo?”
“That’s the one then. Code-word, escape.”
Theo paused on the sidewalk, bringing his cold hands to my face. He smiled at me with gratitude in his eyes. “You’re something else,” he murmured, leaning in to kiss me again, and I went to him like gravity, leaning into the sun.
“Something like an ice cube,” I said, finally pulling away. “C’mon, the sooner we get started, the sooner we can Geronimo out of there!”
Whatever I’d been expecting, Theo’s father was nowhere near close: a spry, dark-haired man in a button-down shirt and faded leather jacket, Liam greeted us the minute we stepped through the steam-coated door of the faded diner down the block.
“Merry Christmas, get in here out of the cold. Theo, my son, and you must be the lovely Claire. Charmed, absolutely charmed.�
�� He kissed my hand, beaming. He had a faint Irish accent buried against the Boston burr. “Georgia, honey, let’s get some drinks in! Not like that,” he added, to Theo. “I’m off the sauce. Fifty-two days, I’ve got the chips and everything, but we don’t want to talk about that, not with this gorgeous creature. Claire, look at you, come sit down and tell me what you’re doing with a loser like my son. Just kidding!” Liam let out a hearty laugh and ruffled Theo’s hair, then headed for a table.
I took a breath. The diner was almost empty, just an older couple in a table by the windows, slowly spooning soup. A few crumpled paper decorations hung around the register, and a radio played Mariah Carey somewhere in back. The woman behind the counter greeted Theo by name, and he paused to wish her a happy holidays and ask about her kids. She had a smoker’s laugh, and patted him affectionately on the arm, giving me a brief assessing look before promising to bring us some water.
“Just water,” Theo said quietly, and she nodded.
“He’s not lying, been over a month now. He comes by after his meetings, he’s really trying this time.”
We joined Liam at the table set with plastic glasses and paper covers. Up close, I could see that for all his bright enthusiasm, there was hard living etched on his face: thin sunken cheeks, lines around his eyes. He made a show of holding out a chair for me—“Manners, boy. Don’t you forget how to treat a lady,” he said with a wink—then sat with a satisfied smile. “It’s about time you brought a girlfriend around,” he said. “I was beginning to wonder about you. No offense,” he added glibly. “I guess it takes all sorts these days.”
I felt Theo take a measured breath beside me.
“So how did you two meet then? Are you from that college?” he asked, not pausing. “Perks of the job, isn’t that right son? All those pretty young coeds running around.”
“No,” I answered, before Theo could. “I work in a coffee shop nearby.”
“Claire’s an artist,” Theo said shortly.
“Is that right?” Liam grinned. “Good for you. I’ve had a touch of the old creative spark myself. Used to act, did Theo tell you that? It’s where he gets his brains from, his old Pa. Not that I would waste them in that classroom, stuck with all those boring books.”
He launched into a story about local theatre and his shot at the big-time as Georgia brought over sodas, and Theo sat, still so tense beside me. “Took myself to New York, too, could have really been someone. Then I met Theo’s ma, of course. Should’ve learned to keep it zipped, you be careful about that, boy.”
Theo flushed, and I could see his jaw clenched tight, so I quickly changed the subject. “Where in Ireland are you from?”
Liam brightened. “Town called Killarney, out on the west part of the island. You ever been? No? Beautiful place, just beautiful.” He kept talking, about the community, and his wayward youth, and I finally let myself exhale. This, at least, seemed neutral ground.
Lunch was a limp turkey dinner, cranberry jelly still cold in the middle. I ate a polite amount, but Liam only picked at his food, drinking three cups of coffee and talking a mile a minute. His stories were vivid, full of local color, and maybe to an outsider, he could come across as charming, but I couldn’t help notice how every other anecdote contained a sly dig in Theo’s direction, a barbed remark bookended by a “no offense” or “just kidding.” I wondered if this was how he’d grown up, undercut at every turn, and it made me ache to think of it.
No wonder he never went back.
I found Theo’s hand under the table and gave a squeeze. He shot me a pale smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. I checked the clock and saw we’d been here barely an hour, but I wasn’t sure how much more I could take—for his sake, more than mine.
“Thing is, your generation doesn’t understand real work,” Liam was saying. “I put in an honest day’s work for a paycheck for thirty years, but if you listened to this one here, you’d think I never earned a dime.”
“So does this mean you finally found a job?” Theo asked coolly.
Liam scowled. “You know my back won’t take it, not after the accident.”
“Right.”
It was a soft comment, barely audible, but Liam pointed across the table. “Don’t you take that tone. I’m still your father, and you owe me some respect.”
“Owe you?” Theo echoed, then seemed to catch himself. “Sure. Whatever you say.”
Liam’s face set. “There you go again, disrespecting me. You see what I have to put up with?” he demanded in my direction.
Theo froze. “Leave Claire out of this.”
“Why, so you can go cry to her later about your deadbeat dad giving you a hard time?” Liam snorted. “In my day, we showed some fucking backbone.”
I was on my feet before I could think twice. “Geronimo,” I murmured quietly to Theo, and the relief on his face was a gift.
“We’re leaving now,” I told Liam, fighting to keep my tone pleasant. There were a hundred things I wanted to say to him, about the man in front of him he just couldn’t see, but being right didn’t matter; getting Theo away from this poison did. “It was nice to meet you, have a happy holidays.”
Theo shoved back his chair, and Liam’s face changed in an instant. “Now don’t go taking offense! I was just messing around, you shouldn’t listen to an old man like me.” He smiled widely. “We’re not even done with dinner. Theo doesn’t mind my jokes, do you, boy? You can’t leave now, I promise, I’ll be on my best behavior. Promise.” He mimed crossing his heart, gave me a wink, too, for good measure, but they were empty words, and we didn’t need them.
“Thank you for lunch,” I said firmly, and reached for my coat. “But we have to go.”
Theo helped me into it, then pulled out his wallet.
“Put that away, son.” Liam shook his head, but Theo resolutely pulled a twenty and tossed it down on the table. Liam’s smile slipped away, and something bitter took its place. “So that’s how it’s going to be, huh? My money’s no good to you? After everything I’ve done for you, I’m some fucking charity case now?”
Theo guided me to the exit, Liam’s surly voice following us until we were outside and the doors finally swung shut. The wind braced us, sharp and biting, and it was almost a relief after the cloying heat and all that resentment seething inside. I reached for Theo, but he was already striding out in front, head down, and it was as much as I could do to keep pace, fast on the slippery iced sidewalks until we were down the block and around the corner, and his footsteps finally slowed to a halt.
“Hey.” I touched his back gently.
“I’m sorry.” His voice was tight, and when he lifted his head, there was heartbreak in his eyes.
“What for?”
“For that,” Theo laughed, bitter. “All that bullshit. I should have known, God, you’d think after all this time, I would have known what we were walking into. That he couldn’t even try and behave himself for one fucking afternoon—”
He spun around and slammed his fist into the wall, so hard I flinched back in shock. He was wearing gloves, but still, I heard the pain in his voice as he swore under his breath. “Sorry. Fuck, I’m sorry.”
“There’s nothing to be sorry about,” I said softly. “You don’t have to apologize for him. That man in there has nothing to do with you.”
Theo shook his head. “God, I wish it was that easy.”
“Let me look at that.” I held out my hand. Theo paused, then reluctantly allowed me to peel off the glove. His knuckles looked bruised, but as I gently touched the swollen skin, there didn’t seem to be any breaks. “Ouch. You showed that wall. Feel better now?” I asked, trying to get a smile out of him.
“No.”
“Weird,” I teased. “Because violence is always the answer.”
Theo gave a rueful smile. “Clearly.”
I lifted his hand to my lips and kissed it lightly. “You’ll live. I, on the other hand, will hulk out if I don’t get something to eat.”
“Hulk, huh?” Theo’s smile finally melted into something real, that dazzling warmth that cut through the winter clouds with the power of a hundred suns. “Impossible.”
“Oh no, I go crazy, green muscles and all,” I laughed, relieved. “You don’t want to see me when I’m hangry.” I slipped my arm through his, and we started walking again, but this time, I could feel his tension ease, our steps falling in unison all the way down the street.
We found a small Ethiopian café open near the bridge, and spent an hour tucked away in the back, blocking out the ugliness of the lunchtime scene with as much laughter and teasing as we could bring. But Theo’s laughter faded, and I could tell, he wanted to talk.
“Has he always been like this?”
Theo tore strips off the bread, a flat loaf studded with cloves and spices. “Not always. He has phases, good years and bad. Even growing up, he could keep it together sometimes for months at a time. Mom would threaten to leave if he didn’t get his shit together, so, he’d try. Hold down a job, go to meetings, stay sober. Always just enough to keep me hoping, that this time, it was for real, you know? But then, something would set him off, and we’d be right back where we started. And then once Mom left . . .” Theo let the words trail away. “After that, he just stopped trying.”
“How old were you when she went?”
“Thirteen,” Theo said quietly.
“And you haven’t heard from her since?” I couldn’t believe it.
He shrugged. “She sent birthday cards, the first few years. Letters, full of apologies, some money sometimes, too. I didn’t write back, and eventually . . . she just gave up. She remarried; last I heard she was down in Raleigh, new kids. A new life.”
“And now you have one, too. One you built from scratch.” I held his hand, so full of admiration, but Theo just gave me that self-deprecating smile.
“Sure. Because a glorified tutoring job and a room in that house with four other guys is really success.”