“I didn’t mean to imply that something there could ‘fix’ you. It’s just a good place to get some…perspective,” Misty said.
“I realize I looked fairly pitiful last night, but I’m fine. I mean, I’m not fine…obviously…but I’m fine...emotionally speaking…sort of. I think I’ll do what everyone else does after a hard night in Vegas: I’m gonna nurse my hangover poolside, and forget about the whole dying thing for a while.”
“Well, all right,” Misty replied as she glanced at her watch, “I have to go down to work now. See ya.”
As she turned to walk away, I realized I’d been a bit rude.
“Thanks. For last night, I mean.”
“No problem,” Misty tossed over her shoulder, raising her right hand in a wave as she continued down the hallway.
I thought about showering, but since I was being rebellious, I simply brushed my teeth and left the room. “Small steps,” I thought. Being smelly and disgusting was my first step toward liberation. But as I slipped between the elevator doors, into the cramped, crowded box, I noticed that my own body odor was quite possibly overpowering the repulsive scent of smoke and urine. A little deodorant wasn’t going to quash my rebellion, was it? Once the elevator disgorged its passengers on the casino level, I stayed aboard and rode it back to my floor to rectify my armpit situation.
In my second defiant act of the day, I bought the tiniest bikini I could find at the hotel gift shop. I also acquired a book, a bottle of aspirin, sunglasses, sunscreen, and some water. I desperately needed water. My foray into alcoholism was officially over.
I found a bathroom in the pool area and squeezed into my new purchase. It was without a doubt the smallest thing I had ever worn in public. The washcloth in my room contained more material for far less money. Evan had always wanted me to look good, but at the same time, he didn’t want me to encourage men to gawk as I passed by. It was a fine line of which I never seemed to be on the right side. So, I was going to show off my body in my miniature bathing suit while I still had a body to show. I did a few power sit-ups on the bathroom floor, pulled my rat’s nest in to a ponytail, donned my sunglasses, and strutted my stuff across the hot concrete beside the hotel’s modest pool.
I found just the right spot and nestled into a lounge chair. Though I’d thoroughly enjoyed the previous night’s madcap adventure, this was more my kind of good time. Evan and I had a pool, but of course, like everything else in Evan’s life, it was just for show. I couldn’t recall the last time it was used for anything other than a birdbath. There was never any time allotted for pleasure and relaxation in his complete monopoly on my life.
Brunch was served to me poolside by another half-naked girl. Food sounded about as appetizing as a swift kick to the head, but I dove into my meal nevertheless. I figured it couldn’t possibly make me feel any worse.
With my dark complexion, the last thing I needed was a tan, so I slathered myself in sunscreen. I realized the irony of bothering with sunscreen when I was about to drop dead, but I couldn’t seem to break away from the social mores of attempting to avoid wrinkles and skin cancer.
I cracked open my book. The novel I had purchased was the most mindless thing I could find: a cheesy romance with a Fabio-type character illustrated on the cover. When my mind began to wander from the rippling muscles and graphically described sexual encounters in my novel, to Jerry and our conversation at my last appointment, I arose and dove into the frigid pool.
The aspirin, water, and food were starting to take the edge off of my hangover, although I still had a long way to go. I was hoping if I just lay there long enough, the desert heat would evaporate the rest of the alcohol directly from my oozing pores. I hadn’t felt well for a month or so already, so my hangover was just an intensified version of what had become my status quo.
I glanced around at the other hotel guests. Another favorite pastime of my mother’s had been people-watching. Watching people meant that one had to be around people, which I rarely was, with the exception of the “people” in Evan’s office. There wasn’t a single one of those stuffed shirt ninnies to whom I could relate.
On the rare occasion that Evan graced me with an evening out, he would always insinuate that I was looking at another man, so I would cast my eyes down, or on him. I never tried to watch other people. I had been with him since shortly before my twenty-first birthday and there was a lot I hadn’t done since then. I guess I was starting small.
I began by examining the younger folk standing in the shallow end of the pool—drink in one hand, throwing their heads back in laughter as if every word the other would speak was the funniest damn thing they’d ever heard. They appeared to delight in their repeated attempts to impress one another with their wit and/or stupidity.
There were women who were more about my age, although at times it was a bit difficult to tell. They were so tan and shriveled, it appeared as if sunbathing were a career choice.
And, of course, there were the couples. Oh, the couples! They fascinated me the most. There were the young couples stroking each other ad nauseam, and the middle-aged mates who had nothing left to say to one another. In the pool, she’d swim in one direction while he’d make sure to swim the other. You knew they’d wrap up the day at some über-romantic restaurant not speaking to one another, but rather, checking out the wait staff or bar flies and pondering what they would get up to if only they were still single.
Then there were the grays: the senior citizens who amused themselves enormously by reclining in the shade and watching people, just as I was doing. I imagined them sitting silently on their front porches in rocking chairs, wondering what their lives would have been like if each had left the other along the way. I considered the possibility that, like me, the grays watched other people because everyone else’s life seemed far more interesting than their own. Now they console themselves by blaming each other for their lost years. Was that me? Was I blaming Evan for all of my problems, when I should have been staring at the cold, stark reality reflecting back at me from the pool water?
Looking around some more, I noticed there were one or two duos that seemed to genuinely enjoy each other’s company. My guess was that they were not married. They probably hadn’t been together very long. In fact, it was possible that one party was paying the other for their company. That’s what the cynical side of me believed; although I suppose there remained the remote possibility that they were all very much in love.
I was feeling sick to my stomach again. Since I felt I was sufficiently charbroiled, and both my mindless book and the people I was watching had become a bore, I decided to head back to the room.
When I arrived, the light on the hotel phone was blinking. I was just about to retrieve my message when the phone began to ring. Assuming it was a hotel employee, maybe even Misty, I made the mistake of answering.
“Hello?”
“Stacia, what are you doing?” Evan shouted into my ear.
I could feel his anger pulsing down the line. Instantly, I became a mouse—a stupid goddamn mouse. Like always.
“I told you Evan...in the note. I need some time,” I stammered.
“Time for what? When should I be expecting you back?” he demanded.
“How did you find me?”
“The credit card, genius. Although I should have known. You’re always trying to drag me to this trashy hotel.”
Of course, how dumb could I be? All he had to do was look up my credit card activity online. In my haste I hadn’t thought about it, or much else for that matter. All I knew was that I needed to get away.
“Evan, I know this is hard to understand, but there are just—”
“Are you coming home or do I need to come up and get you?” Evan interrupted, annoyed. As usual, he wouldn’t let me finish my thought, or even explain where I was coming from. I was suddenly struck by his choice of words.
“Come up from where?”
I didn’t want to wait for the answer. In a panic, I slammed down the rec
eiver, shoved my belongings into my backpack, and dashed out the door. I scurried away, tail between my legs, in the opposite direction of the elevators. Upon conquering nineteen flights of stairs, I darted across the casino floor, most likely appearing as though I was lunatic on a meth trip. I was windblown, short of breath, and still clad in only a bikini. I scanned every inch of the lobby for Evan. My paranoia had reached an all-time high. As luck would have it, I spotted Misty with a tray full of drinks. I startled her a bit as I charged in her direction.
“Misty!” I shouted. Upon reaching her, I bent over to catch my breath.
“May I still come along to Sedona?” I inquired as nonchalantly as possible though my panicked fervor was most certainly palpable.
Misty eyed me up and down. She appeared unsure, but a hesitant “sure” came out of her mouth anyway.
“What time do we leave?” I barked as I scanned the casino floor for Evan. How ridiculous it was that I had to hide from my own husband.
“I get off at seven. Do you want to leave then?”
“Sounds great!” I tossed over my shoulder as I ran toward a side door I’d spotted. I needed a place to hide.
“I’ll meet you in the lobby!” she called out to me with a slight hesitation in her voice.
I couldn’t blame her for rethinking her decision to invite me. For her, she was taking some poor, dying woman on a mercy trip. For me, it was a much-welcomed opportunity to escape. Sadly enough, at that moment, Misty the Boozie was the best friend that I had.
CHAPTER 3
I had three hours to kill until our departure. I recognized that hanging around the hotel was not an ideal choice; I imagined Evan lurking around every corner. However, I hadn’t showered in two days and was still wearing my bikini, so I scurried over to the pool’s changing room to clean up and change back into my repugnant designer clothes. No sign of Evan there. Perhaps I was just imagining he would travel that far to collect me. Somewhere deep down I wanted to believe he would go to that amount of trouble, but having him chase me down was the last thing I needed. I wasn’t going to take any chances. I’d given him all of those years of my life; my death was me time.
I met Misty at the arranged time and place. I almost didn’t recognize her with her breasts stowed away. Clad in jeans and a T-shirt, she’d removed her clown makeup and pulled her blonde locks into a loose ponytail. She looked more like the girl next door than the Vegas vixen she had been just a few hours prior.
“Is that all you’re bringing?” Misty inquired as she checked out my backpack.
“Yup,” I affirmed with what little dignity I had left.
“Alrighty then,” she shrugged, and off we went.
We made our way to her ancient Volkswagen Beetle with a psychedelic tie-dyed paint job. Since Evan would have recoiled in horror and refused to ride in such an atrocity, I jumped right in. I briefly contemplated whether or not they had seatbelts when they made the vehicle in the ’60s; I was still unable to shake my survival instinct. I soon discovered that the seatbelts were the only new item that the beater possessed.
We drove quietly for a while. I’d never just hopped in a car with a stranger before, so I was unclear as to what proper etiquette dictates. I sat fidgeting silently in my seat and contemplated grilling her with personal questions. Fortunately, she spoke before I had to.
“We’ll stay at my boyfriend’s place tonight. He lives in Flagstaff, about thirty miles from Sedona. We can continue on in the morning.”
I just nodded. Great, I thought—two strangers.
“What made you change your mind about coming?” Misty wondered aloud.
“I think I accomplished all I was going to in Vegas.”
“Was Vegas part of your bucket list?”
I really hadn’t thought of it like that. I had more of an escape list. My subconscious was attempting to stay in Kübler-Ross’ denial stage for as long as possible.
“I guess I’m still on my mother’s bucket list,” I said. “Mine’s just overflow.”
“If you don’t mind me asking, what exactly are you dying from?”
“Wow, that’s direct.”
“I’m not known for my subtlety.”
“It’s the Big C...Cancer.”
“Brain?”
Of course she would assume that with my erratic behavior.
“No. Ovarian.”
“Chemo and radiation didn’t work?”
“I’m not gonna do any of that,” I insisted.
Misty fell silent.
A firm mass in my lower abdomen, Jerry had called it. They say a little knowledge is a dangerous thing. Having been a newborn nurse for all those years gave me just enough medical comprehension to be a paranoid hypochondriac. I had gone to Jerry expecting the worst, but was still surprised when he spit it out. He had poked and prodded at my stomach for ages before finally uttering those words I found myself trying desperately to erase from my mind.
“You’re right Stacia; it’s a firm, unmovable mass, and given your family history…”
I remembered what my mother’s doctor had told her. It all came flooding back to me. Ovarian cancer had a very poor prognosis. With treatment, she would have a twenty-five-percent chance of surviving five years. My mother made it only three. What the doctor had failed to mention was that the treatment was infinitely more torturous than the disease. She’d smiled and joked throughout the whole miserable process, just like she had through everything else, but she’d suffered tremendously. From my perspective, she squandered a chance at some quality of life, trading it in for doses of chemical and radioactive hope. I would have nothing to do with that. Whatever time I had left, I was going to live it.
“I want you to have some blood work, with a CA125,” Jerry had informed me as he scribbled on his clipboard. “It’s a tumor marker. And I’m going to send you for an ultrasound. I’ll also put in a referral for Dr. Jenkins. He’s an Oncologist. He’ll probably want you to get a PET scan.”
I’d just stared at him vacantly. My overwhelmed brain was in meltdown mode. Jerry set down his clipboard.
“Stacia, while I appreciate you coming to me all these years, I am, in fact, a gerontologist. This is over my head.”
Jerry had been my friend since elementary school. He was my first love. In kindergarten, much to his chagrin, I lassoed him with my jump rope on a regular basis in order to force my affections on him. My infatuation continued unrequited throughout first, second, and third grade. By our fourth year of school, Jerry realized that he liked to pal around with the girls and we started sharing play dates. Our mothers became close and his mom began to babysit me while mine worked nights at the hospital. I was always thrilled to spend evenings at their house.
Unfortunately, Jerry and I became more like girlfriends than a couple. We would pass notes in class, gossip about classmates, and play hopscotch. One time we both experimented with his mother’s makeup, and I was disheartened to discover that he looked so much prettier than me. The summer before junior high, Jerry decided that we needed “cooler” names than our given ones. He came up with the nickname “Stacia” for me, then tried to shorten Jerald to “Rald.” None of our surly preteen peers went for the whole “Rald” thing, but the name Stacia stuck.
It was in junior high that Jerry first confided that he might have more interest in boys than girls. I was crushed. I even cornered him and tried to kiss him in an attempt to convince him that his instincts were wrong, but sadly, it was to no avail. The power of my kiss could not change his innate sexual orientation.
A few years after I married Evan and moved from Las Vegas to Los Angeles, Jerry followed with his newly obtained medical degree. I infrequently went to the doctor, but when I did, I would only see Jerry. As silly as it was, I could never tell Evan I was seeing him; he would just view it as an infidelity, even though he knew full well that Jerry played for the other team. So, whenever I needed a Jerry fix, I’d fake some exotic illness and tell Evan I had to go to the doctor because the Internet
said it could be fatal. It wasn’t entirely a lie—especially the last time. Whoever expected the Internet to serve up such an accurate diagnosis?
When Jerry delivered the detrimental news, it threw me into a catatonic state. I couldn’t speak. The only thing I had the mental capacity to do was leave. I almost forgot to put my clothes on. I heard Jerry calling after me, but all I could think about was my mother and her fate. When Miriam warned Evan that all women eventually become just like their mothers, I had no idea how prophetic that would be.
Mom’s last time in the hospital had finally broken her. She was bald, emaciated, and missing a significant amount of her internal organs. On one of my daily visits, I found her curled up in a ball of tears. As she looked up at me, she seemed smaller and weaker than she had ever been. She’d asked me, “Why am I doing all this? Just so I can die tomorrow instead of today?” Turns out, the same thought had been going through both our heads. I checked her out of the hospital the following morning, and stayed with her until she died six days later—on her terms.
Unfortunately, Evan was the only person I had left in this world (with the exceptions of Jerry the flaming gerontologist and Misty—my new busty, drink-slinging buddy). I knew Evan, and as illogical as it was, he would be angry with me for being sick. I’d tried to ignore the situation and proceed with life as usual for a few days. I went to work, drove home, and stared at Evan across the cold, lonely dinner table. But I couldn’t ignore it. I hadn’t lived and I was going to die. Whatever life I had left was going to be on my terms…finally.
I realized that I had become lost in my own self-absorbed world when Misty broke the silence.
“If you could do one thing, what would it be?”
My death was genuinely the last thing that I wanted to talk about.
“Look, I appreciate you taking me with you, but you don’t have to turn this into a mission of the Make-A-Wish Foundation,” I blurted gruffly.
Disposition of Remains Page 2