Of Stillness and Storm

by Michele Phoenix

  So I’d taken the communication burden onto myself, with a bad attitude and a resentful spirit. Only Sullivan’s enthusiastic approval seemed to make the tedium bearable.

  “You may not realize this,” she’d said on a Skype call after reading one of my newsletters, “but if it weren’t for your reporting, we’d have no idea whether Sam was playing midwife to a poor sixteen-year-old villager or painting his toenails in the Kathmandu Hilton!”

  Sam always came home with dramatic stories to tell, but his experience helping a Nepali girl give birth in the bed of an ox-drawn cart while her husband tried to get them to the nearest clinic had made for a particularly entertaining letter.

  “He’d rather stay in a tent than at the Hilton,” I said.

  “One of the many ways in which Sam and I are different.”

  “I’m trying to think of ways in which you’re similar and drawing a blank …”

  “Skin,” she said. “We both have skin. It may not seem like much, as similarities go, but imagine the mess if all those organs were hanging out unrestricted.”

  I laughed. There were many reasons I was grateful to have reconnected with Sullivan. Laughter was one of the greatest.

  She’d left the mountain village after our semester abroad with an acceptance letter to a Southern bastion of education. Though she’d flown to Sternensee on a whim, eager for an adventure to spice up a “leisurely yawn of a life,” she’d discovered a passion for learning in the intimate, single-purposed atmosphere of Christschule. Where to invest that education hadn’t come to her quite as clearly. As she’d hopped off the ski lift on a sunny day near the middle of our semester abroad, she’d pointed a pole at the sky and declared, “I’m going to be a counselor!”

  She’d gone on to study psychology and had lasted nearly a year. (“It’s not as conversational as I thought it would be.”) She’d switched to teaching and only made it to her first classroom experience. (“Too much nose-wiping and not enough fun-having.”) And when an up-and-coming second-year at her father’s legal firm had asked her to the company’s New Year’s celebration, she’d found a calling and a Collin that required neither studies nor second thought.

  They wed within a year, a pink-saturated affair (“‘It’s my signature color’—get it?”), were living apart after four years, and now were married only in legal terms. Sullivan’s abandonment of a dreary career path had collided midflight with Collin’s escape from his sexual identity. He was now a well-respected lawyer for big-money, conservative clients in historical Savannah. His marriage, such as it was, cloaked a guilt-ridden private life that afforded Sullivan an existence as carefree and comfortable as she wanted it to be.

  “Do you ever feel like he has all the fun?” Sullivan drawled. “Sam gets to play a real-life Robinson Crusoe, inventing this and fixing that and—for heaven’s sake—birthing teensy Nepali babies while bouncing along a rocky mountain path. I’d be surprised if there wasn’t a giant S tattooed on his chest.”

  “There’s an E on mine,” I said. “It stands for ‘everything else.’”

  “Don’t fool yourself, Chickadee. You earned him that S. The stories are great and you honor your husband when you write about them, but your ‘everything else’ is the reason he gets to do what he does.”

  I let that sink in for a moment. “How did you know I needed to hear that?”

  “’Cause I would too, in your shoes … sensible and rubber-soled as they are.”

  “Are you attacking my footwear again?”

  “Your next care package may or may not contain a more glamorous alternative.”

  “Sullivan …”

  “I want you to know that I’m not just partnering with Sam in all of this. You know that, right? I’m cheering for you too.”

  With the memory of that conversation in my mind and one day to go before Sam’s return, I opened the laptop and pulled up a new document. One newsletter and one financial report. And then Facebook.

  To prove to myself that Aidan wasn’t the sole reason for my interest in Facebook, I opened the message waiting for me from Sullivan first.

  I’ll keep this brief. My Dudley is getting a new hairdo this p.m. and if I’m late, the only beautician who can groom his little stub without gagging will move on to another mutt. But you need to know that the gang’s been talking and we have an idea to run by you. I’m not going to tell you what it is just yet, but I think you’re going to LOVE it. Love it, I say! I’m just giving you a few days of heads-up to anticipate it, since your life there is so boring. What with the monkeys and the monks and the civil unrest. “When it comes to pain, you’re right up there with Elizabeth Taylor.” That’s my Magnolias quote for the day. Aren’t you loving Facebook??

  I laughed and shook my head. What had I done in those intervening years, when Sullivan’s bright, ferocious energy had been out of my life?

  I’d often wondered if any man could live in her wake for a protracted amount of time. It was moot musing, of course, as she seemed perfectly content in her pseudomarriage to Collin Geary. One of her favorite Steel Magnolias quotes was “The only reason people are nice to me is because I have more money than God.” She said it flippantly, usually after she’d secured an outrageous favor from someone who barely knew her. But Sullivan lived according to another quote from her favorite movie: “An ounce of pretension is worth a pound of manure.” As flamboyant as she was, she wielded her influence humbly. Still, I wondered if her primal brightness could exist tethered to another soul.

  I responded to her message with a quick one of my own.

  The monkeys are quiet, the monks are sleeping, and the protesters are taking a break. I’ve just finished writing newsletter number forty-nine. Let me repeat that. Newsletter number forty-nine! Elizabeth Taylor has nothing on me in the pain and suffering department. I can assure you I’d rather be taking three-legged Dudley to the beautician than trying to be pithy for the nearly fortieth time! (You realize they’re called groomers, right?) I’ll entertain the gang’s idea. Send it along.

  My cursor hovered over Aidan’s latest message. I hesitated to open it. It seemed … inappropriate, somehow, to be so caught up in preparing for Sam’s return home, yet yearning for contact with a friend from my past. Though I knew there wasn’t anything illicit about our communication, something about it frightened me. We knew each other with a fierceness that felt exhilarating and dangerous, yet somehow entirely innocuous. Even as teenagers, we played in the soft sand at the edge of the precipice, watching each other take flight with others while blissfully unaware, most of the time, of how close we were to falling. Ours was a contorted, visceral mismatch that left bystanders bemused and us infused with a “take on the world” energy we wouldn’t have found with anyone else.

  In its adult, digital form, the friendship felt just as powerful. Perhaps more so because of the depth and breadth age lent to juvenile connection. I remembered, again, Aidan’s promise to “say something” about prayer. Curiosity got the best of me. I clicked on Aidan’s message and his words popped up on my screen.

  really, ren. you shouldn’t have put so many words into your comments about ‘hope.’

  humbled by the ‘astounding.’ honored by the ‘still.’ it echoes.

  i realize you have a full and busy life and i know this message comes quickly on the heels of the last one. let me know if it’s too much. but … i guess i’ve said it before: there isn’t much room in my life right now for hesitancy of any kind.

  i need to unpack this tidbit of information for you. in the interest of, i don’t know, context. and full disclosure. or some other legal term that means, ‘you were one of the first people i wanted to tell.’ it might take a few minutes of your time. if you don’t have it right now, just close this window and come back when you do, okay? or never. no obligations here. none.

  i had a pretty terrible headache on labor day.

  there. don’t you feel enriched by that fact?

  just kidding.

  i had a h
eadache that felt like someone inside my head was using a sledgehammer to get out. i’d been drinking the night before and figured it was a bad hangover. then it got worse. sledgehammer to battering ram worse. i called one of the guys from work—my drinking buddy—and asked if he was sick too. i must have made some gnarly sound when i was talking to him or maybe i passed out. he tells me he was there within five minutes. called 911.

  so while most of the world on this side of the ocean was celebrating with cookouts, i was being poked and prodded and injected and iv-d and scanned. the pain was a few steps the other side of hell. i can’t express it. ren, i know you know this. there comes a time when all you have left to do is pray. i discovered how true that is while i lay on a gurney on labor day.

  the bottom line is a little thing called glioblastoma multiforme. by little, i mean the size of an orange. (never trust a fruit whose name has no rhyming words in the english language.) by thing, i mean tumor. they tell me it’s stage four. they tell me it’s the nastiest kind of critter.

  so … that’s where i’m at. and i wanted you to know. i went home after they stabilized me and gave me a list of specialists to see asap. and you know what i did once i’d showered and put on clothes that didn’t smell like hospital? i sat down at my computer and typed your name into facebook. no matches. did some googling. no hits.

  then i had my head cracked open. barbarian surgery. and tried to get back to seeing straight and not walking into doorways. my mom came out to see me through surgery. suggested you might be married. duh. called the old high school in west lorne. found out mr. foster still taught there. old geezer knew way too much about all our comrades in arms, including you. lauren coventry. back to facebook and still nothing.

  so i continued the unbuilding of my life. quit my job. moved to pa because my parents are here now and … well … i’ll be needing some help at some point in the (hopefully) distant future. they own a couple rentals. one down the street from them. guess who got evicted after his diagnosis?

  i weighed my medical options. duke. johns hopkins. mayo. learned way too much about way too many alternative approaches. and every time i had a minute to reflect on the time i have left, i typed your name into facebook again. then a few days ago, bingo. as if you knew.

  and here we are.

  not sure why i needed you to know about what’s happening. so badly. except that this—whatever ‘this’ is—feels death-defying.

  i know that raises more questions than it answers. most of the words that whip around the globe from you to me and me to you probably do. but this is … me. this is my battle. it’s why i don’t want to wait to answer your messages. or tackle the next painting. or watch the next sunset. or capture the next snowflake. (sappy but true.)

  this isn’t a bribe, by the way. ‘i’m sick so you have to … whatever.’ no pressure. and please, no pity. i’m going to kick this beast’s patooty. (language cleaned up just for you.)

  now you know. sigh. now you know.

  Night had fallen. Ryan had called to tell me he was sleeping over at Steven’s because his mom was out of town and Nyall had been called into the hospital for some kind of emergency. I’d told him to be back by noon tomorrow, when Sam would be home.

  I hadn’t moved from the bed in what felt like hours. The laptop was still open, Aidan’s message still displayed. I’d read and reread it, my breath catching, my throat constricting, my eyes filling and overflowing with tears. Aidan. Not Aidan. We hadn’t spoken in two decades and I’d mostly forgotten him in the intervening time. But finding each other again had disintegrated the distance, and it felt like he’d never been gone.

  My mind churned with questions and writhed with grief. I’d started a message twice, then erased it. Wordlessness consumed me.

  When my initial reaction had subsided enough for me to think more clearly, I started again, soon overcome by emotion.

  Aidan, I just read your message … I don’t know how to start. There’s a rock in my stomach. It speaks of grief and incomprehension and fragility and fear and fury. I’ve tried to find the words to express it, but this is a visceral thing words can’t unravel. I wish you were close. I need to read your face when you say things like “cancer” and “malignant.” I need to hear your voice when you utter words like “prayer” and “death-defying” and “peace.” I need to watch you breathe.

  You sound … braced. And aware. Who is there for you? How is your heart as you face this battle? What treatment will you undergo? So many questions. I Googled glioblastoma for thirty seconds, then stopped. What do you know, Aidan? And what do I need to know too?

  Silence. I don’t have the words to describe it so you’ll understand its mass. There’s this abyss that yawns between the friends we used to be and the adults we’re still becoming. And the memories in these messages—the places, smells, tastes, and emotions—have formed elusive stepping-stones that allow us closer. Just close enough to feel more keenly the void of absence. I venture out, hoping something will materialize under my feet, and there it is. There you are. But still too far to see. And hear. And reach.

  There’s an insurrection swirling in my mind. Not you. Not Aidan! You go ahead and pray. I’m going to scream for a while. And believe. And hope. And love.

  And love.

  I probably shouldn’t send this. It’s as tangled and bent and broken as my thoughts. But it’s real. Speak to me, Aidan.

  I’m right here—still.

  Ren

  My sleep was restless, shot through with the darkness of death and loss. I battled the specters of futility and helplessness. With the laptop beside me on Sam’s side of the bed, I propped myself up every time I started out of a tortured half slumber to see if Aidan had answered my message yet.

  The sky was brightening when I reached out to lift the laptop’s lid again. And there it was. There Aidan was.

  i wasn’t sure of how you’d respond. but as i read your message, i realized how sure i’d actually been. there are few people in this world whose words can be a healing thing …

  there’s no way of saying this without coming across like an egocentric jerk, so i’ll just throw it out there and trust you’ll understand. thank you for feeling so strongly. about me. that in itself is a validation of my postdiagnosis impulse to find you. i say impulse but we both know it was more of an obsession. you’ve seen me go through enough of those to get how excessive they can be. think kelly in ninth grade. think jack daniel’s (preferably out of the flask in the inside pocket of my so-cool denim jacket) in tenth grade. think kelly and jack and drag racing down main street at midnight in eleventh grade. think aidan-never-should-have-survived-high-school. so yeah. i was going to find you or die trying.

  quite literally.

  which brings me to the question of why, which brings me to the subject of you. ren—hear me clearly. tracking you down was not a cowardly ploy to drag someone with me through the hell of what the docs say might be two more months of life. six if i’m lucky. it wasn’t an attempt to guilt you into ‘being there for me.’ (though a certain episode in our history would make that a logical assumption.) but it wasn’t a casual reaching-out to give an old high school classmate a news update either.

  do you remember how this … how ‘this’ really started? the notebook you’d always leave under the desk in mrs. dailey’s classroom. i wrote ‘hi’ in it one day and you wrote ‘hi’ back. not sure how long it took you to figure out who was sitting in that desk when you weren’t in it. but the ‘hi’ expanded and curled into this swirl of words. ended up filling the inside cover of your notebook. then we started leaving loose notes. and this normal, two-kids-grow-up-in-the-same-small-town-and-go-to-the-same-schools thing … it turned into something else. and when i took the time, lying in that hospital bed on labor day, to look back over a life most accurately painted in the color beige (sigh), i saw bursts of bold, bright, primal colors. all yours.

  i know i’m dying. (haven’t gotten used to writing that yet … ) i’m going to try t
o beat the odds, but at some point … the odds are going to get me. and i don’t want my dying to be another shade of beige layered over a lifetime of beige. i need it to have color. just a few splotches here and there. just enough to keep me anchored to the vibrancy of life as i get absorbed, kicking and screaming, into death.

  that’s why i needed to connect with you.

  you know what? what i said earlier is a lie. this is entirely self-serving. it’s about me needing you and not caring enough about you to leave you out of whatever hellish death-throes lie ahead.

  but i never regretted writing that single word in the notebook back in mrs. dailey’s class. i dragged you through the kind of turbulence that had you begging to get off, half the time. but it was color and vitality to me. and now i’ve dragged you in again. i’d like to say it’s a selfless effort to offer you the ride of your life, except that it’s the ride of my death.

  i’m sorry, ren. it’s just now striking me what a narcissistic jerk i am. not the conclusion i was reaching for when i began this note … and i fear that the ren who chastised and calmed and accused and placated and rebuked and appeased and ultimately cared for me when i was an impulsive, obsessive kid will sacrifice herself for this cause too, despite the family and obligations and life you have now.

  geez. i don’t want you to do that for me. no self-immolation—please. just the occasional word to anchor me again. the splash of color. that’s all i was hoping for when i tracked you down.

  i’m well taken care of here. my parents live two houses down. (so much for being a grown-up.) medical care is great. chemo done just over a week ago—i hope. i’d just … i’d be really grateful for a now-and-again splash of you …

  still.

  a.

  I rolled onto my back and closed my eyes, feeling waves of contradictory emotions washing over my mind. Concern, frustration, fear, helplessness … inspiration, joy, need. Similar sentiments to what I’d experienced when Aidan had roused me from a deep sleep, our junior year, by throwing pebbles of increasing size at my window. It was the sound of fissuring glass that had finally startled me awake.