Sick Day

by Morgan Parker

  “You’re right,” I told her. “I’m not a perv.”

  She giggled and looked good doing it. “And I’m not a smoker.”

  “I’m Cam.”

  “I’m Riley.”

  We laughed. My appetite waned after that single conversation, and I realized the meal I had ordered was far too ambitious for me. I offered her a roll, and when she gave me an affirmative nod, I fed it to her with the chopsticks. I had never fed a stranger before, but something about Riley felt familiar, maybe it was the smile that erased all of the bad in the world. She was a new beginning.

  That was how I met Riley, the woman with hair so blonde you swore she was Heaven’s equivalent to a Wal-Mart greeter, and legs so fine the only thing you could imagine was what they would feel like wrapped around you, around your neck.

  Just like that, Hope fell into a compartment of my mind that I could forget about, the one that allowed me to try and accept that goodbyes were indeed forever.

  I never asked why Riley wanted to take up smoking that night, and she never brought it up.

  } i {

  Present Day

  Chapter 57

  8:01 PM

  Stepping into my condo, I notice that Riley must’ve come by to collect some of her things. Why she needed the Keurig, microwave, and a few other things will forever be a mystery, but something I know she doesn’t need is, well, me. We still own the executive townhouse in the suburbs, and I suspect that’s where she will end up moving after giving the tenants the required noticed to terminate their lease.

  I walk through the kitchen and head straight to the Bat Cave, closing the sliding French doors for that extra layer of isolation. It surprises me that she didn’t defecate or otherwise ruin this room. Then again, Riley’s a classy woman. Hope was right about her—she never deserved any of this.

  Despite my utter lack of motivation after watching Hope board the 361 Metra that left the Ovie at 7:35, I reach for the keyboard and access the internet on the large television. I notice that Landon has sent a margin call on the futures contract I booked through his firm. It’s an obligation I will fail to fulfill.

  Officially, I’ve lost everything.

  I check the email account and see the messages from Raj, which I could just as easily access through my phone. Instead, I read the big words on the screen:

  Raj: Newman has evidence that you’re not sick. I’ve been instructed to terminate you, Cam. I’m sorry.

  Correction from earlier: Now I’ve officially lost everything.

  I toss the wireless keyboard onto the floor and lay back into Topsy when I hear the knock at the door. My first thought drifts to Hope, but I remember seeing the train leave the station.

  Hopping out of the beanbag, I hurry to the door and open it—to Newman. The smile on his face makes my wasted sick day feel utterly tragic. When he hands me an envelope and clears his throat, I worry that the excitement might nudge him into cardiac arrest.

  “Hope it was worth it,” he tells me.

  Funny choice of words. “Hope is worth it, yes.”

  My response confuses him, so he shrugs it off. “It gave me great pleasure to find you outside the Walgreen’s on North Michigan today, Cam. That’s all I needed. And Rick in IT was able to see how you manipulated the employee system to make it look like you still had sick days.” He taps the side of his head. “Might not have the best memory, but I’ve been watching you all year, motherfucker.”

  “That’s sweet, Newman. But you know something? Shit happens for a reason. And terminating me gives me a reason.”

  More of that deer-in-the-headlights look.

  I reach for the door to close it, but give my worst-boss-ever a final glance. “Are we done here?”

  He stumbles on his words. “I…that…the, uh, payout is just the minimum, asshole. State regs.”

  I give him a thankful grin because if he had evidence to terminate my employment with cause, he really didn’t have to fund any kind of payout. It was nice that he had, though. It might cover my flight to chase down Hope.

  “Goodnight, Newman.” I start shutting the door, but his foot stops me. Sighing, I open up for him. Again.

  “You did great work, Cam,” he admits with a reluctant pity. “It’s just too bad you’re such a fucking idiot. I hated your face, your attitude, just everything about you.”

  I don’t think we will miss each other, Newman and I. “Is this goodbye?”

  But he’s already walking away.

  Closing the door, I don’t bother to make sure he gets on the elevator. I open the envelope and see a single check from Second City Financial. It’s more substantial than I figured it would be—enough to cover the margin call, anyway.

  And maybe a standby airline ticket.

  } i {

  Chapter 58

  10:21 PM

  I hear another knock a couple of hours later, interrupting the game on the television. My face burns from wine I drank—the Ontario wine that Riley and I had discovered so long ago. When I stand up, I feel a little lightheaded. Not drunk, but also in no condition to operate a motorized vehicle.

  Walking toward the door, I wonder if it might be Newman again. Or Riley, but she has a key and would undoubtedly let herself in. My last hope is that it’s, well, Hope.

  As I reach for the door handle, I notice my rapid heartbeat, the anticipation and sense of optimism. It’s her…I just know it.

  I can literally feel Hope’s familiar presence, and it’s got my entire spirit trembling. Before I latch onto the door handle, I take a deep breath. And for the first the time since the night I first saw Riley outside that long-forgotten sushi restaurant, I understand why she could never take up smoking. It wasn’t natural. Not like this, not like how the essence of Hope belongs with me.

  With a hesitation that I blame on just how horribly my day has gone, I turn the knob and open the door, but I’m staring down at my feet. No, I’m not staring—my eyes are closed, sealed shut because I don’t want to open them to anyone else but Hope.

  And then I feel her hand on my face, her soft fingertips leaving a tingle in their wake. Her touch robs my fears, replaces them with a warmth I can only describe as pure love.

  “Open your eyes,” I hear her whisper. “It’s okay. You can open them now.”

  I shake my head. I was wrong about so many things today—wrong about Hope, wrong about Our Story, wrong about getting away with my sick day at work. I was wrong about Newman, wrong about Gordo, wrong about…everything.

  “I don’t want to be wrong anymore,” I whisper.

  “Cameron,” she says. And in my heart and soul and entire being, I know it’s her—I know it’s Hope—but I just can’t bring myself to look and see for myself. “You need to open your eyes now.”

  I shake my head a little more fiercely now.

  So she kisses me, and those lips confirm everything—the feel, the taste, the warmth.

  It’s Hope. My Hope.

  “Open your eyes, goob! If you want to know how Our Story really ends, look at me and let me tell you my four words. Let me tell you what I’ve never been able to say to you.”

  Goodbye?

  She sighs, but continues to hold my face with her hands. Then she brings her forehead to mine, and we’re so close, I can feel the honesty in what she tells me. “I love you, Cameron.”

  “My four words,” I whisper, my chest threatening to burst. “I love you, Hope.”

  I lean in for another kiss, but she cranes her neck away. “No…” she says, her eyes widening. “No, Cameron. Those aren’t the four words. The four words are these: I love you more.”

  At last, I take a deep breath and open my eyes.

  Hope is mine.

  Forever.

  } i {

  Epilogue

  While waiting for the doctor to call me into his office for my test results, I stared at the pictures inside a National Geographic. I tried to read the article, but my mind wandered, worried about whether Oliver would come home
on time tonight. The fear that he wouldn’t show up was a recurring one with no merit, but I still worried because our love had been one of struggle, of fighting and perseverance. Now that we had finally come together, I worried.

  While the pictures for the article impressed me, I realized that the two loneliest places in the world were the arrivals gate at the airport—mostly when you arrived and nobody greeted you—and a doctor’s office after you were called in to discuss test results. Even if Oliver had joined me, this would feel like the loneliest moment of my day.

  “Ms. Warren?” one of the administrators said. “This way, please.” She ushered me through the tight halls to the wood-paneled office at the end. Volumes of medical texts lined the shelves on one of those walls, and I wondered if Dr. Reynolds had indeed read every one of them. I sat in a chair and was told “the doctor” would arrive shortly.

  Half an hour later, he entered the office, whistling and carrying a folder with my test results inside. He sat behind his nice desk, read the remarks, and the whistling ended with an oh shit finality.

  He looked up at me, and I could tell he barely recognized me from when I first approached him six months or so ago when we first started this process of tests—the blood tests first, then the specialist, then the CT scan, then the MRI.

  It was bad news. And while he told me to get my affairs in order, all I could think about was how Oliver would so easily survive without me.

  } i {

  It didn’t take all that long for my condition to get worse. And when things got to the point where I couldn’t manage while Oliver was at work, I insisted that he bring me to the hospital. We both knew I would never come home, and while that decision broke my heart it wrecked Oliver worse. Over the course of these past few months, he had aged, a lot. Because love does that—it wrecks you.

  “Wait,” I said at the door to our small apartment. I kicked my shoes off, smiling at the memory of that first night we had spent together, entering that room and kicking my shoes off way back then. “I want to say goodbye to our home.”

  He gave me a pleasant smile, then caught up to me as I entered our bedroom. Together, we stared at the bed where we had made the most memorable love of my life. Sliding his arm around my waist, he kissed the side of my face and told me he loved me.

  “I love you, too,” I replied, and then walked to the bathroom where we had also made love, where he had proposed to me while I applied eye goop to my face. I toyed with my wedding ring, and Oliver knew where my memory had taken me. That day. That proposal.

  “I’m so happy we’re married, Olivia,” he confessed, his face suddenly younger as he remembered that morning.

  “We fought hard for that, didn’t we?” I squeezed his arm.

  “Nobody has ever fought as hard for anything as you fought for our love.”

  I gave him a playful jab to the ribs. “I’ve still got some fight in me, goob.”

  He chuckled and tried to lead me away from the bathroom, but I stayed planted in the room.

  “The bullshit we put each other through, Oliver…” I shook my head.

  “Shhh,” he said. He kissed me next, probably to keep me quiet, to keep the tears at bay. “We have each other now.”

  I shook my head again and ran my hand along the bathroom counter. I had spent tears there, worried about losing the life we had finally captured, the life of togetherness. Refusing to shed another tear on a past I could never change, I stepped away from the bathroom and peeked into the second bedroom.

  The kids we would never have could’ve lived in that room. But even without this sickness robbing me of precious days with each breath, we were too old for kids once we were together. That bothered me a little, but Oliver said he didn’t want to share me with anyone. I liked that. Now, though, staring at the sofa bed and second television in this room, I wished we had gotten our act together sooner. Because knowing that Oliver had a lot of living left in him, and he would never find another companion to replace me, trusting our child to take care of him and check in on him on those special occasions would’ve provided me with an extra layer of comfort.

  He had nothing now. His own children would visit once they were bored, but they would never take the initiative to visit the man who had crushed their mother’s heart. He would be alone once I was gone.

  “I hate this room,” he told me, looking back down the hall where all the good memories were.

  I chuckled. “What will you do with it once I’m…you know?”

  He walked away.

  I followed him to the living room, stared out the balcony windows at the city outside. We had enjoyed wine, laughter, and conversations on that balcony, even as recently as last week when all I could do was smile at him and think, I will absolutely miss every breathing moment with this man.

  “I’m going to move into a house,” Oliver declared. “I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep here tonight, let alone once you’re…you know.”

  “How will you watch the stars, then?” I asked.

  “I’ll make sure I have a big patio, and I’ll watch for you from there. I don’t need this balcony.”

  We had decided in bed some time ago, when the medication stopped working the way it should, that once I died, I would speak to him through shooting stars. There had been some argument about the anniversary of our first kiss, but Oliver had eventually agreed on April fourth. It really could’ve been June twentieth or July twenty-first or even August twenty-second. I couldn’t remember because that day we spent together and kissed for the first time was a day spent in absolute Heaven. And I would speak to him through the shooting stars every day.

  Love can do that. It’s fierce. It’s permanent. It outlives our bodies, and it outlives us.

  I awoke in the hospital a little later, not sure what had happened. Oliver hurried over the moment he saw that my eyes were open and, when I tried to speak, nothing came out but a whisper.

  “I’m here, Olivia,” he said, his eyes tearing up.

  “Don’t be a pussy,” I scolded him.

  He chuckled, then kissed me hard because that was how much he loved me. He loved me with the hard permanence of forever.

  “I want our wedding picture,” I told him.

  He hurried away and rummaged through a bag, surprising me when he produced the exact photo I requested.

  He winked at me. “Soul mates.”

  I stared at the photo of this handsome man I had spent the best years of my life chasing and loving, and I smiled to myself before pressing the frame to my chest and closing my eyes. I knew I would die staring at Oliver’s face, either the real version hovering over me at this moment, or the photographed version that I held to my chest.

  And dying like that—with the last image you see being the man that you love…a happy ending despite the absence of a happily ever after…I…Hope—I hope for that kind of death. No, for that kind of life for everyone.

  THE END

  Acknowledgments

  My wife, Ms. Parker, without your support and critical eye, my dream of becoming an author would never be realized. Ever. Thank you for tolerating everyone else and allowing me to be the only normal person in this world.

  Amy Clark, you’re a lot like my work-wife. You nag and push and are the most persistent UKer I know. More reliable than a Renault Robin, although you’re equally easy to tip over. Anyway, any and all success is attributable to you, your hard work and your bizarre commitment to this Morgan Parker Project of ours. Thank you for making me look better that I ever could be.

  Megan Hand thank you for your high-level story advice and keen eye for details. You helped me fall in love with this story that I’ve written, and I’m forever indebted to you.

  Madison Seidler, thank you for your keen eye and for going easy on me. You played a difficult role with this novel and I’m very thankful to have met someone as patient and detailed as you are. Thank you for not making me cry.

  The Top-Secret Morganettes – MJ F, you’ve been there from
day 1 and stuck with my stories even through the really bad ones… I can’t thank you enough for being the “one person” who made the “one difference” that everyone underestimates; D T, you’ve inspired me from the moment I published my first story, I don’t understand why, but you still do and I love you for that; Kelsey B, your tough-love approach doesn’t really work but without it I wouldn’t keep reaching and stretching for something better, each time; Shell B, your humor and energy make me tired… thank you for teaching me about true risks; Rhonda K who is my living proof that real-life love stories really do exist; Laveda K, your skill at getting under my skin while simultaneously making me feel like the most talented person alive is uncanny (and sweet); Helen, for ongoing humor and especially for brining Sick Day alive with your amazing talent for finding the right images for the right teasers; Jenny Z, for your liveliness, energetic attitude and all of the kind words you’ve had for my stories and writing; Pamela M, for your tireless efforts in bringing life to this brand known as Morgan Parker, I can’t thank you enough; Janett G, for believing in me enough that you’ve shared me with “real life” people who are old enough to know better than read my kind of novels, and for sharing those stories with the group and proving that my stories can be enjoyed at any age; Amy L, you remind me of where I want to be, which is a place called Happy. Oh, and I love your green eyes, and; Patricia G, for your constructive feedback and criticism which is a fancy way of saying, thank you for pushing me to want and to do better. Thank you, ladies, for allowing me to be myself without consequence, and for letting me into your lives <3

  I have so many supporters I would love to thank individually. You know who you are. You. You are my readers and cheerleaders, the ones who, like me, don’t see their name in print but without whom this novel would never have made a single sale (no, really, even my mom couldn’t have bailed me out here because she doesn’t have Kindle). So yes, you!