Spiral of Bliss: The Complete Boxed Set

by Nina Lane

  She jumps to catch it, her beautiful body arching like a rainbow. She’s wearing yoga pants and a faded King’s University shirt that clings to her torso, outlining every curve. Her hips. Her rear. Her waist. Her breasts.

  Her breasts. Her full, perfect, gorgeous breasts.

  Pain and terror seize my chest, so hard that for a second I can’t breathe. The world darkens. Liv vanishes from my line of sight.

  There’s a soft touch on my arm. My daughter’s voice filters through the dull roar in my ears. I inhale and focus on her. She’s holding out a fistful of grapes.

  “Gapes, Daddy,” she announces.

  “Thanks, honey.” I take a few grapes and rest my hand on her hair, trying to calm the sudden racing of my heart.

  “He won.” Liv returns to us, her cheeks flushed with exertion and her eyes bright. “Extra whipped cream for Nicholas.”

  “Me too,” Bella shouts.

  “Of course.” Liv bends to pick Bella up and looks at me. “You, professor?”

  “I’ll have some of yours.”

  “Then I’d better get extra whipped cream too,” she says with a smile. “C’mon, kids. Order up.”

  The three of them head for the hot chocolate stand. It’s so ordinary—a family of four having a picnic and hot chocolate in the park. How can something so normal feel so menacing?

  “Hey, man.”

  I glance up, lifting a hand to shade my eyes from the glare of the setting sun. Archer is standing in a shadow, his hands loosely on his hips.

  “Saw you from the parking lot,” he says, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. “I’m meeting Kelsey for dinner at Azteca.”

  “Good food there.”

  “You just hanging out?”

  “Yeah. Not a bad night for a picnic.” I nod to where Liv and the kids are standing in line. “And hot chocolate.”

  “I’ll wait and say hi.” Archer glances at his watch. “I’m early anyway.”

  He sits beside me. I fight the urge to move away. Archer and I have been on good terms the past few years, but we still don’t hang out much. And right now I don’t want him around.

  I especially don’t want to talk to him. I can’t stand the thought that I might hint something is wrong. And if I give voice to this horror… even accidentally… then it’s out in the world. Then it’s real.

  “How’s the fan club?” I ask, figuring that’s safe territory. “Kelsey up in arms about the groupies?”

  “Nah, I think she likes the publicity it’s bringing to the show.” Archer helps himself to a few potato chips. “The marriage proposals are weird though.”

  “You’re getting marriage proposals?”

  “Yeah, from random women.” He shakes his head with a laugh. “Ironic that women I’ve never met want to marry me, but I still can’t get Kelsey to say yes.”

  “You asked her again?”

  “Not yet. I’ve been waiting all these years for her to bring it up, but she hasn’t.”

  “Maybe she’ll come around now that you’re in such high demand.”

  “Or maybe I need to fight for her instead of wait for her.” He scratches his head. “She’s a tough cookie. She does her best work when she’s challenged. Even provoked.”

  I watch Liv as she turns to hand Nicholas a paper cup of cocoa. Her ponytail swings like a long, thick ribbon behind her. She’s challenged herself in countless ways over the years, and she’s fought battles that gave her a core of steel beneath her warm gentleness.

  But this? Why the fuck would the universe put this on her? She doesn’t need another battle. She needs the life she’s created.

  “I think it’s time for me to throw down the gauntlet,” my brother continues. “The Archey gauntlet.”

  “Uncle Archer!” Nicholas hurries toward us, carefully balancing his cream-topped cup with one hand and waving at Archer with the other.

  “Hey, slugger.” Archer and Nicholas exchange an elaborate series of fist-bumps before Archer picks up Bella for a hug. “Where’s my hot chocolate?”

  With a generous sweep of her hand, Bella holds out her paper cup.

  Archer obligingly takes a sip and gives Liv a grin. “Hey, you still need me to come check out that water pipe at the café?”

  “Yes.” Liv groans dramatically and hands me a cup of hot chocolate. “It’s still leaking.”

  “I can swing by around four tomorrow afternoon,” Archer offers.

  “Great, I’ll be there. Just text me when you’re on the way.”

  Archer spends a few minutes wrestling Nicholas and tickling Bella before he heads off to meet Kelsey.

  Kelsey. We’ll have to tell her too. But I don’t want to tell anyone. I can’t even tell myself.

  The sun sinks slowly, and when cold begins to snake through the air, we pack up and head home. Our bedtime routine is reassuringly normal—Nicholas and Bella run around in their pajamas, leaping off the bed and pretending they’re superheroes, while Liv and I cajole, order firmly, and finally threaten them with no TV tomorrow unless they get into bed.

  I read to Nicholas while Liv reads to Bella, then we change places for a while before the kids finally drift off to sleep.

  After their lights are out, I find Liv in the bedroom, pulling off her pants and T-shirt to change into her nightgown. Any other time, I’d stop to admire the sight of my wife standing there in her bra and panties, all soft and sexy.

  But now I suddenly don’t know if it’s okay to watch her undress, to look at her body, to approach her for a kiss and fondle her breasts like I always have before.

  I don’t know if it’ll ever be okay again.

  Liv glances at me. A faint, unpleasant awkwardness crackles in the air. She picks up her nightgown and goes into the bathroom, closing the door behind her.

  No. No fucking way will she shut me out. I won’t let her. I won’t let it put a wall between us.

  I change into a pair of pajama bottoms and a T-shirt, then sit on the bed and wait. The water runs in the bathroom. There’s a long stretch of silence before the door finally opens again.

  Liv stops and looks at me without surprise, as if she knew I’d be waiting for her. She wraps her arms around her midriff, hugging herself.

  “I can’t believe it,” she finally says.

  My throat tightens. “Neither can I.”

  “What am I going to do?”

  I stand and cross the room to her. I take hold of her shoulders and pull her toward me. She stiffens for an instant before relaxing into me, pressing her face against my chest. I fold my arms around her. Hard.

  “We are going to fight this together.” I lower my head close to her ear, breathing in her peaches-and-cream scent. “We are going to get you the best doctors, the best treatment, in the whole damned country. We are going to battle, and we are going to win.”

  I pull back to gaze at her, taking hold of the sides of her head. I lift her face so she has to look at me. And though the fear and disbelief burning in her brown eyes cuts me in half, I manage to keep my voice even.

  “We’re also going to bed together, just like we always do,” I tell her. “We’re going to wake up tomorrow morning, have breakfast with our children, get them off to school, and go to work. We’re going to kiss each other, laugh, complain, get stuff done, talk about our days, figure out what to do for dinner, watch TV, and read books.

  “I’m going to squeeze your ass when the kids aren’t looking. We’re going to build Lego towers with Nicholas and paint pictures with Bella. We’re going to live exactly the way we always do because nothing… nothing… will ever change the fact that we’re a family with an incredibly blessed life to live. And that’s what we are going to keep doing.”

  Liv looks at me for a long minute. The tightness in my throat eases a little. I brush my thumb against her lips.

  “I l
ove you,” she whispers.

  “I love you, beauty.” My voice cracks. “With everything I am. With so much more than I am.”

  Tears flood her eyes, a deluge she’s been fighting all day. A sob breaks from her throat—a strangled noise that scrapes me raw with pain. Liv grips my shirt, twisting the cotton in her fists. Her cheeks and neck dampen with an onslaught of tears that seems endless.

  I sink to the floor, pulling her against me. Rage trembles in my blood, the violent start of an earthquake. I smother it, focusing on my wife in my arms, the scent of her hair, the press of her cheek against my chest.

  I wrap myself around her, locking her against me with all my strength, as if I can stop this horror, protect her from it, make it go away. She’s shaking so hard. Tremors rack her body. Her anguished sobs twist inside me, cracking me apart.

  I don’t often ask for things. I know how much I’ve been given. I know how fortunate I am. I know I don’t deserve more.

  But she does.

  This is Liv. The woman whose heart is made of everything good. The woman who believes in the power of cupcakes and the importance of lists. The woman who has the purity of a snowflake and the strength of steel.

  Not her. Please not her. Not my beautiful, perfect Liv.

  Please.

  A sinister territory stretches in front of us. A land of monsters.

  How do I fight? What are my weapons? How do I protect her?

  I hold my wife tighter than I ever have before.

  CHAPTER NINE

  OLIVIA

  November 28

  I DON’T SAY THE WORD ALOUD, not even to Dean. It festers in my brain like an infection, something slimy, stinking, rotten. It’s puke-green and an ugly, yellowish brown like a fetid swamp.

  I try to block it, not to let it slither into all the other thoughts running through my mind—Should I make a peanut butter or turkey sandwich for Nicholas’s lunch? Should I put green or blue hair ties on Bella’s braids? I need to stop by the grocery store before work. Nicholas has soccer this afternoon.

  The mundane thoughts are soothing, welcome, but it still lingers in the background, watching me with cold, unblinking eyes. Waiting.

  I try to focus on practicality, the things that need to be done, both in our everyday lives and in this new, freakishly horrifying world in which we’ve found ourselves.

  I get through the next few days by reminding myself to breathe and telling myself everything I’m doing. Now I need to pick out Bella’s clothes. Now I’m helping Nicholas brush his teeth. Now I’m taking orders for a Mad Hatter tea party. Now I’m boxing up a dozen chocolate cupcakes.

  Only once during my shift at the café do I have to lock myself in the office when an onslaught of tears hits me too fast to stop. At home, I’m able to keep my fear and pain suppressed until nighttime, when I fall against Dean and let myself cry until my throat is raw and I’m exhausted enough to sleep.

  I suspect mornings will continue to be especially awful, as I pull myself out of sleep with the vague sense that I’ve just had a dreadful nightmare… and then I remember the nightmare is real.

  The nightmare is inside my body.

  It’s such an insane thought. I don’t look sick. I certainly don’t feel sick. Just the opposite, in fact. Half the time, I think the diagnosis is some horrible mistake. The pathologist read the samples wrong. Any minute Dr. Nolan will call and tell me it’s really just a benign tumor, nothing to worry about, nothing at all.

  Except that she doesn’t.

  Instead she calls to tell me what my next “step” will be—surgery—and encourages me to meet with several doctors before choosing a surgeon and an oncologist. We’re forced to wait over the Thanksgiving holiday before scheduling appointments.

  Dean and I don’t talk much in the immediate aftermath of the diagnosis. Outwardly, he also focuses on getting things done, but anguish burns in his eyes, and he hovers around me as if he’s a hawk wanting to swoop in and save me.

  Just like he always has before.

  After spending a quiet Thanksgiving at home, our first meeting is with Dr. Holt, a highly regarded, experienced surgeon who extends his hand to Dean first.

  “Pleasure to meet you both,” the doctor says as we sit in front of his desk. “I’ve had a look at your wife’s file and will give you several options as to course of treatment.”

  He starts telling us what we already know—the location of the tumor, the need for further testing, the results of the biopsy. Then he explains that while I might be a good candidate for a lumpectomy, which would remove only the tumor and surrounding tissue, he would recommend a mastectomy. The removal of my breast.

  I nod, feeling oddly detached from myself. Ever since Dr. Nolan mentioned it as a potential option, my instinctive response has been that yes, I want a mastectomy.

  It’s a grueling, painful procedure, an aggressive approach, but I don’t care. The only thing I care about is getting this horrible thing out of my body and resuming my life as it was before.

  Except that my life will never be as it was before.

  Dr. Holt rambles on about the surgery, glancing at Dean as he talks about how reconstructed breasts will look and feel.

  “Breasts are important to men too, you know,” the doctor tells me.

  I feel Dean tense with irritation.

  “What’s important,” he says coldly, “is getting rid of the cancer.”

  I put my hand on his arm. His muscles are clenched tight.

  “What about the lumpectomy?” I ask the doctor. “Dr. Nolan said that might be an option too.”

  “A mastectomy will give you more peace of mind,” Dr. Holt says. “You don’t want to put yourself through the fear of screenings since you’re the kind of woman who will worry. You sure don’t want to put your husband through that.”

  Before I can respond past the tightness in my throat, Dean addresses the doctor sharply.

  “What do you know about the kind of woman my wife is?”

  “Most women worry about screenings,” Dr. Holt replies. “And the survival rate with either surgery is about the same. Of course, if the cancer has spread, the game changes.”

  “Are you fucking kidding me?” Dean’s voice slices so fast through the air that Dr. Holt and I both startle.

  “I beg your pardon?” the doctor asks.

  “I said…” Dean stands, his full height dominating the room and his face dark with anger, “are you fucking kidding me by calling this a game? You’re talking about my wife’s life, not a goddamned game. And you don’t know jack about her or us. So don’t you fucking tell her what she should or shouldn’t do, much less what kind of woman she is.”

  He grabs my hand and pulls me to my feet, turning to stalk out the door.

  “Dean, slow down.” I hurry after him, my stomach knotting. “Please.”

  A curse snaps out of him. We reach the parking lot, and he lets go of my hand, striding away from me. He rests one hand against the side of the building and lowers his head. Even from a distance, I can see him shaking.

  Pain squeezes my heart in a fist. I stop, unsure whether or not to approach him. I walk forward slowly and rest my hand on his back. The vibrations from his trembling are so deep they travel up my arm and into my bones.

  “Dean.”

  He doesn’t respond, doesn’t turn toward me. An unexpected surge of guilt hits me, filling my chest.

  I did this to him. I’m the one causing him this torture, this pain. Me and my suddenly traitorous body.

  I can’t bring myself to move closer, to wrap my arms around him and whisper words of comfort. I don’t know what to say. I can’t tell him everything will be okay when I don’t know if it will.

  Dean pushes away from the wall and heads to the parking lot. The anger doesn’t leave him. It edges every one of his movements, from the way he
jerks the car into gear to the way he unlocks the front door.

  Over the next few days, the only time I see him suppress his anger is when he’s with the children, though I’m certain they can sense it as acutely as I can.

  I don’t know what to do with Dean’s anger. My own anger is buried beneath so many other emotions that I don’t even know what or who I’m angry with. The universe? My body? Myself?

  Mostly I’m just terrified.

  God knows Dean and I have been locked away from each other before—because of our own insecurities, anger, lies, pain—but we knew we were the ones at fault and the ones who had to repair the damage. Never has something so insidious, so horrific, slithered into the space between us.

  And since the day we met, not once has Dean flinched from any of the monsters threatening either me or our relationship. On the contrary—he’s drawn his sword and battled them all into retreat.

  Now more than ever, I know my husband is gathering his weapons and devising a plan of attack, that he’ll be the first person charging into the war zone. It’s what he’s done all his life, what he does best.

  But this, we both know, is different. This is the one monster my white knight can’t battle. The one he can’t even face.

  CHAPTER TEN

  OLIVIA

  December 1

  WE ARE DELUGED WITH INFORMATION FROM all sources. Doctors, books, pamphlets, websites, counselors. Dean spends a great deal of time in his office, but I know he’s not researching medieval French chronicles.

  Instead he’s delving into the chaotic maze of information about tumor stages, treatments, options, statistics, and doctor credentials. He’s reading medical articles, clinical trial reports, and he’s contacting oncologists and surgeons everywhere to ensure that I get the “best treatment” possible.

  “Dean, there’s no reason for me to travel across the country,” I tell him after we’ve put the kids to bed. “Forest Grove Hospital is a top-rated institute, and the breast center is fully accredited. The doctors there are all excellent.”