by B. N. Toler
Feigning confusion, I reply, “What do you mean?”
“You’re so quiet.”
“Am I?” I hadn’t realized I’d been silent most of the way here. I can’t stop thinking about how awful it will be to tell her that I am not a match.
She watches me for a moment, her mouth in a tight, flat line. “Please don’t lie to me. I hate liars. What’s going on?”
Damn she’s just like her mother. Intuitive and never settling for an easy answer. “Hate is not a nice word. It’s just been a bad day,” I admit, rubbing the back of my neck. And that isn’t a lie. It’s been an awful fucking day.
She turns her head, staring straight ahead, her voice stoic, when she asks, “You’re not a match, are you?”
Fuck me. What do I say? I really don’t want to lie to her, but I’m not sure I want to be alone when she discovers the truth. I’m chickenshit that way. “Uh, Neena,” I begin.
“How did Mom take it?” She stops me.
Twisting her head so her gaze meets mine, I stare back and can tell she already knows. Squeezing the steering wheel, I let out a long sigh. “Pretty bad,” I admit. Definitely bad. Atrocious, actually. And she wasn’t the only one that felt that way. We all still feel like our worlds were rocked. And not in the good way, but in the shitty this-can’t-be-happening sort of way.
She’s silent for a long moment before she pulls the purple scarf off, revealing her bald head. She flips the visor down and stares at herself in the mirror, running her small hand over her smooth scalp. It’s the first time she’s let me see her without the scarf on and I have to admit, it’s crushing. She’s a twelve-year-old girl. She should be healthy and cutting out pictures in magazines of hairstyles she likes. That’s what kids are supposed to do. Letting her head drop, she flips the visor up. “If I tell you a secret, will you promise not to tell anyone?”
“Yeah, of course.”
She inhales deeply as if bracing herself for whatever she’s about to say. “I’m a little scared to die.”
My face tingles as the blood drains from it. I think I just literally felt my heart crack open. No little girl should have to think of things like this. Taking her hand in mine, I squeeze it and clear my throat, the whole time fighting the tears burning in my eyes. I’m not a crier—not by any means, but this kid gets to me. My kid.
“Don’t cry, Paul,” she warns me. “Please. I just needed someone I could say that to. Mom, she just . . . is always so positive and I know it’s just because she loves me and doesn’t want to give up, but . . .”
“But what?”
“I just needed to say it . . . or be able to say I’m scared without being told everything will be okay.”
I nod in understanding. “You can say anything to me, Neena. I’m here to listen.”
“I just . . . want everyone to be okay.”
“We will be . . . eventually,” I lie, before adding, “that doesn’t mean we won’t miss you like crazy every single day, kiddo.”
The faint smile she gives me does nothing to ease the ache in my chest. I’d gladly take her place, take on her cancer, and keep it for myself if I could. I’ve lived. Now should be her turn. When Clara pulls up beside us, she lets out a long breath. “This is going to be a long night,” she whispers. Then she opens the door and climbs out, leaving her purple scarf behind.
Hours have passed. Marcus and I are standing in the kitchen, drinking beer, when Clara returns from checking on Neena after she went to bed. When she enters, she looks like a ghost; her face pale, dark-lined eyes riddled with pain. The three of us joined here tonight to tell Neena the tragic news and planned to comfort her as best we could. But Neena, the old soul that she is, ended up comforting us. She truly is wise beyond her years.
First she hugged Clara, holding her tightly as Clara sobbed. Then when Marcus got choked up, she sat beside him and rested her head on his shoulder while she held his hand. I managed to hold it together; after all, she asked me not to cry, so I did my best to remain strong for her. This kid could give a lesson in strength. As I watched Clara and Marcus, I could see what Neena meant when she said she was afraid to die. I don’t think she meant she fears the actual act—at least not entirely—but she fears its aftermath. I get it. She’s afraid of what dying will do to the people she loves. She’s afraid of what will happen to her mother when she’s gone. She’s the strongest kid I’ve ever met—strongest person for that matter. But even the strongest walls need reinforcement. How heavy the weight must feel to know you are deteriorating, yet feel like you need to remain tough for those you love. She needs me to be her pillar of strength so she can continue to be strong. Maybe she didn’t ask for it specifically, but that’s what I got from our conversation in the car. Plus, I feel it in my bones. And although I’m crushed, I’ll do this for her. I will give her the strength she needs.
“She’s asleep,” Clara tells us.
“I think I’ll be heading home now,” Marcus announces as he throws his beer bottle in the trash. “Mei-ling will be crying all night when I tell her the news.”
“Thank you for being here, Marcus,” Clara says.
“Whatever you need—whatever she needs, I’m here.” Then he looks up at me and adds, “That goes for you, too.” He shakes my hand, hugs Clara, and heads out the door.
“Did you want to stay tonight and get your stuff tomorrow, or just come back tomorrow?”
Scratching the back of my neck, I answer, “I’ll come back tomorrow with my stuff. Unless you want me to stay.”
Her eyes seem to droop, her shoulders sagging as well. “If I ask you to lie on the couch with me and hold me, could you do it without thinking it means anything?”
I stare at her blankly for a moment. She’s asking me to hold her—lie beside her soft body and hold her? I’m shocked. “I think I could handle that,” I reply after a beat.
She exits the kitchen and I follow behind her into the living room. She stands by the sofa, waiting for me to lie down first. I can totally handle this. Can’t I? I mean, I think I can. I can handle being so close to her in such an intimate way . . . shit. Maybe this isn’t such a good idea. But I have to. She asked me to. She needs me to. I toe my shoes off and take my place, scooting as far back as I can to allow her enough room beside me. I extend the free arm I’m not lying on, letting her know I’m ready. She inhales deeply, releasing it slowly before she tentatively sits beside me and then lies down. Shimmying back, she curls her body into mine and the smell of fresh linens hit me. The woman still smells the same after all these years. It takes her a few seconds to adjust, but finally she stops moving and seems to sink on the spot. I move my hand awkwardly up and down her body without touching her. It’s just dangling midair. My instinct is to wrap my arm around her, pull her further into me, but I’m not sure if that’s what she wants. Thankfully, Clara answers for me when she grabs my hand and pulls it around her, holding my fist in her hand, and clutching it tightly to her chest.
“Thank you, Paul,” she whispers, her voice trembling.
I squeeze her gently. “You’re welcome, Clara.” For the next hour or so, her body shakes as she weeps quietly, but she doesn’t speak. I haven’t always been good with words. And it would be cliché to say, it’s all going to be okay. Those words in a moment like this would be wasted breaths. It’s just like Neena mentioned earlier, she needed someone she could say things to without them spewing pretty words back at her. Clara just needs someone to hold her, let her cry, and let her be angry. She doesn’t need me to say anything. She just needs to feel me. Eventually her crying calms, and her body relaxes as she drifts off to sleep. And just before I close my eyes, letting sleep pull me into the uneasy, dark abyss, I whisper, “I’m here, Clara. I’m here for you.”
It’s nearly impossible to crack my eyes open. I haven’t slept so hard in years. But I’m incredibly warm to the point it’s uncomfortable, and I have to pee, so I force my lids open and let the morning light leak in. My vision is blurry and I rub my eyes. When I o
pen them again, the first thing I see is Neena with her camera—pointing directly at me. She’s wearing a black beanie, her perfect dark eyes peering at me as she holds the camera in her lap, the side screen tilted so she can see what she’s filming.
“Sleep well, Mom?” she preens.
“I slept okay,” I croak. “How about you, baby?”
She grins. “You’re so not awake yet.”
I roll my head back with a sigh and hit my head on something. I jerk as Paul grunts, placing a hand to his forehead where I just headbutted him.
“Shit,” I gasp.
“Language,” Neena laughs.
“What time is it?” Paul rasps.
I practically fly off the couch. I didn’t mean to fall asleep on the sofa with him. I just needed . . . I don’t know what the hell I needed. I guess I just needed to be held and Paul was there. But clearly that was a mistake. I don’t want Neena dreaming up some fantasy that Paul and I might reunite.
“It’s seven,” Neena answers. “Sleep well, Dad?” Paul pushes up, his gaze jerking to Neena before moving to mine. My eyes widen. She just called him Dad. I guess noting Paul’s reaction, she asks, “Is it okay if I call you that?”
Paul pushes himself up until he’s sitting upright. Meeting Neena’s stare head-on and placing a hand to his chest over his heart, he replies, “It would be my greatest honor, kiddo.”
Neena smiles, then she looks to me. My heart wants to split in two. My beautiful girl is ill, but here she is, smiling. I want to give her a trillion more smiles in the time we have left. And somewhere deep inside where I’d built a wall to protect myself from Paul James, my fortress cracks. He’s weaving his way back in. My instinct is to protect her, but I can’t anymore. If he makes her smile like this in such a tremendously sad time, I must let him.
“I need to get to the office,” I intone after a beat.
“Yeah,” Paul adds, and clears his throat as he stands. “Think I’ll go get my stuff together later today. The hotel has late checkout. I appreciate you letting me stay here.”
“You’re staying here?” Neena gasps, her excitement hard to miss.
“In the guest room,” I clarify.
Neena springs up and rushes toward me, wrapping her skinny arms around my waist and squeezing tightly. “Thank you, Mom,” she whispers. Then she hugs Paul and the biggest grin spreads across his face.
Thank you, he mouths.
I give him a small smile before heading to the bathroom, hoping I’m not making a huge mistake.
“Mom?” Neena questions, her tone dainty as we drive to the Sky High.
“Yes,” I reply, before taking a sip of coffee from my travel mug.
“What’s it like to have sex?”
I nearly spit my coffee all over the steering wheel and front windshield. Somehow I manage to swallow it, but end up coughing a few times. “Why are you asking me this?”
“Who else can I ask?”
Sticking my mug back in the cup holder, I place both hands on the steering wheel, stiffening my arms, bracing myself for this conversation. “I’m glad you’re asking me, sweetie. You can always ask me anything. I’m just curious why you’re asking.”
She shifts in her seat, her hands knotted in her lap, a nervous habit she got from me. “If I tell you why I’m asking, will you promise not to cry?”
Damn. I don’t even know what she’s going to say and I already want to cry just because she is asking me not to. I take a deep breath to steady myself. “I promise.”
“I’ll never have sex.” She gives a little shrug. “Not like I want to now, but one day I think I probably would have.”
Don’t cry, Clara. Do not fucking cry. You promised.
“I want to know what it’s like.”
Blinking rapidly, cursing the tears that are threatening to spill, I steel myself. “Well,” I begin, not at all certain what will come out of my mouth next. “Sex is something that is really . . . wonderful when it’s between two people that really care about each other. When two people love each other, being able to connect to one another physically is something truly amazing.”
“What about people who have sex that don’t love each other?”
I widen my eyes. I definitely have not had enough coffee for this conversation. “I suppose if two adults are consenting to it, sex can be good if they don’t love each other, but definitely nowhere near as good as if they do.”
“So the sex was really good with Dad?”
“Neena,” I say, under my breath. “You really want to know that?”
“Not the details, just want to know if that’s what it was like with him.”
I lick my dry lips and grip my steering wheel more tightly. Flickers of heated moments with Paul pulse through my veins; his mouth, his fingers dancing across my skin, the deep and raspy groans he would let out as we made love. “Yes,” I answer. “It was like that with your father.”
“Was he the only guy you’ve ever been with?”
I shake my head. As a mother, I hate to admit to my daughter I’ve had sex with more than one man. She sees me as this perfect woman. But I don’t want to lie to her. “No, baby. He wasn’t.”
She chuckles a little. I think my honesty surprises her. “How many?”
“Neena!”
“One, two?”
“Four.”
She scrunches her face up. “That’s not very many, Mom. You’re nearing forty. That’s only like one a decade.”
“Well, what can I say? Ages one to ten were rough years for me,” I say, dryly.
“Okay, that’s a good point. But it’s still a low number.”
I can’t help laughing. “By whose standards?”
“I don’t know. The modern woman,” she sasses. “I read in a magazine that the average person has eight to ten sexual partners in their lifetime.”
I twist my mouth. “What magazine did you read that in?” Apparently, I’m slacking on supervising her exposure.
“I don’t remember,” she mumbles.
“Well I don’t think a person should feel the need to meet any definite number. Just because some statistic says society meets a number doesn’t mean we have to.”
“Well, you’re below average.”
“Sorry my number disappoints you, Neena,” I chuckle.
“Do you think Dad has been with a lot of women?”
I snort. I cringe to think of that number. “You’ll have to ask him that.”
“I can’t ask him that!” she shrieks.
Flicking my blinker and turning into the office parking lot, I say, “Then I guess we will never know.”
“Are you sad you never got married?”
Parking the car, I turn off the ignition. She’s out in full force today, asking me all the tough questions. “I was married,” I admit. “Once.”
Her eyes widen to the size of saucers. “What? To who?”
“His name was Kurt. It was a long time ago.”
“How could you never tell me this?” The look on her face is sheer shock.
“I don’t like to think about it, I guess.”
“Do you still love him or something?”
I laugh. “No,” I answer firmly. “But I did, or . . . thought I did, and he hurt me badly.”
Neena deflates a little, her tiny mouth curving into a frown. “What an asshole.”
“Neena!” I scold, even though I can’t help smiling a little.
She cracks a little grin. “Sorry. But he sounds like one.”
I pat her leg. “Do you think less of your mother now?”
She shakes her head animatedly. “No, Mom. I want to know more about you.”
“I think I revealed all of my skeletons today,” I say, as I open my car door.
Neena climbs out as well, and as I unlock the office door, we both turn at the sound of a van pulling in the parking lot. I sigh loudly. This little girl, Ashley, is relentless. I got us in two hours early in hopes of missing any reporters.
“
Hurry up and get inside,” I tell Neena. But Ashley practically hops out of the van while it’s still moving and rushes in behind us.
“Ashley,” I say her name firmly. “Enough of this. The answer is no.”
“Actually,” Neena says. “I want to give her the story.”
I freeze as I stare at Neena blankly. “What story?”
“The story of you and Dad and your lives and how I came to exist.”
Ashley, to her credit, remains silent, but I can tell she’s fighting a smile. She thinks she’s won. “Neena, you don’t—”
“I’m dying,” she snaps, shutting me up instantly. She’s never spoken to me this way. “Maybe if I had a lifetime I’d get to hear the story of my parents bit by bit. Even if you don’t want to tell me now because I’m young, you might have one day when I was older. But that’s not going to happen, Mom.”
“Neena, please—”
“I want to share this story, and I want to hear yours and Dad’s.”
“We can tell you the story. We don’t have to make this public knowledge.”
Stepping gingerly toward me, my heart nearly stops when she looks up at me and I see the tears brimming in her eyes. Neena hardly ever cries. Through all of this, the treatments, the sickness, the bad news, she’s been strong. “Please do this for me, Mom.”
Pulling her into me, and pressing her head to my shoulder, I exhale shakily. My sweet child wants our stories. She wants to know the path that led to her existence. But she’s too young to understand how reliving the past can be painful. It doesn’t matter though. Not anymore. I have so little I can give her right now other than my love and attention. If this will make her happy . . .”Sure. If Paul agrees, we’ll do it.”
Of course, Paul agreed. Neena has him wrapped around her finger. With one phone call, all it took was a simple pretty please and he’s on board. I think he’ll do anything for her. After the call, he passed by Sky High and picked up Neena before heading to my place to get settled in. The two are two peas in a pod. They’ve been spending a lot of time together. Even when she appears worn out, she wants to be around him a whole lot. I’ve learned to give them space. And he’s been super patient and delicate with her, especially when Neena pushes herself, so I’m starting to feel better about their time together. She’s just so happy when she’s near him. How can I not love that?