A LIFE MADE OF LAVA

by Del, Lissa

“What can I do?”

  I smile. Nick’s always had a driving need to make things easier, to help, but this is my burden to carry. “Stay,” I murmur. “For now, just stay.”

  He does. He stays for as long as it takes me to fall asleep, but whether that’s five minutes or five hours, I couldn’t say. I slip in and out of consciousness, a combination of the drugs and good old mother-of-three exhaustion.

  At some point Doctor Moxley arrives. The real one, not the cat. I keep my eyes closed, feigning sleep, until I hear Nick’s amused chuckle. “Stop acting, Evie.”

  I half-open one eye to find him and Doctor Moxley watching me.

  “How did you know?” I grumble, opening the other eye and slowly rising on my pillows.

  “You stopped snoring. It was so loud you woke yourself up.”

  “If it makes you feel any better, you had me fooled,” Doctor Moxley offers generously.

  “That’s very kind of you, Doc.” I wince at a spasm in my back and they both dart forward to help, rearranging my pillows until I’m as comfortable as I can be, which, admittedly, isn’t very comfortable at all.

  “Nick tells me you named your cat after me?” Doctor Moxley is teasing.

  “Don’t flatter yourself.” I flash him a grin. “He’s not actually our cat.”

  “He also tells me you’ve been experiencing a lot of pain?”

  I flush, embarrassed, though I have no idea why. “Yes.”

  “And these – episodes – does your medication help?”

  “That would depend which medication you’re referring to.”

  “Evie…” Nick warns.

  “What? It’s not as if he’s going to have me arrested.”

  Doctor Moxley smiles. “Does the pain react to any medication – prescribed or otherwise?”

  “It was, but lately… not so much,” I admit with a frown. He’s not writing any of this on my chart.

  The doctor pushes his glasses further up his nose. “Evie, how would you describe your pain now, on a scale of 1-10.”

  I tap into my body, into the part I’ve spent months trying to ignore. “Around a four, I guess.”

  Doctor Moxley turns to Nick with a wry smile, and Nick mumbles something that sounds suspiciously like, Don’t believe a word she says.

  “Fine, maybe a five, or a six,” I grumble. I know immediately that it’s not good. For someone in his position I would really expect Doctor Moxley to have a better poker face.

  “What?” I ask, fear making me snappish. “What does that mean?”

  Doctor Moxley looks at the drip, checks my chart. “The medication we have you on is the best there is.” An uncomfortable pause. “If it’s not working…”

  “It doesn’t get any better than this, is that what you’re saying?”

  He feels bad about it, but there’s no denying it. “No. I’m afraid it isn’t going to get any better.”

  Hope is a fickle bitch. “Okay, well I guess it is what it is. I’ll manage. Now, when can I go home, Doc?”

  The expression that crosses his face brings the world to a standstill. Nick clears his throat, looking anywhere but at me and I realise they must have had a conversation about this at some point while I was really asleep.

  “Right.” I fiddle with the edge of my blanket to keep from crying and to give Nick a chance to compose himself. He’s so close to falling apart. From the corner of my eye I see his back straighten, his fingers curling ever so slightly into his palms.

  Nobody says anything, because there’s nothing to say.

  I’m not going home.

  The seconds pass in absolute silence. A nurse passes the doorway, flashing me a polite and professional smile. From down the hall I hear the chiming of a call-button ringing in the nurse’s station. Somewhere, a phone is ringing. Mundane, ordinary things are happening while I learn my fate. My head dips in grim resignation and then I drag my eyes upward, to find Nick staring at my blanket-covered feet.

  “Hey!” I say, getting his attention. “Stop that.”

  “Stop what?”

  “Dwelling.”

  Doctor Moxley takes his cue to leave. “I’ll be back to check on you in a bit,” he says. “I’m going to go and check on the results of your blood test.”

  “Look at me,” I tell Nick when he’s gone. He obliges. “Everything is going to be okay. You’re going to be okay.”

  He shakes his head, slowly, side to side, as if the action might banish the dark thoughts from his mind.

  “You will be,” I insist. “Now stop being such a pansy.”

  “You have no idea,” he rasps, his words thick with suppressed tears. “No idea how much I’m going to miss you.”

  “You’ll see me again. Do you really think a little thing like dying is going to keep me from finding you again, in the afterlife?” I’m speaking quickly, forcefully, and I trip over the words.

  His hand covers mine and it’s still warm, so much warmer than my own. “Don’t.”

  “Nick, you’re going to be okay.” I suck in a shaky breath. “I’ve made sure of it…” One look at his face and I know he’s not ready for this. I don’t think he’ll ever be ready for it, but I have so much I need to say and I’m running out of time. I glance down at his lean, strong fingers, the tanned skin of his hand, with only the slightest smattering of dark hair near the wrist. Hands that drilled the holes to hang our family pictures, tickled our children until they squealed for mercy, hands which have brought me so much pleasure over the years that even now the thought of it brings a warm rush of heat to my face.

  I can’t bring myself to tell him yet. Soon, I think. Soon, but not now.

  42

  Julia

  Nick has been gone all day. He’s checked in twice, letting us know that Evie is okay, but that she’s going to have to stay at the hospital. He doesn’t say for how long. The children are unnaturally subdued and I know that they won’t really believe that Evie is fine until they see her with their own eyes, but Nick doesn’t mention me bringing them to the hospital and I don’t have the heart to ask. His voice is weary, laid-down with worry and exhaustion, and if he doesn’t want them there he must have a good reason. Until then, it’s up to me to keep the children distracted.

  “I’m waiting up for my dad,” Dylan announces when I gently prod them that it’s time for bed.

  “We don’t know what time your dad will be back, sweetheart,” I begin, but three pairs of eyes stare me down until I relent and let them fall asleep in front of the TV. It’s Sunday tomorrow, it’s not like they need to be up early to get ready for school. At last that’s what I tell myself as I clean up the dinner mess.

  Nick gets home after ten. I am dozing off on the sofa beside Jesse when I hear his car pull into the garage and I walk quietly through to the kitchen to meet him, careful not to wake the children.

  I open the door that leads to the garage just as Nick gets out of the car. He slams his door, runs his hands through his hair and then, unaware of me watching, slams his fist into the wall. I cringe at the dull thud and avert my eyes. Nick growls something, low and deep, as if the words were formed in the pit of his chest and by the time they rumbled to the surface they had become twisted into something unnatural. I don’t need to know exactly what those words were, because I can tell by the way they were said, that the news isn’t good.

  “Nick?” I say softly. He turns to peer at me through swollen eyelids.

  “She’s not coming home.”

  “For how long?” His face falls and I close my eyes for a second, letting the meaning wash over me. Oh God, no! I want to dissolve – to stride forward and punch that same spot, but my grief can wait. “Come inside,” I tell Nick. “I’ll make you some tea.”

  He follows me into the kitchen, slumps at the island and hangs his head in his hands.

  “Where are the kids?” he mumbles, too shattered to lift his head.

  “Sleeping. They’re in the living-room. They didn’t want to go to bed but I’ll carry them
up shortly.”

  “No,” he sighs, getting to his feet. “I’ll do it.”

  “I’ll help you.”

  I carry Casey upstairs and tuck her in, sliding her favourite teddy under her arm. Her forehead is smooth and warm to the touch as I brush a feather-light kiss across it. Nick has already taken Dylan and is on his way back down for Jesse, so I go back into the kitchen. I set Nick’s cup down just as he comes back from hefting Jesse upstairs.

  “He’s getting so heavy,” he says, resuming his slumped position.

  “I’m sorry I should have taken them up earlier, but they stayed up quite late and I wanted to make sure they were properly asleep before I did.”

  Silence. He doesn’t even seem to have heard me. My tooth snags on my lip, but I force myself to ask: “What did the doctor say?”

  “She can’t come home.”

  “Maybe she’ll pull through… she’s done it before. You know how this goes, it’s always up and down. She has her good days and her bad days. Maybe she-”

  “She’s not going to pull through,” Nick cuts me off. “Not this time.” He won’t look at me and I suspect it’s because he’s using every ounce of that herculean strength of his to keep it together.

  “Can the children see her?”

  He nods. “We can take them through tomorrow.”

  I set my cup down and draw in a shaky breath. “Do we need to prepare them? Is she… are there any machines, or…”

  He seems to understand what I’m asking and, to my relief, he answers before I finish. “No, just an IV, and they’ve seen that before.”

  I steel myself to ask the question I need to, the one that requires an answer – not for me, but for the three innocent little people upstairs who I need to make sure get through this.

  “How long?”

  The words ricochet off the walls and Nick shudders as if he feels it when they hit him. His eyes cloud over, a storm coming and his jaw is tight when he speaks. “A week, if that.”

  Dark tendrils flit at the edge of my vision and I blink them away, terrified that I might black out. There’s no air in this room, and if I can’t breathe, I have no idea how Nick can.

  “Well, I’m going to go to bed,” I say. I can feel my control slipping and I’d rather not be around him when it does. “Unless there’s anything else you need?”

  He shakes his head and I leave my cup on the counter as I head for the door.

  “Julia.”

  “Yes?”

  “Evie doesn’t know. She doesn’t want to know. She won’t live by a clock.”

  “I won’t say anything,” I promise.

  I drag my feet upstairs and curl up in my bed without bothering to get undressed or even to brush my teeth. Instead, I toss and turn, fully-clothed, all night until the rose-gold of dawn begins to filter through my curtains. Usually, I would appreciate the beauty of the sunrise, but today it only marks the beginning of a gut-wrenching countdown.

  After a hot shower I head downstairs to find the children engaged in a full-out war over cereal boxes. Milk has been spilt all over the vinyl floor and Dylan and Jesse are grappling over a blue plastic bowl which, to anyone else, looks exactly like every other plastic bowl in the cupboard, but for some reason is suddenly coveted above all the others. Before I can get to her, Casey slips in the spilt milk and bangs her head painfully on the floor. There’s a brief pause as she draws breath to scream and I scoop her up before she can erupt, pressing her face into my shirt to muffle the sound. There is no sign of Nick.

  “Stop that!” I tell Jesse and Dylan, snatching the bowl with my free hand and holding it above their heads. “What is going on with you two?”

  “I had it first!” Dylan yells, trying to jump for the bowl.

  “It’s my favourite!” Jesse insists. “He knows I always use that one!”

  “It’s only a bowl!” I snap. “And if you’re going to fight over it then neither of you can have it.” I set it on top of the fridge where neither can reach it. “Touch it and you’ll be sorry,” I add to Jesse, who’s already reaching for a chair. “It’s all right, Case,” I say, lowering my voice and rubbing the back of her head. Her hair is coarse and knotted from being slept on. One-handed, I take two new bowls from the cupboard and set them on the countertop.

  “Jesse, this is yours,” I say, pointing, “and this is yours, Dylan. Now both of you are going to sit here and eat your breakfast while I deal with your sister.”

  “I’m not hungry,” Jesse snaps.

  “Eat!”

  I hear the clatter as the bowl hits the floor. “You can’t tell me what to do! You’re not my mother!”

  I whirl on the spot and Jesse has the good grace to blush. I know his words are borne of anger and fear but I’m surprised how much they hurt. At least with all the drama to distract her, Casey has stopped crying.

  “I know I’m not,” I say slowly, “but your mom’s not here right now and she left me in charge. Also,” I add, knowing his Achilles heel, “I’m going around to my dad’s later. If you finish your breakfast and put your plates in the sink, I might just consider taking you with me.” Jesse tries to look disinterested, but I hold his narrowed gaze levelly. He caves first and retrieves the cereal box.

  “You too, Dylan,” I say. Dylan starts pouring cereal into the bowl and, heart hammering, I head back upstairs.

  I get Casey dressed and ready as quietly as possible and when the boys join us a few minutes later I instruct them to do the same. Nick and Evie’s bedroom door is closed. I noticed this when I brought Casey up to her room and I don’t know whether to knock, or leave Nick be. He’s usually an early-riser and I’m a little concerned, but he was up late and perhaps his emotional exhaustion has finally caught up with him.

  By mid-morning, my already frayed nerves are in tatters.

  “Ginny, no!” I yell as the puppy zooms through my legs carrying one of Casey’s teddies. I retrieve the bear, shut the puppy outside after checking that the net is on the pool and set up a puzzle on the dining-room table. I rope the children into helping me build it, keeping one eye on the clock above the mantle. Casey gets frustrated by the small puzzle pieces so I pull her onto my lap and place perfectly matched pieces side by side for her to put together.

  “I want Daddy,” she announces just after ten.

  “Daddy’s sleeping sweetheart. Here, can you put these two pieces together?” I slide them toward us, positioned perfectly to interlock, but it’s a pitiful attempt at distraction.

  “I want Daddy,” Casey repeats, and this time it’s less a question and more of an instruction.

  “Okay, let me just go and see if he’s up,” I tell her. I get up and set her back on the chair. “You three stay here and keep building, I’ll be right back.”

  I can feel Jesse’s eyes on my back as I leave.

  The door is still closed. I step right up to it and cock my ear toward the painted white wood, but I hear nothing. I knock gently. Nothing.

  Louder.

  Nothing.

  “Nick?” I say softly.

  Nothing.

  “Nick?” Louder this time, but still no response and fear rises in my chest. I recall how he looked last night, his state of desperation and the way he punched the garage wall. I don’t want to wake him if he’s sleeping, but what if something is wrong? Concern and etiquette wage war in my head. Concern wins by a landslide and I grip the door handle with one clammy hand.

  It’s not locked. As the door swings open it bumps against something and stops halfway open. I peek around it to locate the source of the obstacle and my gaze falls on a pair of bare feet.

  “Nick?” I’m already halfway inside the room when I realise he’s crying. He’s sitting on the floor next to the bed, dressed in yesterday’s jeans and T-shirt, and his body is heaving with dry, silent sobs. I don’t think he’s slept at all.

  The curtains are drawn and the room is dark but I push the door shut behind me anyway. I don’t want any of the children coming in h
ere and seeing him like this.

  I crouch beside him, my hand finding his shoulder. Even in the dim light his eyes are hollow black as they gaze up at me. I try not to flinch. His eyes are dead, as if his very essence has been sucked out of them.

  I don’t say anything, not only because my grief-addled brain can’t think of a single thing to say, but because nothing I could say will make any difference. Instead, I settle on the floor beside him and slide my arm around his neck, pulling him to my chest the same way I did with Casey this morning. He continues to sob, his hands clutching my forearm as the grief pours out of him. And even as I hold him and murmur soothing words into his hair, I can’t help but think that this wave of despair which has been building for months, has not yet fully broken. I dare not think about what will happen when it does.

  43

  Nick

  Julia’s perfume lingers in the air like a long-lost friend. There’s something about the smell of her that rips my insides apart and makes me feel inexplicably happy at the same time. She left about an hour ago, taking the children and the dog to the park to give me time to pull myself together. An utterly fruitless exercise. There is no way to fix what’s been broken.

  A short, cold shower washes away the fear-induced sweat of yesterday and the blood from my hand. It provides temporary relief to my bruised knuckles. Judging by the excessive swelling of the middle one, I suspect I may have broken it, but I’m hoping it’s just a minor fracture.

  I grab a cup of coffee and head for the tiny area off the hall that we use as a home office. It’s less cluttered than I remember – another sign of Julia’s solid, efficient presence. My fingers ache as I boot up Evie’s laptop and sign in with her password. It’s ‘password’, which I’ve always thought ridiculous but which never fails to crack her up. My laptop is currently on my desk at the office and I need to let Amy know I won’t be in tomorrow. I am about to click ‘new email’ when a message in Evie’s inbox catches my eye. It’s from Kat and the subject line reads: I still think this is a bad idea. Evie never uses email – not since she stopped working - and the email is a couple of months old. My hand throbs as it hovers over the trackpad and I flex my fingers, the sweet bite of pain as my tender knuckles protest the strain providing temporary relief from the incessant ache. I shouldn’t read it. I know I shouldn’t read it but it’s not as though I don’t use Evie’s laptop. We’re always swapping phones and we both have full access to one another’s laptops and online accounts. If she didn’t want me to see this particular message surely she would have deleted it?