by Robin Reul
“You okay?” Jack asks.
“Yeah. This happens sometimes.”
“It sounds pretty bad. You should get checked—you don’t want it to turn into bronchitis or walking pneumonia,” he suggests.
“Yeah, probably,” I say and then look away from him as Oscar pulls the car into a space right in front. Not telling Jack the whole story is starting to feel like lying.
As we climb out of the car, he asks me, “Is it okay that you’re traveling like this then? I mean—back at the station, you said no one knows where you are, right? Aren’t your parents going to be worried as hell?”
“Aren’t your parents going to be worried as hell?” I deflect as I tuck Princess under my arm.
“Parent,” he corrects me as he holds open the door to the Starbucks. “And right now, I’d rather ask for forgiveness than permission.”
Oscar beelines for the restroom while Jack and I fall into line behind a handful of early risers. The smell of freshly brewed coffee, the whir of the grinder, and the psssssh of the steamer assault my senses. I realize I have been up for over twenty-four hours.
“Me too. And they don’t know where I am because if they did, they wouldn’t have let me go, and frankly, that should be my choice. Because I’m still living in their house and they are financially responsible for me, they feel entitled to some say even though I’m eighteen. And there isn’t a lot of privacy. I didn’t want them to freak out and worry over nothing. It was this way, or it wasn’t going to happen.”
“I can see how they might be overcautious since you were sick before. At least it’s because they care.”
“Believe me, I know. My cancer became the central point of their lives. They’ve given up so much already that the thought of putting them through more is awful… I hate it.”
“Well, it’s not guaranteed to come back. There’s only a chance, right?”
He seems so genuinely concerned. As soon as I say the words out loud to someone else, it will become real. Hot tears well up at the corner of my eyes, and I try to blink them back. I do not want to start crying. I look away. He gently touches my wrist. “Hallie?”
I look down at my bracelet. “I had a follow-up visit a couple of days ago, and they saw something unusual on the scan, but they weren’t sure what it was. It looks like it could be a pulmonary chondroma—a tumor on my lung—so my doctor wants me to come back on Monday for another scan to check, and we’ll basically go from there. I haven’t told my parents because, until I know definitively, why turn their lives upside down again?”
The barista cheerfully asks Jack for his order.
His face is ashen as he responds, “Uh…coffee, black, no room please. And whatever she wants.”
Jack once again insists on paying. I start to dig for my wallet. “You don’t need to keep buying everything for me. I can handle a cup of coffee.”
“No, I got it. I want to. That was the deal.” We migrate toward the end of the counter to wait for our drinks. “I don’t even know what to say. I’m…wow. That sucks.” He looks so sad.
“It wasn’t clear, which is why they want to do another scan. And if it’s something, at least we’re catching it early.” I’m trying to reassure myself as much as him, repeating the words the doctor said on the phone.
He shakes his head. “I’m so sorry. Here you are listening to me complain about my first-world problems, and meanwhile you’re sitting with this.”
“Our problems are just different, is all. Everyone’s got their crap they’re dealing with. It’s not a contest. Seriously—you promised a few hours ago that you wouldn’t treat me any differently.”
He nods and forces a smile. “I did. And I won’t. I promise.”
Oscar joins us, and I bring him up to speed. I feel better after opening up to them, particularly since they’re both nonjudgmental and caring.
We get our drinks, and the conversation turns to Owen as we’re walking back to the car.
“So does Owen have the same kind of cancer you do?” Jack asks as he climbs in.
“No, he has something called a nonresectable osteosarcoma—bone cancer, but the kind where the tumor cannot be removed entirely by surgery. The five-year survival rate for that kind is significantly lower. He made it two and a half. He just turned nineteen. He won’t ever see twenty.” That’s the part that keeps cycling in my brain. The part that worries me too.
Jack’s phone buzzes on the seat where I’d left it facedown earlier. It keeps buzzing, and he looks at it then at me like it’s a bomb he is awaiting my permission to diffuse.
“Do whatever you want,” I tell him.
The buzzing is clearly making him anxious. He clicks his lock button without checking it and shoves it in his pocket. The vibration stops. A minute later a single buzz lets us know there’s a voicemail.
The freeway lanes multiply, and the rolling hills and office parks give way to urban sprawl. Signs appear for alternate highways that branch like arteries to all different parts of the city.
Oscar pipes up, “Maps says we’re a half hour from the bus station in San Francisco. It’s not far from the waterfront, so it depends on traffic cutting through the city.”
Princess wakes up and yawns, then turns herself in a circle and resettles, leaning against my thigh. I stroke her head. After I get out of the car in thirty-ish minutes, I won’t know how things turn out for Jack or Oscar. Or Princess. It’s like being on the last chapter of reading a mystery and someone has torn out the rest of the pages.
Jack must be having a similar thought because he says, “Are you guys on social media at all?”
“I’m on Instagram,” Oscar says.
“Me too. I mean—it seems weird that after all these hours of shenanigans we just exit each other’s lives forever, doesn’t it?” Jack looks at me and smiles.
“For sure. TheOscarGoes2,” Oscar tells him. “Follow me, and I’ll follow you back.”
“I see what you did there. Nice.” Jack opens up Instagram to search for him, then turns to me. “How about you? Are you on Instagram?”
I shake my head. “I’m not on social media.”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously. I think it’s so self-destructive. Everyone ends up comparing their lives to everyone else’s highlight reel and feeling depressed. Its only redeeming quality is the plethora of silly cat videos.”
He laughs. “How do you know I don’t exclusively put up silly cat videos? Or pictures of adorable baby animals? Hamsters in tiny crocheted sweaters and hats?”
“Tempting,” I say with a grin.
And then he says, “No, seriously. It’d be cool if we could keep in touch. Can we at least exchange email or something?”
I chew at my lip. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
He digests that and nods, looking slightly wounded. “Okay. I guess I just figured that—”
“What, that because I told you my deep, dark secret and that story about how my ex-boyfriend broke my heart, you’re under some obligation to keep in touch with me or you’ll look like a jerk?”
I know it’s unfair to unleash on him, but I can’t help it. I can see he’s struggling to figure out how to react.
“No, because I want to.”
I want to too, but that’s exactly the reason I won’t. He’s a great guy. It would be easy to get lost in waiting for him to text or call. And I’m afraid of that feeling of potentially soul-crushing disappointment if or when he doesn’t. I’m afraid of hoping.
“I don’t expect you to understand,” I tell him, “but I think it’s better this way. Let’s just enjoy now without introducing expectations that it needs to be anything more than this.”
Left with no choice but to accept my answer, Jack shrugs and smiles as he tucks his phone away again. “Fair enough.”
Princess rests her head against my
hand, nudging at it with her nose. I scratch behind her ear, which makes her left front paw rotate in small circles. I envy the simplicity of her life. Eat, drink, poop, and love. I don’t know why it needs to get more complicated.
Fog hangs lower and blankets everything the deeper into the city and the closer to the waterfront we get. It engulfs the tops of buildings and bridges. San Francisco is famous for it. It’s hard to imagine it’s summer when it looks like the dead of winter outside. I wish I’d brought a jacket.
The light changes to red as we approach the bus station, and I’m grateful for the extra couple of minutes. “So, after you drop me off are you heading to your brother’s place?” I ask Jack.
“Yeah. If it’s even the right address. I’ll probably get breakfast somewhere first. I could use some time to formulate my thoughts.”
“Are you nervous?”
He shrugs. “I don’t know what to expect.”
“I think the best way to avoid disappointment is not to expect anything.” Easy to say. Hard to do. I need to listen to my own advice.
There’s a lot of construction happening around the bus station. It’s an eclectic mix of gentrified and brand-new buildings, long sidewalks, and parking garages. We turn the corner onto Folsom Street and the station comes into view. Princess, as if sensing my imminent departure and protesting it, puts her paw on my arm and looks up at me.
“Here we are already,” I say, straightening up and pulling my purse strap over my shoulder. Jack’s shown me one of the best nights of my life, but even more importantly, he’s treated me like a normal person. For a moment, I second-guess my decision to not exchange numbers, but I catch myself. I turn to him and say, “It was nice catching up with you again.”
“You too,” he says.
Now we’re at the part where I’m supposed to exit the car. Except I don’t. I stare out the window at the terminal and then turn to Jack and find myself saying, “I have nearly five hours before my bus leaves. I’m just going to be sitting here. I could come with you if you want.”
Chapter 14
Jack
Saturday, June 5, 6:49 a.m.
I temper my excitement about this latest development, so I don’t come across as too eager. “That would be great!”
She smiles back. “Cool.”
“So—I guess we’re both getting out here,” I tell Oscar.
“The band is breaking up,” he jokes as we begin to gather our things and grab our bags from the trunk. Princess, excited by the sudden flurry of movement and change, lets out a series of farts that sound like gunfire from an AK-47. Parting ways just in the nick of time.
“Oh man.” Oscar rolls down all the windows and hops out of the car along with us. “This is going to be a long ride to Berkeley.”
“Well—good luck with breaking up the wedding and winning Nikki back. I hope Princess seals the deal, although I’d be careful about what you feed her between now and then,” Hallie tells him as she comes toward us around the side of the car. “I feel like we should hug. I mean—we’re kind of friends now—right?”
“Absolutely,” Oscar says as they embrace. “I hope things work out for you—on all fronts.”
“Thanks, you too,” she says as she breaks away.
Oscar turns to me and extends his hand. “Thanks for the unexpected adventure, mate. I say trust your gut. And keep choosing your own ending.”
It’s a reassuring mini pep talk at the perfect time, exactly what I need to hear.
“I’ll be first in line for my autographed copy!” he adds as he climbs back into the driver’s seat, and I realize that he’s talking about my book and not my life.
He raises one hand out the window to wave goodbye, then pulls away from the curb into the oncoming traffic. Exit stage left.
Hallie watches Oscar drive away and says, “Isn’t it weird how people come into our lives—could be for a year or a day—and then they just disappear? Or you meet someone and it’s as if you’ve always known them.”
“Yeah.”
We store her suitcase in a locker at the bus station and then check the departure screens. Delayed. The estimated time of departure is now 1:00 p.m., and I worry that she’s going to flip out again like she did last time, but she seems to take it in stride.
“Unreal,” she says. “Looks like you’re stuck with me for a little longer.”
“Challenge accepted,” I say.
“So—breakfast then?”
Which is how we end up winding our way through the downtown streets in search of a place open this early that isn’t another coffee chain. A few blocks away, we stumble upon an open taqueria with a giant red-and-white WE SERVE BREAKFAST sign out front. The building seems a little rundown, but this place has an A rating and a line, so hopefully it’s decent.
I hold the door open for her. A set of bells tied to the door handle jingles to announce our arrival. We order two breakfast burritos and coffees at the counter and then settle in at a weathered-looking, red wooden table with a wobbly leg near the window.
“You know this is probably going to be the best breakfast burrito you’ve ever had in your life.” She reaches for the bowl of creamers, pours one into her paper coffee cup, and then stirs it with her spoon. She nudges the creamer bowl toward me. “Want some?”
“No thanks, I take it unadulterated.” I pop the lid on my cup and am pleased to discover the cup is filled to the brim.
“Right. Black, no room.”
“Exactly.”
“When I heard you order it this morning at Starbucks, all I heard you say was ‘blacknoroom’ like it was one word, and I was thinking maybe that’s some fancy preparation. That is truly the difference between a caffeinated and an uncaffeinated mind.”
I laugh and look around. “Wow—my dad would have loved this place. He was always a fan of a good hole-in-the-wall joint. He used to like to watch that Guy Fieri show on the Food Network—Diners, Drive-ins, and Dives. If ever there was an episode where it featured one within a two-hour radius, he would take me with him to check it out. He’d order exactly what Guy Fieri ordered every time so he could see if he agreed with the hype. It was pretty funny.”
“That sounds fun.”
“It was one of the things we used to do together. My mom was always busy with her practice and writing her books, and Alex never wanted to go. Gourmet breakfast was wasted on him. He ate a bowl of Captain Crunch for breakfast every single day. Sometimes he’d eat it for lunch or dinner too. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s sitting somewhere eating a bowl right now.” I laugh at the memory, but then my thoughts flip to my final image of Alex, forever seared in my brain.
She notices the change in my expression. “You okay?”
“Yeah. I was just thinking how the last time I saw my brother, he was unresponsive and sprawled out on the bathroom floor. I was scared he was going to die. And then when he didn’t, I was relieved and also pissed off, which was confusing.” I swallow the lump forming in my throat.
“And then you never spoke to him again after that?”
“Nope. After my parents sent him off to rehab for the third and final time, they told him not to come back, and he cut off all communication.” I blow on my coffee and take a tentative sip.
“Do you think he did it on purpose? Overdose, I mean?”
I shrug. “I’ve had that thought. It wouldn’t surprise me.”
“Does he know you’re the one that saved his life?”
“Not sure. For all I know, he might hold that against me.”
“Well, it’s about time you find out,” she says. An old guy with a comb-over and a grease-stained apron emerges from the back and delivers us two red plastic baskets filled with the most amazing-looking breakfast burritos in the history of breakfast burritos. It’s pure food porn. Then again, maybe I’m just really hungry. I’m running on th
e anti–food pyramid of birthday cupcakes and Taco Bell.
I tear into my burrito. “The last thing I ever said to him was pretty awful. We’d been having a celebration dinner for our mom because she’d been asked to be the guest speaker at some fancy women’s retreat near Big Sur. Alex made some crack minimizing her work, saying the retreat would be a bunch of middle-aged women in the woods masturbating their way to enlightenment.”
I realize I should explain who my mom is in case she doesn’t know. Hallie’s heard of her but doesn’t seem to care, which is a welcome change.
“That must have been interesting on career day,” she says with a smile.
“You have no idea. Anyhow, Alex was provoking my mom—trying to get a rise out of her like usual. She’d left the table crying, and my father sat there stewing, caught between them, until he got up and left too. Everything was so amplified. I yelled at Alex, ‘Why do you always have to make everything turn to shit?’”
She looks nonplussed. “Maybe it’s good you said that.”
I take another massive bite. “How so?”
She has another sip of coffee and daintily cuts into her burrito with a plastic knife and fork, making me seem like a Neanderthal. “When people say things in the height of emotion, they’re half true. Part of it is meant to hurt the other person, and the other half is their own pain about the situation. That’s where you need to start.”
It sounds like something my therapist, Carole, would say.
“I was thinking more along the lines of hello,” I tell her.
“No—I mean—maybe that’s where you start a dialogue with yourself to get to what you really want to say to him. Not just the facts and the experiences, but how those things made you feel. It might be uncomfortable, but if you can’t be honest, then what’s the point of coming all this way to see him?”
“What if he doesn’t want to talk to me? What if he shuts the door in my face?”
“What if he does? Just because you want him to react a certain way doesn’t mean he will, and you should be prepared for that.”