I say goodbye to him at the entrance to my room, and walk into the space I rarely enter. I drag back the covers, and half-crawl, half-fall, into bed. The sheets still smell like Simon’s cologne. I can still feel his lips on my collarbone when I pull them up to my chin. It isn’t just this bed. The memories of him, as much as I fight them, exist. In the shower, I sometimes think of his kiss. In the car, I remember how he would reach over, his hand cupping mine, his thumb caressing the back of my hand, and tighten imperceptibly at quiet moments—a hug of sorts. I remember how much we laughed. Our inside jokes. How he would beam at me when I said something witty. When I hit my first bestseller list, we opened cheap wine and sat on the floor of that apartment and made a ramen noodle bonfire. That night, in bed, a laptop open, his arm around me, we’d looked at houses. “The sky is the limit,” he’d said, and we’d gone crazy, flipping through homes we never thought we’d be able to afford, envisioning lives beyond belief. We’d known. We’d known that this was our new life, and that there would be more bestsellers. We’d thought that everything, from that point forward, would be perfect.
I close my eyes and, despite every intention not to—feel the pull toward sleep. I hate Simon with my entire soul, and I love him with every other inch of my body, and neither really matters because he is dead, and I killed him.
My new worst friend somehow tags along to my doctor’s appointment.
“Helena Ross? Are you the Helena Ross?” The nurse looks up from my bracelet, her pierced brow pinching upward as if concerned by the concept. She can’t possibly read my books. She has a rainbow magnet stuck over a photo of her and a “friend”, one with more body hair than me, and we all know that’s saying something. If this girl reads my straight-laced romances, complete with the obligatory male/female pairing, then she needs to expand her library immediately.
“No, I’m not. But I get asked that a lot.” I try to pull back my hand, but she holds it firmly, two fingers pressed against the underside of my wrist.
“Wait, sweetheart. I need to get your pulse.”
My pulse is probably perfect, calmed by the lie. I’ve always been a liar. Maybe that’s why writing came so naturally. A thousand lies, disguised in a character’s voice, bits of my life sprinkled through the pages, the perfect camouflage for whatever it is I feel the urge to say.
“I got a great parking spot.” Mark comes from somewhere, a grin on his face like he has accomplished something other than irritating me. I’m still not sure why he’s here. We wrote all of Saturday and most of Sunday, finishing off the weekend with some well-needed alone time. Then, this morning, he was there—on my porch—all but insisting that he bring me to this appointment, even though a taxi was on call and available.
“Yippee.” I watch as the woman drops my wrist and reaches for the blood pressure cuff.
“This place is nice. The chemo area has little cubbies. Much nicer than where Ellen was.”
Ellen. His voice softens when he says it. I feel a pang of jealousy and poke out. “Please don’t make this entire thing a tribute.”
His nostrils flare a bit and I watch with interest. He has more minute reactions than Simon ever did. Like flared nostrils. I always thought that was a book thing, one of those literary reactions that never actually happens in real life, like swooning heroines or angrily shook fists. I expect an apology but he says nothing and I like him a little more for it.
“Looking good!” The woman says brightly, and I don’t know how that could be possible, but I can’t bitch at a woman wearing purple kitten scrubs. “Let’s get you in to see the doc.”
The doc is different than the one who handed over my death sentence. He’s an oncologist, and will handle my crumbling body for the remainder of my life. I stare at the Harvard diploma on his wall as he explains, without introduction or cushioning, the next few months, and how my body may react to it. He is an enthusiastic prescription writer, and fills out five different scripts, passing me the stack that will allow me enough drugs to weather a gunshot wound. I tell him that I’ve done just fine on my current meds, but he doesn’t seem to care. He’s pure doom, wrapped in pale skin and too much ear hair, his voice clinical and dull, the kind that has me ready to nod off within minutes. He doesn’t meet my eyes, he doesn’t smile, and if there was an empathy class at Harvard, he flunked it.
We’ll get along just fine.
Two hours later, I walk through my front door and pass a stranger. She is a short squatty woman with an apron, one who avoids eye contact and shuffles past—the cook that Kate found. I bite my tongue, listen to Mark drill her senseless, and make it to the sunroom, settling into the recliner and leaning it back. I turn as Mark enters, his guard dog duties complete, and watch him set his giant leather duffel down. “You don’t need to be here.” This is the third time I’ve said it. I don’t want you here. The revised statement lies on the end of my tongue, pushing, easing its way out. He moves to the kitchen, and hunger stops my statement. I watch with interest as he opens the fridge and pulls out a container of food.
“Debbie—that’s the chef—said she put the food in here.”
I look past him, at the open door of the fridge, my perfect alignment of water bottles and Cherry Cokes now crowded to the side and replaced with enough Tupperware containers to get Octomom and her brood through three Thanksgiving dinners. I eye the container in Mark’s hand, watching as he opens the microwave and sets it inside. “What’s that?”
“Lasagna.” He presses a button, and the electronic hum of radiation fills the air. “I’m thinking you need an official poison taster. Just in case Debbie read one of your novels and wants revenge. I volunteer as tribute.”
“Ha.” I say flatly, but smile despite myself. “Chivalrous of you.”
“It’s a cowboy thing.” He sniffs the air, and I’m almost angry at how good it smells. Maybe I should have hired a chef before. If this tastes good… if I’ve been missing out on four years of edible enjoyment… I’m going to be pissed at Kate for alerting me to this mistake.
Mark glances at me. “You hungry?”
I tilt my head, distracted by a knock on the front door. This is what happens when you start talking to people. I go from a life of solitude to Grand Central Station. Mark moves forward, his back straight, and my mouth twitches at the protective stomp of his stride. I hear the crack of the door, murmured voices, a female apology, and the sound of clunky feet tripping toward me. A heard of giraffes would be quieter, and I know, even before I see the bright pink clogs and polka-dotted socks, who will be there. I groan.
“Helena!” Kate sounds surprised, as if we are bumping into each other at the grocery store, and not inside my house, three hours away from Manhattan. “Hey!”
“You really didn’t need to come back.” I told her this. In every single email, and the phone call this morning, I told her not to come. “You shouldn’t have come.”
She steps further into the sunroom, and completely ignores me. “I know. You didn’t want me to come and I’m not here to stay, I promise.” She turns to Mark with a smile. “I’m Kate. Helena’s agent.”
“Nice to meet you, ma’am. Mark Fortune.” I watch Kate’s face redden as he extends a hand. Perfect. I’m so glad we’re eHarmonying up my house. If the cancer doesn’t make me nauseous, all of this togetherness will. I clear my throat and they both turn to me. “If you aren’t here to stay, why are you here?”
“Well… When I left the city this morning, before you called me… I didn’t realize that Mr. Fortune would be here—” She flashes him a quick smile. “And I’d thought you might want some company.”
Oh, yes. That’s me. A companionship addict. I say nothing and the silence grows.
“Well.” Kate wheezes out the word, and awkwardness hangs in the air. The microwave dings, and she brightens. “That sounds like food. Let me get it.”
Mark follows her into the kitchen, and I relax my head against the recliner, the only item in this room. The big overstuffed chair was a Lazyboy special, one I often write in, and—just as often—fall asleep in. There is something soothing about the act of writing, a drug that lures you into another world, but then forgets to stop, and sometimes carries you all of the way into sleepdom. I kick my feet free of the blankets and look at the backyard. The windows in this room have gotten filthy—the outside caked with years of pollen and grime, the bottom screens littered with dead bugs and the occasional leaf. I used to wash them every summer. I would get a giant bucket of soapy water and a sponge, put on a bathing suit and a 70’s playlist, and give them a thorough once-over. Bethany would try to help, her tiny hands gripping the big sponge, her reach only accessing the bottom panes, her attention gone at the first sighting of a lizard, or spider, or Simon’s call.