“I guess I did,” Mark acknowledged. “Elle, had I known she was pregnant, I would have done right by her. I would have proposed to her. We would have been a family.”
“Did you love her?”
Elle’s question hit Mark like a punch to the gut. He sat quietly, choosing his words wisely. “I was falling for her, for sure. I wouldn’t call it love yet, but I also wouldn’t not call it love, either. Had I known she was pregnant and had we agreed to some sort of commitment, I have no doubt that I would have loved your mother.”
“And that explains why she was so hard on Luke and me for being in any kind of serious relationship, whatsoever.”
“It’s also why we missed ten years of our lives together,” Luke added, sighing.
“What? Ten years? How did you miss ten years of your lives together?” Mark asked.
If only he had any idea the can of worms he was opening.
Elle and Luke shared a knowing glance. “Do you want to tell him, or do you want me to?” Luke asked.
Elle squeezed Luke’s hand. “I will.”
For the next several minutes, Elle recounted to her father the tale of her life as Betsy Sloan’s daughter, including the emotional abuse she’d endured whenever Betsy hit the bottle, which had been basically every day. Mark listened intently, asking questions where appropriate and tearing up where also appropriate, especially as Elle told the story of her breakup with Luke at Betsy’s behest and the inadequacies she’d felt from the mental poison Betsy had injected into her every day. She further described her loveless marriage to a prominent local attorney and Luke’s car accident, resulting in the diagnosis of amnesia that ultimately served as the catalyst for their reunion. It was a story that, despite all its heartbreak, ended with the best outcome imaginable.
“Elle, I-I don’t know where to begin to tell you how sorry I am for … well, for everything you had to endure your entire life. If I could go back in time, I would make things right for you. I would have given you the stability you deserved. I would have told you what a wonderful, smart young lady you were becoming, so there wouldn’t have been any doubt in your mind. I’d do anything to change the way things ended up and give you two the life you deserved to have together. I’m so sorry.”
“There’s no need for you to apologize,” Elle eked out through her sobs.
For the first time that night, I felt like a spectator at the table. By this point, Mark, Elle, and Luke were all in tears, silently trying to compose themselves while also searching for the right words to say to one another to lighten the mood at the table. It soon became obvious those words weren’t going to come from any of the three of them. It was my moment to shine.
“Well, I’ll be damned, Mark, these are some fine mushrooms.”
*****
The plastic chair wobbled underneath me as I propped my feet against the railing of the balcony outside of my hotel room. A gentle breeze caressed my face, sending wayward strands of hair into the air. Chilled, I shivered, more invigorated than uncomfortable. It was getting late, past midnight. Yet, I couldn’t sleep. Not with the adrenaline running through my body. If I was this worked up, I could only imagine the path Elle must be wearing through the carpet. If I were being honest, though, it wasn’t only the events of tonight keeping me awake. It was Peter.
For the first few days after our breakup, all I could do was cry and try to hide my tears from Jo. Of course, there was no hiding anything from Jo, who wanted to know everything that had transpired that precipitated our breakup, forcing me to revisit everything that had happened over the last few months. Everything I could have done differently, and everything I couldn’t have. All the revisiting led me to the conclusion that there wasn’t anything I could have done at all, because everything that was said and done was because of me. Peter just didn’t want me. That realization brought about a wave of pain that had been almost too much for me to bear without, again, breaking down into a heaping mess of tears.
Just as I began to feel sorry for myself for the umpteenth time this month, my phone pinged from inside of my room, signaling the receipt of a text message.
Peter? Who else could it be this late? Don’t run to it, Mena. Let him wait it out. Maybe even let him stew until morning. That would show him.
As much as I wanted to heed my own advice, my legs wouldn’t allow it. Before I could stop myself, I jumped up from the flimsy chair, knocking it over.
Jesus, Mena, show a modicum of restraint.
My phone sat on top of the nightstand, and in my rush to grab it, I nearly threw it across the room when it slipped from my fingers. Luckily, it landed on the bed. Without shame, I dove onto the mattress to grab it.
Don’t respond to him right away. Or do. Just don’t come across as too desperate. Just don’t … wait a minute.
“Phineas?” Why would Phineas be sending me a text this late at night? He hated texts. There was only one way to find out.
Phineas: I’m sorry it’s so late. My hope is you’re already sleeping and won’t see this until morning. I was just up working (I know, I know), and I wanted to see how it went with Elle and her dad. Text me in the morning.
Me: I’m still awake, so you’re getting your text now. Everything went as well as it could go with Elle and her dad. Thanks for checking. Now stop working and go to bed. I thought you weren’t a fan of texting?
The odd thing was, as much as I wanted it to be Peter, I wasn’t exactly disappointed that it was Phineas, which did nothing to halt the emotional roller coaster I had been on.
Phineas: I’m older than you and should be the one telling you to go to bed. Glad to hear all is well. I make exceptions to my texting rule every now and then.
A sudden knock on my door startled me, and even though I knew in my head it couldn’t be Peter, my heart wanted me to be wrong.
“I figured you’d still be up,” Elle greeted me when I opened the door.
“And I figured you’d be sound asleep with about an inch of drool pooling underneath your face by now.”
“I’ll have you know I don’t do that … every night.” She entered the room as I held the door open for her. “What’s with the clear disappointment on your face? Expecting a stripper?”
“Not unless Peter changed professions.”
Elle’s face fell. “I’m sorry. You know he’s not coming, right?”
“Yes, I theorized that. Even still, I thought that maybe my theory could be wrong.” Elle’s face clearly showed the pity she felt for me. “You don’t have to say anything. I know it was ridiculous of me to think that he may show up.”
“No.” Elle walked over to my bed and sat down. “It’s not ridiculous at all. For a solid three years after Luke and I broke up, I often wondered whether the knock on my door was him. It wasn’t, of course.”
“But it’s him now, and that’s all that matters.” I joined Elle on the bed. “Unfortunately, not everyone’s story gets a happy ending.” I suddenly remembered that my phone was still in my hand. “Hang on a second. I have to send my last salty text of the night.”
“Really? This late?”
Me: Okay, Grandpa, I’m going to bed now. Goodnight.
I sent the message and threw the phone on my pillow. My eyes met Elle’s expectant face, staring at me as if to ask, “Are you going to spill it or not?”
“My boss,” I answered her unspoken question. “He sent a text asking how tonight went and I answered it.”
“He sent you a text at midnight?”
“Uh-huh.”
“And you answered it at midnight?”
“Yeah.”
“Uh-huh.”
My phone pinged from my pillow. I looked back at it briefly, noticing that Elle never took her eyes off me.
“All right. Keep your secrets with your hunk of a boss. I’ve only been your best friend for basically your entire adult life.”
“Honestly, I have no idea what you’re talking about. There aren’t any sec—” In that second, I remembered t
he night I spent with Phineas on the rooftop patio. Specifically, I remembered how close my face had been to his and his to mine right before my stomach contents decided to join the party. Nothing had happened, nor would it have. I think. Of course not. I wouldn’t have done Peter dirty like that, not sober, anyway. But I hadn’t been sober.
“Hello, Mena,” Elle said, waving her hand in front of my face.
“Wh-What?”
“Thank God. I thought you were having a stroke there for a minute.”
“Nothing happened, but something happened.”
“Holy crap, you did have a stroke.”
“I promise I’ll make sense in a minute. After a night of drinking …”
“The phrase that precedes every bad decision.”
“Why don’t you just sit back and let me tell the story while you keep your commentary to yourself until after I’m finished?” I motioned for her to lean back on the floral duvet underneath us. “Take a girl to meet her bio daddy and suddenly she thinks she’s a comedienne.”
“Quit stalling.”
I sighed and began describing the evening I’d spent with Phineas, including his wicked left hook, the party on his rooftop, and our nothing that may have been something that ended with my face in a ceramic pot.
“So, you almost kissed your boss, or he almost kissed you, then?”
“Or both. Or maybe not at all. I don’t know, Elle. I’d like to think I wouldn’t have betrayed Peter like that. I tried to tell him everything that happened that night and why I missed his calls, but he cut me off and then he broke up with me.”
She nodded. “Exactly, he broke up with you. Now what?” She motioned to my phone with her eyes.
“Phineas stays my boss and I stay his employee.”
“That’s it?”
“That has to be it.”
“Well okay, then.” She sighed. By then she’d heeded my suggestion and was laying on her side with her hand propping her head up. “So, I met my biological father today.”
“I know, I was there.”
“He’s pretty great, right?”
“Yes, I seen he was a great guy, indeed.”
“Stop it.” Elle smacked me, laughing despite not wanting to backstab her father.
“At least now we know where you get your writing talent from. Though I never would have thought there was a snowball’s chance in hell it would have been from Betsy.”
“About that … that’s kind of why I’m here. What Mark told me about my mother, completely giving up on her dreams and, in turn, giving up on herself, really hit home. I think I’m going to write that poetry book. I’ve been making excuses for too long. I need to write it.”
“Hell yeah, you do.”
“I’m going to write that book and you’re going to illustrate it for me.”
“Come again?”
“I need an illustrator and you’re great at drawing things. Seems like it’s a perfect fit.”
“I don’t know, Elle. I have more responsibilities now at work.”
She glanced at my cell phone. “I’ve noticed.”
I rolled my eyes. “You know what I mean.”
Elle sat up, shaking her arm, which had apparently begun to fall asleep. “Listen, you’ve spent how long telling me how I needed to write this book? How long telling me that my excuses against doing it were complete bullshit? Well, now it’s my turn, and I’m calling bullshit on your excuses.”
“I guess it’s about time something I said came back to bite me on the ass. Never would I have thought my best friend would be doing the biting, however.” Elle stared at me with her annoyingly large eyes, like a puppy waiting for its owner to throw it a scrap of meat. “Ugh … Fine. I’ll do it.”
“Holy crap, yes! We’re writing a book!” She held out her arms as she swiftly made her way to my side of the bed.
“Oh, no. I’ve reached my limit today, remember?”
“It’s a new day.”
“Shit.”
Elle hugged me, squeezing me tightly. “That’s right, just let it happen,” she cooed, stroking my hair.
“This just got creepy.”
Letting me go, she stood up. “I’ll get started as soon as I get back home, and email pages to you as I complete them.”
“Sounds like a plan, Emily Dickinson. She’s a poet, right?”
She nodded, yawning. “I should probably get back to the room before Luke wakes up and wonders where I am.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time.”
“Yeah, it’s still too soon for the amnesia jokes.”
“Always have to ruin my fun, don’t you?”
Elle rolled her eyes. “Goodnight.” She turned to head to the door, but stopped herself just short of it, turning around to face me. “I know it may not seem possible right now, but you’ll get your happy ending someday. I know it.”
*****
My phone rang just as I entered the office. Annoyed, I stopped shy of the elevator, grasping my coffee and purse straps in one hand, while looking through the cavernous faux designer bag I’d purchased from a shady vendor around the corner from my apartment. When I first saw the peddler, I’d half-expected him to open his long trench coat to reveal rows of watches, like a comic strip I’d seen in the newspaper when I was a child. Honestly, I had been a little disappointed when that hadn’t happened. After what felt like an hour, I found my phone, answering it on the last ring.
“Hello?”
“Is this Mena Straszewski?”
“Yes, who is this?”
“Ms. Straszewski, this is Dr. Zachary Lee.”
“Oh, yeah. From the dermatology clinic.”
“That’s right. Could you verify your date of birth, please?
“February 27, 1986.”
“Mena, are you in a position where you could come by the office?”
“Not really,” I answered him, scooting inside of an empty elevator car right as the door was beginning to close. “I’m at work, and I have a mandatory staff meeting this morning. Whatever you need to tell me, could you do it over the phone?”
Dr. Lee sighed. “I would prefer not to, but I understand how busy life is, so I will cut to the chase. We received the result of the biopsy from the mole we removed last week.”
“Wow, if you’re calling me about that, it must have been a real freak show. What? Is it a new specimen of mole or something?”
“Not exactly. We’ll need to do further testing to find out the extent of everything, but the results came back pretty conclusive.”
“Pretty conclusive for what?”
“I’m sorry to tell you this, but you have cancer.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
“Melanoma? Isn’t that just skin cancer? Can’t I just have it cut out and be done with it?”
Across from me in the exam room, Dr. Lee shook his head. “That’s a misconception, only because so many people aren’t educated when it comes to melanoma. Which is a shame, because it’s becoming increasingly more common—especially in young women. If you were to rattle off any other type of cancer to them, they would certainly understand the seriousness of the diagnosis. Melanoma isn’t just skin cancer, Mena. Sure, yours started in a mole on your skin, but melanoma is aggressive. As with any other form of cancer, its goal is to grow and spread, consuming everything in its path.”
I was suddenly overcome by a numbness gripping my entire body. “Wh-What are you telling me?”
“I’m telling you that this is a very serious diagnosis, requiring aggressive medical intervention. At just over two millimeters, the depth of your tumor is concerning in that there’s a possibility that it could have already spread to your lymph nodes. Which is why I’m referring you to an oncological surgeon.”
“An oncologist? A doctor who treats …”
“Cancer. Yes. You have stage two cancer.” Dr. Lee’s eyes softened, which I presume was meant to calm or maybe provide some reassurance to me. But all I could feel was conflict. All I wanted to do was scream,
cry, throw up, and run out of the office all at the same time. Internally, I had already done all four of those things a thousand times over. Externally, though, I remained seated on the exam table, trying my best not to move to avoid listening to the annoying sound of the exam table paper crinkling underneath me. When I failed to say anything further, Dr Lee continued, “The oncological surgeon will schedule you for a procedure called a wide local excision, where they will remove quite a large area of tissue around the initial excision site in the hope that they will be able to obtain clear margins. Just prior to surgery, you’ll undergo a procedure called a lymphoscintigraphy. This procedure will help locate the sentinel lymph nodes, which are the nodes that, if the cancer has spread, would have cancer cells in them. Once identified, these lymph nodes will be removed at the same time as your wide local excision is performed.”
“And if the lymph nodes are cancerous?”
“Then more lymph nodes from the same area will be removed and biopsied and you will be re-staged at a stage three. The oncologist will then most likely order a PET scan to see whether the cancer has spread to other parts of your body.”
“And if it has?”
“That’s a conversation that you hopefully won’t have to have.” My insides must have been reflected on my outside, as Dr. Lee’s attitude switched from doom and gloom to a more positive note. “But no matter the final stage, there are treatment options available that, only ten years ago, weren’t around. No matter what, you have a fighting chance at beating this.
*****
I returned to the office later that day in a daze, wishing I would have called off work for the rest of the day, instead of coming back in. It felt like I was on autopilot; my body carried out all the normal aspects of my daily life while my mind was a million and one miles away. When I reached my office, after purposely avoiding eye contact with anyone who may try to ask me questions, I closed my door and sat down at my desk, staring blankly at my screen. Despite knowing exactly what the email I pulled up and left on my screen said, my mind wouldn’t allow me to comprehend it. Nothing seemed real, yet, conversely, everything seemed real all at the same time. My head spun, struggling to try to make sense of it all, so much so that by the time Phineas opened my door to poke his head inside, I was already in tears.
When Stars Collide Page 17
