Time Stamps

by KL Kreig

  “What time are the freeloaders coming?” I scoop up a handful of what Laurel calls puppy chow and throw the powdered sugar-coated pieces in my mouth. The name belies the taste, believe me.

  “Roth,” Laurel scolds.

  “What?” I mumble around chocolaty goodness.

  “Roth, did I teach you no manners?” my mom piles on. I want to stick out my tongue, but it would only prove her point.

  “Can you get the cooler of beer ready, please?”

  “Can you ask me for help next time?” I counter Laurel’s request, brows raised as high as I can get them.

  “Yes.”

  She’s placating me. A man knows when he’s being patted on the head and told to scoot along.

  “No more crawling on that thing, Laurel. I mean it. If I hadn’t been here…”

  “I know.” At least she has enough sense to look contrite.

  “I’ll get the cooler ready,” my mom offers, discreetly disappearing to leave us alone.

  I close the distance between us and wind my arms around her from behind. Setting my chin on her shoulder, I remind her, “Your sense of balance is off, Laurel. You could have been seriously injured.”

  She swallows hard. “I know I should have asked for help, but you were in the shower and I—”

  “Was impatient, as usual.”

  “I hate this. All of it. I feel like such a burden.”

  “A burden?” I spin her around to face me. “Laurel, you are not a burden. Never that. Ever.”

  “I am. And it will only get worse, Roth. You know it and I know it.”

  Everyone goes through their own personal hell when they battle cancer. For some, losing their hair is the worst part of it. For others, being unable to maintain the career they’ve spent all their lives building destroys their spirit. For Laurel, it’s been the loss of her independence that’s killed her the most. She is fierce about being able to care for herself, almost to the point of exasperation. It’s as if she’s failed somehow if she has to ask for help. Since her diagnosis, though, she’s had to rely on others for all kinds of things, from bathroom assistance to meal delivery. And it’s a small blow to her pride every time. So, while I get this stubborn streak she has, if it puts her in danger, I won’t have it.

  “I understand, Laurel, but my job is to keep you safe. Please let me do it while I can.”

  She throws her arms around my neck, hugging me tight. “I just want to be normal, Roth.”

  “Normal people ask for help too.” That gets me a sweet half snicker, which is what I was going for. “I love you today, Laurel,” I whisper.

  “I’ll love you tomorrow, Roth.”

  For as many tomorrows as we have left.

  “Hey.” I pull back so I can see her beautiful face. “What do you say to a little adventure?”

  She clucks her tongue in reprimand. “We have guests coming any minute.”

  The man downstairs jumps at the insinuation. I’m not complaining, but it’s been a while. “I like the way you’re thinking. Unfortunately, that wasn’t what I had in mind.”

  She weaves her fingers through my hair, massaging back and forth. “Oh?” Her voice is pitched low. Inviting. She’s doing that on purpose, the tease. “What did you have in mind then?”

  Focus, Keswick.

  “Let’s go on a road trip.”

  Confusion scrunches her big brown eyes together, made more pronounced by the absence of thick eyelashes lost to chemotherapy. “Road trip?”

  “Yeah.”

  “We can’t just go on a road trip.”

  I slide my hands to her waist. “Why not?”

  This may be a bit unconventional, but we’ve talked about a cross-country road trip for years. Something always got in the way. School. Work. Money. Priorities. One excuse after another. I’m done with excuses. If Laurel is game, then we’re doing this. I even called her oncologist, who wasn’t crazy about the idea in case Laurel needed immediate medical attention, but I reminded him there are hospitals all over the country and I promised him I’d never have her far away from the best one. I’d plan our trip around them.

  “Because…I don’t know.” She tips her head, giving it some thought. “You have to work.”

  “Let’s say I didn’t have to work.”

  “But you do.”

  I haven’t told her yet, but I’m handing in my resignation on Monday. I will not go on like time with her isn’t ticking away at lightning speed.

  “Laurel, just play along, please.”

  “Fine.” She exaggerates her sigh, but it’s all pretend. “Where would we go?”

  “Anywhere you want. You’ve always wanted to camp, right?”

  Why have we never done this? Regrets, I’m full of them.

  She wiggles in my hold. “Camp?”

  “Okay, glamp,” I say, knowing women generally prefer that to roughing it.

  “But we don’t have a glamper.”

  “RV,” I correct.

  Her cute nose crinkles. “RV, camper, glamper, same thing.”

  They’re not even in the same vicinity, but I don’t argue with her. “For shits and giggles, let’s say we had an RV.”

  “But we don’t.”

  “Laurel.”

  “I, okay.”

  “Okay, what? Okay, meaning yes?” Could it be that easy?

  A quick succession of knocks at the front door is followed by a high-pitched wail. “The party is here!”

  “The troops have arrived,” I say with a heaping dose of satire.

  “Stop.” She swats me playfully on the chest. I wasn’t kidding.

  Carmen, Manny, and their wild four-year-old beauties come bounding into the kitchen. The girls yell for Laurel. They absolutely adore their godmother. I am second fiddle when she’s around.

  “Okay, meaning we’ll talk about this later.” She gives me a dismissive peck on the lips and twists out of my arms and into the waiting ones of Sofia and Lucia, both of whom begin jabbering a mile a minute about their new dresses.

  That was all I needed. Her “talk later” was as good as a yes to me. My mood instantly lifts, and I no longer dread the afternoon and evening to come as much as I did a few minutes ago.

  “Manny.” I nod in greeting.

  “How is Laurel today?” he asks me, eyeing the puppy chow. The guy is a sucker for sugar.

  I watch her talking with the twins and Carmen. Her eyes are drawn, her skin is pale, but her face is still lit by that wide smile of hers. She is ethereal.

  “She’s hanging in there.”

  “Manny, none of that,” Carmen berates him as he reaches for the bowl. “Your diet, remember?”

  “Diet, my ass.” In defiance, he buries his hand in the dessert mix. Swiveling his attention from his scowling wife back to me, male satisfaction evident, he shoves the entire handful in his mouth after asking, “You ready for this?”

  For some reason, I remember what my father said when I told him I was going to marry this woman a mere ten days after I met her.

  “Marriage is hard. Being with the same person day in, day out, year in and year out is even harder, no matter what anyone else tells you otherwise. Your mother and I, we almost divorced when you were six years old.”

  “What?” I never saw anything but pure devotion from my parents with one another. “I don’t believe you.”

  “It’s true, son. Go on and ask your mother if you want. She’ll tell you.”

  “But…why?”

  He scoffed. “The why isn’t any of your business, but the why not? Now, that’s the lesson learned from this. Essentially, Roth, love isn’t about who bought who the better birthday gift or how many carats her diamond ring is. It’s that you can look at this woman on a regular ole Tuesday night and know you’d make the same decision to be with her as the day you asked her to marry you.”

  “This feels like a Tuesday.”

  “Think you got your days mixed, bro. It’s Thursday,” Manny tells me.

  I don’t feel
like explaining myself, so I simply answer, “Yeah, I’m ready.”

  And I’m surprised to find I mean it. We may have a house full of guests in under an hour, but very soon I will have Laurel all to myself. And we’ll get the chance to spend quality time together, taking a trip we’ve always wanted to. Plans I loosely made over the past week start solidifying in my mind. This trip will not only be an escape, but most importantly, it’s an opportunity to make memories that will have to last me for the rest of my life.

  A life that will now not include my very best friend.

  10

  Songbird

  Roth

  Present

  June 25, 8:05 a.m.

  “Roth.” My boss’s boss, Pat, stands when I enter his office with a quick knock. “Nice to see you.” He holds out his hand and I reach mine out in kind. “How is Laurel?” he asks with honest concern.

  Pat Anderson is the sixty-three-year-old son of the owner. While his father still holds the title of CEO, for all intents and purposes, as the president, Pat is the one who runs this family-owned company. And Pat is a great guy. He gets to know each and every one of his employees personally. That’s one of the benefits of working for a family-run company. They treat you like you matter. You’re not only an “associate.” He was the one who gave me a shot at this role even though it was a bit of a stretch, considering my skill set, and he knew it. I have nothing but respect for him and for a company that I consider extended family. I’m going to miss it here.

  “It’s not good, I’m afraid.”

  He sighs. Its weight is one I feel all the way to the soles of my feet, making them heavier than they already are.

  I respect Pat and I respect his time, especially since I showed up unannounced. So, I don’t beat around the bush. I get straight to the point. “I appreciate everything you have done for me over the years, especially this last one, but I’m here to give you this, then collect my things.”

  I lay the resignation letter I wrote last night on his desk. He picks it up and scans it, then his gaze lifts above readers he keeps perched on the end his nose at all times.

  “Your resignation?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Hmm.” Pat sets the letter back down, then pushes away from his desk and walks around it to stand in front of me. He gestures to the long leather sofa that butts up against a wall of glass. “Sit. Please.” I stand there for a moment. I have no desire to make small talk or hear that God doesn’t give us more than we can handle. The fuck he doesn’t. “Please,” Pat says again.

  “Okay.” Peeling my feet from the floor, I put one in front of the other until I’ve reached the couch. “It’s terminal,” I blurt, once I’ve taken a seat. Not the gentlest way to deliver the news, but I can’t stand the process of twenty questions before we get to the punch line.

  “Shit, Roth. Are you sure?”

  Pretty fucking sure. “I am afraid so, yes.”

  He removes his glasses and scrubs a hand over his eyes. Is he crying? He sets his glasses back on his nose. His whites are now red, and I definitely see moisture. Jesus, Roth, you’re an asshole.

  “I am so sorry, son.”

  “Thank you.”

  We sit in silence as a grandfather clock in the corner ticks off seconds in the background, and I have decided that outside of my wife actually dying, this may be the worst part of this ordeal. The awkward space between your grim announcement and their grappling platitudes.

  “What is next then?”

  Not the question I expected he would ask. I could almost script this entire conversation, because every single one is a mirror image of the last.

  “Have you gotten a second opinion?”

  “Second. Third. Fourth.”

  “And there’s nothing they can do?”

  “No.”

  “(Enter expletive of choice),” followed by another, “I’m sorry,” followed by, “How long does she have?”

  “A year, maybe less.”

  “(Enter expletive of choice)”, followed by, “I can’t believe it.”

  “Neither can I.”

  “What can I do?”

  “I wish there were something, but thank you for offering.”

  “We’re praying for you.”

  “Thank you.”

  “If you need anything, and I mean anything, we’re here for you and Laurel.”

  “Thank you. I appreciate it.”

  I’ve thought about writing it all down and handing out fliers to family and friends, so I can stop repeating the same old shit, but Laurel wouldn’t let me.

  “We’re going on a road trip,” I finally reply.

  “Road trip, eh?”

  “Yes, sir.” Laurel doesn’t quite know it yet, but she’ll thank me once we drive into the foothills of the Smoky Mountains. She’ll see this is what we need.

  “To?”

  “To? I don’t know, exactly.”

  That’s not entirely true. I do have the first part of our trip worked out. First, we’ll hit the Smokies for a few days, maybe a week. Then we’ll head down the Carolina coast and continue on to see my parents. Eventually I want to get us out to Moab, Utah where we took our first vacation. I have a few surprises sprinkled in along the way too. And quite honestly, it’s probably too much. I don’t know how long Laurel will be able to hold out, so the whole thing is a crapshoot. The last thing I want to do is accelerate this horrible disease by wearing her down.

  Maybe this is a bad idea.

  “How do you plan to road trip?”

  “I’m sorry?” I ask, confused. “Drive?”

  “Drive?” Pat shifts, setting an ankle atop the opposite knee.

  He’s striking in a Johnny Cash kinda way. His hair is black. His suit is black. His shirt is black. His tie is black. His socks and shoes are black. His glasses are black. All he’s missing is the black guitar slung over his shoulder and the rockabilly pompadour hair.

  As I stare at this man in black, so benevolent, I now can’t get the chorus of “Ring of Fire” out of my head. I even inappropriately hum a few bars under my breath. Then I begin to laugh. I laugh and I laugh, and I laugh until tears stream down my face, and I have no idea what I found so damn funny in the first place.

  If Pat thinks I’ve lost my shit, he’s right. Yet he hides it well. He doesn’t even blink. It’s as if he comprehends this mini meltdown is the fuel I need to keep me going and he’s been tasked to stay by my side to see that I don’t hurt myself.

  He’s so patient, so understanding, I wonder if maybe he’s part of this exclusive club no one wants a membership to.

  “Well,” I stop to clear the phlegm from my throat, moderately humiliated. “After I leave here, I plan to rent an RV.”

  “An RV, huh?”

  He kindly doesn’t reference my breakdown.

  “I want Laurel to be comfortable as we’re traveling, and I need to make sure we’re not around a lot of people with her compromised immune system. Plus, this is something we’ve always talked about…” I choke on the rest as I attempt to swallow past the anguish in the middle of my chest. But it’s like a permanent appendage. My own personal malignancy.

  “I have a better idea.”

  Pat pushes himself up and goes back to his desk. He rifles through a neat stack of business cards he keeps beside his stapler. He’s very traditional, preferring paper to technology. His assistant complains about it constantly. But it’s uncanny how he knows where everything is. About halfway through, he finds the card he’s looking for. He heads back and hands it to me.

  “What’s this?” I run my fingers over the ridged fine print.

  Nashville RV Sales and Rentals

  Hendersonville, TN

  “It’s where I store my motor home.”

  “Your motor home?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay.” I stare at the card, not getting what he means. Is he telling I should rent an RV at this place? “I don’t understand.”

  “It’s yours,” he
tells me.

  “What’s mine?”

  “My motor home.”

  I look around for a white rabbit or red and blue pills lying on the coffee table. They are both noticeably absent, yet none of this makes sense. I gawk at him, blinking several times. Replaying what he said over and over.

  “I’m sorry, sir. You’re giving me your motor home?”

  He chuckles and sits back down. “No. I’m not giving you my motor home, but I am letting you borrow her for as long as you need. She’s big, though. Forty-two feet. Think you can handle her?”

  “Uh, yeah,” I answer slowly. “My parents always had motor homes growing up. My dad taught me early so I could help drive on long trips.”

  “Perfect.”

  This man, this company, has been so good to me through all of this. They’ve given me all the time off I’ve needed, no questions asked. They’ve continued to pay bonuses I don’t feel as though I’ve earned. They’ve kept up our health insurance. They’ve sent countless meals and people to clean our home. I can’t wrap my mind around how well they’ve treated me, but this…

  I take a deep breath and blow it out slowly. The very backs of my eyes sting.

  “It’s a very generous offer, sir, but I—”

  He cuts me off, knowing what I’m going to say. “You can.”

  “I don’t understand.” My throat is dry, my voice raspy.

  “But I do, Roth.” Pat stares out the window. And as he does, I see that I am right. He’s definitely a cardholder of the shittiest club in existence. “My first wife, Camilla, died when she was just twenty-six. We’d only been married for four years.”

  His first wife?

  Shit. I’ve known Pat for over ten years. He has four beautiful children and recently celebrated his thirty-fifth wedding anniversary. He seems blissfully happy. “I had no idea.”

  His smile is thin and wistfully heavyhearted. “Not many people do. It’s not something you lead off with after introductions.”

  I nod, not fully comprehending what that will be like for me in a few months’ time.

  “On our honeymoon, she found a lump in her left breast. We weren’t too worried because she was so young, but as you know, cancer doesn’t discriminate based on age or your bank account or the stage of your life. She gallantly fought it for four years before she finally succumbed.”