by K. Webster
The desire to roll my eyes is overwhelming. Just like the last doctor, they want to dope me up with pills and ‘talk’ about what’s making me sad. But what they really mean, is they want to listen to themselves drone on—what they really want is more of my mother’s money. The pain in my chest threatens to rip me in two as I wonder how expensive this amazing breakthrough is going to cost her. She’ll just pick up more shifts at the diner—shifts that already leave bags under her eyes and callouses on her feet.
I want to tell him I don’t need to talk. What I really need is my bed. And darkness. Maybe some Mazzy Star on my iPod. However, when I sneak a glance up at my mother, I cave. Her once dark, mahogany hair that mirrors mine has become streaked with grey. It shows that in the last four years, I’ve been instrumental in sucking the life out of her.
It wasn’t always this way.
I wasn’t always the cause of her heartache and pain.
“I’ll talk to him, Mom.” My voice is but a whisper and my eyes dart past her to the window of Dr. Morris’s office. A black crow sits on a branch and stares right at me.
Through me.
As they sort out times for the sessions and my medication, I focus on the bird. He cocks his head to the right as if to ask me how I am.
I’m here, Crow. And you?
Caw!
I think that’s bird speak for, pretty fucking okay.
I wish I could say the same, Crow. Life is pretty shitty.
He flaps his wings and bounces on the branch as if my words have offended him.
What, Crow? You asked.
Caw!
This bird has an attitude problem.
“Tuesday is fine. Right, Natalie?” Mom asks, drawing my attention from the tetchy bag of feathers.
I find her brown eyes and nod once before flicking them back over to the window. The branch quivers with movement, but the bird has left me.
Just like Dad did.
The thought is a bitter one and had I said it aloud, Dr. Morris would have had a fucking hay day picking at that wound. Dad stuck around for thirteen years and then selfishly left our family. Now, four years later, I’m still drowning in questions.
Why did he choose to leave us?
Why were we not good enough for him?
Caw!
I blink away my thoughts and stare back at the bird. He came back.
This bird, I think I like him.
See you next Tuesday, Crow.
Caw!
That’s bird speak for, it’s a date.
Chapter One
Now
I should have eaten breakfast.
Blinking away my daze, I take in my surroundings. I’m on the subway, but for a moment, I can’t remember if I’m coming or going. My blood sugar feels low and I’m fighting a wave of nausea. I slide my bag into my lap and begin digging around for a candy bar or a bottle of water. Anything to clear the fogginess in my head.
I find a dirty piece of gum that became unwrapped and the sight of it only further makes me ill. With a sigh, I toss it back into my bag and look around the car of the train. Twenty or so people line the seats and hold on to bars as we glide through the tunnels. When a man raises a bagel covered in cream cheese to his mouth and takes a bite, my stomach grumbles in jealousy.
I’m going.
To work, that is.
The thought of my job causes the muscles in my abdomen to clench with dread. I’ve been there for two months and already three things are certain.
My boss hates me.
I’m really bad at making her coffee the ‘right’ way.
If you’re even five minutes late, the entire office looks at you in disgust as if you carry the plague.
I promised myself that once I paid this month’s rent, I would switch jobs. Anything is better than working for the punctual witch with bizarre sugar to creamer ratio requirements. Yet, the thought of pouring coffee into plain white mugs for tired, third shift patrons at the diner Mom used to work at has me really wanting to puke.
But how long can I go on like this?
Each day, taking the Green Line from my apartment in the Lower East Side into the financial district. Each day, marching up the steps out of the subway and toward my barely above minimum wage job. Each day, coming back home to a shared shoebox of a home where my roommate’s used condoms litter the bathroom floor, never seeming able to make the trash can. Each day, thwarting the pleading of my ex-boyfriend to come back to him.
Another day in the life that’s me.
It’s exhausting.
My mind drifts to the pill bottle in my bag. I’ve stopped taking the newest pill. For seven years I’ve stuck it out with Dr. Morris. Every so often, he mixes up my medication regime and we deal with the consequences as my body grows used to the newest concoction. It’s only been six days and I’m beginning to slip back into my old ways.
Melancholy thoughts twist themselves deep into my brain.
A permanent ache that can’t be soothed has formed in my chest.
Dark clouds of despair swirl around in my head as an epic storm of depression forms.
I’m tempted to dig my phone out and call Brian. Even though we’re broken up now, it’s times like these that I miss him. Of course, I don’t miss the way he was when he’d drink one too many shots of whiskey which was often toward the end of our relationship. But I missed the early days. When we’d lie in bed all day and talk about nothing. The days when all that mattered was grabbing a quick bite so we could crawl back under the covers and hold onto each other for dear life.
Loving Brian wasn’t easy, or a feat I’d managed to accomplish. However, I truly loved being with him when he was Brian. Not that thing he became late at night—that thing that poked holes into my soul, further tattering it.
When he was the Brian playing grab-ass in the shower or rubbing my feet after a long day at work—that was the part of him I loved. If only he wasn’t two different people, life could have almost been pretty okay. I could have managed to ignore the way I hated my job. I could have moved in with him. I could have eventually loved him.
But six days later, my ribs still hurt.
My pride hurts.
The loss of the most constant person in my life, really fucking hurts.
I clutch my bag and take a deep breath. Being off my meds means that everything is clearer. More brutal. More threatening to my wellbeing.
I will not call Brian.
With a rush of air, I exhale and lift my chin. I can do this. My job may be awful but I can always get a new one. The man I thought I had a future with can go to hell. I can be a stable woman without the foggy assistance of the medication.
My eyes scan the other passengers who all seem oblivious to my internal struggles. They’re all probably dealing with their own shortcomings and unhappiness. Not one person smiles or shows any signs of life. Not a single person even attempts a smile.
They’re all just as lost as me.
Everyone sways in the same direction as the subway quickly screeches to a halt. We’ve reached my stop—the stop where I go face more despondent people at my dreary place of employment. The doors open once we’ve come to the end of our ride. People file out in haste as more rush in, eager to get to wherever it is they’re going.
I stand on shaky feet and sling my bag over my shoulder. My mood has only darkened with each step as I exit the train. The nauseating feeling rushes over me once again, and I wonder in a fleeting moment if stopping to pick up a parfait in the deli of our building is worth the condescending looks I’ll undoubtedly get should I be late because of it.
The floor seems to spin out from beneath me and I’m thankful for the sturdy column that I’m able to grab onto. Screw their looks. I’m getting food.
Awareness that someone is watching me prickles the hairs on my arms. I lift my eyes and scan the crowd, searching for the cause. Amidst the sea of faceless drones, one sticks out. This one is different. This isn’t staring past me. This one is staring at m
e.
His dark hair sticks out from under his charcoal grey woven beanie and attempts to hide his chocolate-colored eyes from me. But his eyes tell a story and aren’t keen on staying hidden. They’re kind, and I see laughter in them as they peek through the hair at me. If his eyes seem happy, I wonder about his mouth. My stomach clenches for an entirely different reason this time, as my eyes land on his full lips that are quirked up in a half grin.
I’m mesmerized by him.
This man staring at me.
The man that reminds me of Crow, a silly yet loyal bird. I narrow my eyes at him and send him a silent message, much like I would that old bag of feathers.
Maybe you’ll be here this afternoon, Crow.
The name seems fitting.
With a twinkle in his eyes, he winks at me and his smile broadens.
Maybe I will.
This man, I think I like him.
Chapter Two
Then
Cancer. Terminal.
That’s their diagnosis.
A tear rolls out of my eye and I force myself to look at my mom. My hero. My warrior. My advocate in this hellish life. She reaches her hand over and steals mine, squeezing it the moment our flesh connects.
This woman, through her touch, pours her strength into me. I bite on my lip to keep the sob from escaping and swipe the wetness from my cheek with my free hand.
“How long?” I ask the doctor in a wobbly voice.
The woman with white hair peers over her glasses and purses her lips at me before answering. “Not long. A couple of months at most.”
This time, the sob does escape.
Mom releases my hand so she can pull me into one of her warm hugs. I melt in her arms and remember times when it was the three of us. When Dad loved us. Life was perfect back then. Before depression. Before cancer.
I won’t let him weave his way into our moment though. This moment is about the two of us. The two left in the Davis family.
Soon there will be just one.
“What are the options?” I ask, my voice thick with emotion as I turn in Mom’s arms to face the doctor.
She smiles sympathetically at me, and I want to slap the expression right from her face. “Well, the best option is to make life comfortable in the end. Of course there are treatments but in a case such as this, the treatments are futile. Sweetie, the cancer has spread everywhere, including the brain.”
I close my eyes and swallow down the unfairness of it all. Life is really full of fucking lemons.
“Honey, it’s going to be okay,” Mom murmurs against my hair and presses a kiss against my head.
It is not going to be okay.
Cancer.
Terminal fucking cancer.
“Mom, stop. We’ll do the treatments. We’ll fix this,” I sob as I open my eyes.
The doctor is no longer smiling and has dropped her gaze to the thick file in her hands. I wait impatiently for her to say something. Anything.
“Miss Davis, it won’t work. I’ve been doing this for way too long. We can spend our time and energy in an attempt to battle the cancer but, in turn, you’ll lose out on precious time together. Trust me when I tell you that it is in your best interest to not fight the battle that will most certainly be lost. You two need to enjoy your last moments with each other.”
I feel sick.
This cannot be happening.
Just last week, things seemed right. Perfect even. Mom wasn’t having to work as hard at the diner because I’d picked up a full time job at the cinema. I may smell like popcorn every single night when I come home, but it’s worth it being able to contribute. For her not to have to kill herself working double shifts every day of the week, the buttery smell in my hair was worth it.
“Doctor Fulton, it’s okay. Natalie and I will get through this,” Mom assures her, “She is upset now but I know my daughter. She’s brave.”
But I’m not brave.
I’m weak.
And scared.
The doctor opens up the file and pulls a sheet of paper from it. “There’s a support group. For families like yours as they prepare a cancer patient for the end. You’ll also find several hospice companies that can assist you both during this time. I’m so sorry.”
Tears well in my eyes again.
I’m so sorry.
What a cliché thing to say.
Sitting up, I pull away from my mother and glare at the doctor. “We’ll get a second opinion. Surely there are doctors out there actually willing to try and treat their patients. You’re just giving up. What’s wrong with you?” I hiss.
She has the audacity to appear to be surprised by my sudden outburst. Did she really think I’d take this diagnosis and promise of death so easily?
“Sweetie—” she begins, but I swat the file from her hands, cutting her off.
“Don’t call me that again,” I snarl.
Mom hugs me tightly from behind and rests her cheek on my back. She’s already given up on our family. Much like Dad did all those years ago.
“Mom, stop,” I sniffle as I watch the doctor scramble to gather her papers from the floor.
My mother squeezes me, and I relax in her arms. “Natalie, I promise. Cancer may steal our life away together but we’ll always be a family. We’ll always be together in our hearts. I promise you that, baby.”
The tears that fall from my eyes turn the idiot doctor into a blur.
“I’ll miss you so much, baby,” she murmurs.
I gulp down my hysterics as I let the gravity of what’s happening to us sink in. Our family won’t exist anymore. It will be the end for the both of us.
“Mom, I’ll miss you too.”
The doctor sets the file on the sofa beside me and exits the room silently. It’s quite possibly the smartest thing she’s done since the moment she opened her mouth and told us of the wicked cancer that will steal a life in a matter of months.
A couple of months and no more.
“Nobody will love me once you’re gone.”
My mother chuckles as if my words are the silliest damn thing to ever come out of my mouth. “Oh, baby, you’re easy to love. The question is, who will you let love you when I’m gone?”
I know the answer.
Nobody.
Love only ends in insufferable heartache.
Love is for the birds.
Chapter Three
Now
Eighteen.
Nineteen.
Twenty.
Twenty-one.
“Looking for me?” a deep, masculine voice questions as I reach the bottom of the stairway that leads to the subway platform.
The voice, although I’ve never heard it before, is familiar. Like the voice of a childhood friend you are reunited with years later. It comforts me.
I lift my head and I meet the same melted chocolate eyes from this morning only a couple of feet in front of me. With me standing on the last step and him standing on the ground, we’re nearly the same height. People hustle past us and ignore our unusual exchange as we silently stare at one another. I, however, cannot ignore the pull that this man has on me. My body leans forward in a slight way as I discreetly inhale his scent.
“Sniffing is going to cost you,” he smirks.
Smirking is definitely a good look on him and apparently I wasn’t as discreet as I had originally thought.
“Is that so, Crow?” I question with a raised brow. Leaning my shoulder against the wall beside me, I challenge him with a foreign smile tugging at my lips.
His eyes briefly drop to them before he flashes me a grin. “Crow?”
As he says the word, I watch his full lips while they move. They’re soft in appearance and mixed with the cinnamon fragrance coming from them, I have the insane urge to kiss them.
“You’re a woman of few words. What’s your name, chatty?”
I scoff at his statement but can’t help but reward him with a smile when a dimple forms on his left cheek. I’m just now noticing that
his cheek is dusted with a scruff that hasn’t been shaved in a day or two. His dimple draws me in—hooks me with its innocent charm.
“Maybe I don’t talk to strangers,” I retort.
He leans toward me, and I feel like I should move away from this man that I haven’t even learned his name yet. But I don’t. In fact, I stay planted right where I’m at and non-verbally invite him into my personal space.
“I’m not a stranger,” he says simply. As if his words mean something—that I should trust him.
Strangely, I do.
“Natalie.”
He lifts his gloved hand between us and after a brief hesitation, I give in and shake it with my own gloved hand.
“I’m Crow,” he chuckles, “Nice to meet you.”
“What’s your real name, smartass?” I groan in faux exasperation.
Our hands remain joined, neither of us willing to let go of the other. His cheeks turn the slightest of pink as he darts his eyes to someone passing by us.
“Let’s just say I prefer the nickname you’ve given me over my real name. Henry isn’t exactly a badass name. Now, Crow, a name like Crow insinuates that I’m one cool-ass motherfucker,” he muses.
Henry.
“Are you from Texas or something?” I laugh.
He shakes his head ruefully at me. “Jersey. Do I look like a country boy to you?”
I release his hand and lean back to inspect his body. He’s tall with broad shoulders—maybe a previous football player in college. His black leather jacket hugs his thick arms and it’s open in the front, revealing a tan waffle-textured thermal shirt. The shirt stretches nicely across his chest and I have to tear my gaze from it.
“Those look like arms that have tossed more than their fair share of bales of hay,” I tease.
I watch his lips twitch in amusement and I wonder why it is that I’m so enamored by this man. This Henry—the man who claims he’s not at all a country boy.
“Do you always pick on strangers?”
I roll my eyes at him. “You’re not a stranger. Not anymore, Henry.”
