Almost-perfect. That’s what this life I watch is. I haven’t decided whether this is better or worse than if it were actually perfect. It’s so close to perfect. Here they are, happily married—perfect. They are clearly in love—perfect. The nursery is stubbornly empty, void of the two children that would make their life perfect. In this life, Wren is sick all the time, battling the same fucking ovarian cancer I did everything to escape. In a perfect life, Wren and Jimmy would be cancer-free, your typical healthy early-thirties couple whose biggest complaint was some knee pain here and there. In this perfect life, the couple wouldn’t be haunted by a silent but bitter ghost. Restless spirits don’t hang out in the closets of perfect couples.
A perfect life makes sense to me. If coming back as a ghost coincided with purgatory, then haunting a perfect version of my life would be a perfect punishment for all my sins. I’m no angel. I have regrets. I’ve committed at least a handful of mortal sins, but who’s counting? Being forced to watch myself in a perfect marriage with perfect children with perfect health would show me what could have been. I’ve seen A Christmas Carol; I’d be the Scrooge in the story, no doubt. I’d almost understand this eternal entrapment.
This torture is worse. Now I’m watching myself die—again—from cancer. At least I took my own life and spared those around me the anguish. This Wren, she’s taking down the man she loves most in this world with her. Jimmy might not be physically sick, but he’s dying too. Wren is killing him slowly but surely. Every time she refuses the surgery, each time she begs to try for a baby, he dies a little. Wren may have the fatal disease, but poor Jimmy is dying of a broken heart.
I hate her and I hate her stupid nickname. I hate that she has a life full of love and it isn’t enough for her. She’s as stubborn as me, and this is not a redeemable quality. All she wants is a baby, and it makes her blind to all the love she already has available to her. It’s not enough. For two years I’ve listened to them fight, Jimmy trying to convince her to have a hysterectomy and Wren vehemently denying his wishes. It’s not that he doesn’t want children—he does. But he wants Wren more. Wren doesn’t see this. She loves some unborn baby—an idea of a baby—more than she loves Jimmy or herself. If she were smarter, she’d have been cured by now. She could be cancer-free and go on to adopt as many babies as she wanted. From the safety of my closet, I want to scream at her, wring her neck, yell at her to save herself. I never gave myself a chance at recovery, but I wasn’t surrounded by the same love and support. If I’d had even an ounce of Jimmy’s love when I was alive, I would’ve fought it. I would have stayed alive for him. But Wren’s a selfish bitch. Look at all she has. Still not enough.
So I hide. Watching her hurt him day after day is the worst form of cruelty. Cancer is literally eating Wren alive. I recognize her limp hair and withering body. I used to see the same purple bags and red-rimmed eyes when I stared into the mirror. Her sallow cheeks are yellow, but not a cheery yellow like the paint in all these godforsaken rooms. Then there’s Jimmy. The bags under his eyes prove he’s exhausted. His existence revolves around Wren. He makes her eat. He helps her up the stairs when she’s too weak to climb them on her own. He drives her to her appointments and rubs her back as she pukes up the chemo meds. His broad shoulders sag beneath the weight of both their hopes.
I’m invisible, but I’m here. I’m a ghost, but I’m real. On one of the early days of my purgatory, I couldn’t take their yelling anymore—Wren droning on about her baby obsession—and I screamed. No sound came out, but I felt myself explode from the inside out. A picture hanging on the wall near Wren fell and shattered into a million pieces, covering her bare feet in tiny shards of glass. This served to end the fight. Poor Jimmy thought he did something wrong and scooped Wren up into his arms, apologizing while carrying her up the stairs to the bedroom to clean her cuts.
But Jimmy didn’t make the picture fall. Up until that day, my existence hadn’t affected the house. When I screamed, something pierced through the divide. Maybe it was my pain, maybe all the anger. Something made that frame fall from its secure place on the wall. Since then, I haven’t trusted myself in the same room as them. Who knows what my pent-up anger might do?
I’m crouched in the corner of the pantry, surrounded by cans of soup and boxes of cereal. I miss the smell of food. I miss smell in general. Light moans drift down the stairs, and I wish that sense had been stripped from me. Her voice is a whisper; his is heavier and hoarse, barely audible. They’ve been making love more often, and I guess this means she’s feeling better. Usually he insists on waiting until she’s in remission, but I don’t trust her. She’s sneaky and I wouldn’t put it past her to lie to him, trick him into her bed. Anything for a baby.
I’d block my ears, but I can’t feel the weight of my own hands. Even the muffled sound of their breathing grates on my nerves. I close my eyes and wish myself outside, to the farthest corner of the yard, the outer bounds of the perimeter surrounding the yellow house. This is the limit of my constraints, as far from the hell flames as I can escape to. Before I leave, I swear I hear someone moving downstairs. But another moan travels down the stairs into the kitchen, and I know I must be alone.
26
James
Age 27
May 1998
“Cheers to the prodigal son,” I say, lifting my shot of whiskey to no one in particular.
The bartender nods at me but continues to wipe the counter. Throwing back the sweet liquor, I savor the hot, burning sensation as it slides down my throat and hits my empty stomach. It’s my third, but the ball of anxiety bouncing around my gut refuses to be settled.
I wave for my friend the bartender. “Another one, Joe. This is my graduation party.” I think I’m beginning to slur but don’t care. I’m celebrating.
“Rich, man. My name’s Rich,” Joe (or is it Rich?) says to me.
He’s grinning, so I know he’s not really mad. I’m sure he’s dealt with much worse customers in his day. He fills my glass and keeps a second for himself.
“To graduating,” he says, clinking his shot against mine.
“To becoming a lawyer,” I say, and tip it back.
Joe/Rich laughs. “Lawyer, huh? Nice, kid. But hey, are you supposed to be at a real party somewhere, not hanging in here all by yourself?”
The whiskey spreads through my body now. It makes me think of Mom, probably crying in the car on the way back to Massachusetts. Then I think of Dad, likely drinking Scotch (alone) in his study at home, staring at the picture of June frozen in time that sits in a place of pride on his desk.
“Nah, no party. No one really likes lawyers,” I joke.
“Amen to that,” Joe/Rich agrees. “Amen to that.”
***
The ceremony ended like any other graduation. It was amazingly similar to my undergraduate ceremony, which was strikingly similar to my high school graduation. I suppose there are only so many ways to march us onto a stage and send us out into the world with a piece of paper in hand.
But Dad missed this graduation. Although this shouldn’t have surprised me—I’m sure he would have skipped them all had Mom allowed it—it stings. Even though he was on the phone during my high school graduation speech, he caught me walking across the stage and even clapped like he cared. He might have been late for my NYU graduation, but he was sitting front and center when I as I accepted my diploma, even if he never commented on it. But somehow he missed my graduation from Columbia Law, one of the most prestigious law schools in the country. I’d finished second in my class, behind some genius of a girl who I swear was spawned by a judge and a DA and was born a full-grown lawyer. Mom claimed Dad had a work emergency. He owns the firm, so I can’t imagine what it was that he couldn’t pawn off onto one of his hungry minions.
“He wanted to be here,” Mom said as she pulled me in for a hug. She’s a tiny woman, a good head shorter than me, but I always feel covered by her embrace. Every hug reminds me of all the bedtime stories she read me while I nestled ag
ainst her ample bosom.
I snorted. “Sure he did,” I said, trying to keep the sarcasm from my voice but failing miserably. I drew away from her and gingerly took off my cap. “Here, this is for you,” I said, handing it to her. She had my other two caps saved away somewhere in our house. She keeps everything.
Her face lit up with pride. If only his face would light up like that. Just once. “Thank you. I’m so proud of you. Both of us are,” she said again.
“Are you sticking around?” I asked, even though I knew the answer. Mom would be eager to rush home to Dad and relive the ceremony in painstaking detail. She’s in denial. She refuses to believe the truth—he just doesn’t care.
“Oh, I’m going to head back before it gets too dark,” she said, glancing up at the still-sunny sky. “You know I hate driving when it’s too late.”
“I understand. I’m going to go celebrate with some friends,” I lied. We stood there looking at each other awkwardly. I wanted her to stay and take me to dinner, bask in her pride a little longer.
“You won’t even consider coming home and working with Dad for a little bit? You know the offer is always open,” she said, her tone just short of begging. I watched as she held her breath, hoping I might have changed my mind. Hoping I’d come home.
“Mom, you know I’m going to go work at a firm here in the city. It’s a great opportunity,” I said. The little balloon of hope lifting her up only moments ago deflated, and she looked even smaller than normal. She smiled up at me, but it was a sad smile.
“I know. I just thought I’d ask again in case you forgot,” she said.
“I’ll walk you to the car,” I offered, taking her arm.
Side by side, we walked toward the parking lot. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw that her cheeks were wet with tears. I wished they were simply tears of joy, but I was pretty sure I’d broken a little piece of her heart once again.
We weaved through the yellow lines until we came upon her smart little Volvo sedan. Turning to face her, I took her hands in my own and squeezed. “I love you, Mom. Thanks for being here. Means a lot to me.” I only wished her being here meant more than him not being here, but some dynamics never change.
“I love you too. Take care of yourself. Call me and your dad once in a while. We miss you.” She kissed me on the cheek and wiped it away with her knuckle.
“Aw, leave the lipstick. Then everyone knows I’m loved,” I teased.
She smiled and ducked into the driver’s seat. “I’m wiping away the tears, dear,” she said. I blinked, and realized I was crying.
27
Wren
Age 32
September 2003
So many options. All I want is the answer.
Jimmy wants me to get a hysterectomy. We may be a team, but when he refers to “us” getting the hysterectomy, I can’t help but resent him. Although the surgery affects us both, it’s not his uterus being removed. It’s mine. Mine. His opinion on the matter is quite clear, and the doctors agree with him. Most everyone agrees this is the right choice. The surgery gives me the best chance at survival. But it takes away so much more. It takes away my ability to have children, something Jimmy and I both desperately want. We’ve always planned on a big family. We dream of the kids we will one day have. Cancer changes a lot of things, but it doesn’t change our dreams.
Radiation and chemo didn’t work. After the tests came back, we were sent to a counselor to talk about specific surgical treatment options. This counselor spoke directly to Jimmy, like I was some patient that needed to be managed. After sensing I was hesitant to listen to everyone’s advice and have the surgery, she chose to ignore me completely. Instead, she droned on and on about adoption and surrogacy, promising we could still have a baby, we’d just have to be “creative.” She handed Jimmy pamphlets with children of all ages frolicking on the covers and spoke of all the poor parentless kids in the world who would thrive with a loving family like ours. Jimmy pocketed the handouts and nodded his head vigorously in agreement. What they both were unwilling to acknowledge was that these are my eggs. My fallopian tubes. My uterus. And they aren’t going anywhere. I want a baby with Jimmy’s unruly hair and my freckles. Seeing another woman carrying my child would kill me. I yearn for that experience for myself, to feel my baby’s first kick, to push him into the world.
On a more practical note, we won’t be able to afford surrogacy or adoption after all the surgeries and chemotherapy. Babies are expensive. The counselor was selling Jimmy on some fantasy. I don’t want a fantasy. I just want my dream.
Today’s checkup is more of the same. Armed with more pamphlets and an increasingly educated husband, I leave the hospital no better than when I arrived. Between the doctors and Jimmy’s own research, he’s sounding more like an oncologist every day.
“Wren, you weren’t even listening in there.” He helps me climb into the passenger seat of our SUV, his hand brushing my lower back to keep me from falling. I half expect him to reach over and fasten my seat belt for me.
“Of course I was listening. I’m just so sick of hearing the same thing over and over. Maybe if someone listened to me for a change, we could move forward.”
Marriage is an amazing thing, molding two people into something bigger, an us. I’ve been with Jimmy so long I can read even the smallest movements in his face. Even the way he steers the car, so slowly and deliberately, gives me a clue as to what he’s thinking. His actions are as familiar to me as my own. The tightness in his jaw. The white of his knuckles. The way his left leg shakes. My pain is his. This cancer infects my body, but he feels it too. It’s killing us both.
Seeing the worry written so plainly across his face makes me feel guilty, but I need him to understand I’m not doing this for me. I’m doing this for us.
“I know this is something we need to decide together,” I say. His forehead creases, the wrinkles fanning the corners of his eyes deepen. My cancer is aging him. “I need you on my side. I’ve been listening to everything the doctors say, but I can’t have the hysterectomy.” His hands tighten on the wheel and he moves to open his mouth, but I interrupt him before he can begin. “I will get one removed. Not both.”
“Wren . . .”
Everyone thinks they know what’s best for me. The doctors. My parents. Jimmy. If only they would listen to me.
“Maybe it’s not the best way, but it’s our only chance of having a baby of our own. After that happens, we can discuss going back and removing the other side if need be.” I think of this second argument on the spot. It seems like a good compromise. Give me a baby first, and then you can have my whole uterus. Tit for tat.
He shakes his head, keeping his eyes on the road. “But we can adopt. We can adopt three babies if you want. We can adopt a whole houseful of little kids and it’ll be okay, because at least I’ll know you’ll be around to raise them with me,” he says. It’s hard to stay mad at him when I know his biggest fear is losing me.
“I’ll be there to raise our baby, don’t you worry. The doctor said there’s a high chance I can have a baby and live a long, happy life by getting the oophorectomy or whatever it’s called.” I take his hand across the console and pull it to my lips, brushing his knuckles with tiny kisses. “I want a baby that looks like you and sounds like me. I want her to be a gymnast, or if it’s a boy, to play baseball.” Squeezing his hand, I let myself imagine our child, and it gives me strength. “Plus, no one would give a baby to a sick lady. Adopting a kid isn’t like adopting a puppy. Once they know I have cancer, we will go to the bottom of every list.” This is the first time I’ve shared this fear with him. What if I get a hysterectomy and I still can’t have a baby?
Every time someone calls me sick, I bristle. It’s not like I have a cold. Sick seems too generic a way to sidestep the truth. Cancer, though—that’s a word to be whispered for fear of it spreading. An adoption agency would see the word and label me too sick to take care of an infant. I don’t think I could handle being told I’m an unsu
itable mother because of my illness. Just because I have cancer doesn’t mean I wouldn’t be an amazing mom. Jimmy is fit and healthy and shouldn’t have to suffer because of me. I refuse to be the reason he doesn’t get to be a father.
“Okay,” he says, looking at me out of the corner of his eye.
“Okay what?” He needs to say it. I need to know we’re a team, that I’m not tricking him or twisting his arm. I want this to be our decision.
“Okay, we can talk to the doctor about getting the one ovary removed.”
“It’ll be okay, I promise. This is what I want.” The corner of his mouth lifts. Not quite a smile, but I’ll take it.
“Well, by all means, we better get her what she wants,” he jokes.
“Consider it my birthday present,” I say, only half kidding.
“Can’t you ask for a necklace like a normal woman?”
As we laugh together, I’m overwhelmed by sadness. We used to argue over which movie to rent. We stressed about the credit card bill. We’d worry and bicker and end up laughing together, always realizing it was easier to work with each other instead of against. I miss those petty struggles. Here we are, laughing over our shared decision to remove half my womanhood. Life’s funny that way. In the moment, you always think this is the worst thing that could happen. Then you get cancer and everything changes.
28
Jimmy
Age 32
February 2004
Sometimes I love her so much I hate her. Today’s one of those days. Unfortunately, there have been a lot of these days lately. The longer she puts off the surgery she promised us, the more resentment I find filling the spaces where once only love existed. I try to remind myself of all the reasons why I first fell in love with her—her quick wit, easy smile, and strength. But I find myself walking a fine line between loving her too much and hating her guts.
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