Sleeping Brides

by fallensea

  I appreciated how normal she spoke to me, as if I were walking out with nothing more than a sore throat—that I wasn’t terminal. I stood to reach for the papers, but Bronco gently nudged me back down in the wheelchair and took the papers for me. It was all a bit ridiculous. I didn’t need a wheelchair. I didn’t need an escort. I needed my dignity.

  “You didn’t have to wait,” I proclaimed as Bronco wheeled me out. “You could have gone home when your shift was over.”

  “If I had, I wouldn’t have the opportunity to take you somewhere special.”

  “If you’re planning some sort of pity date, I’m not interested,” I said irritably as we passed through the automatic doors, leaving the hospital behind. I was free. I could put the needles and tests behind me and live until I died.

  “It’s not a date, and there’s no pity.”

  I hit the break on the wheelchair and jumped out. I wasn’t helpless. I might be one day, and one day soon, but I wasn’t now. I wanted my legs while I still had them. I wanted my normal.

  Bronco tried to usher me back down. “I’m not supposed to let you out of the chair until I put you in a car.”

  “Those are your rules, not mine.”

  “They’re the hospital rules. There are side effects to all the medication we gave you. It’s not time to go jumping ponies just yet.”

  “What are you, my guard dog?”

  “Only if you’ll let me.”

  I considered his offer. “What did you have in mind?”

  “It’s a surprise.”

  I trusted Bronco. From Gerty, I’d learned what a knock-off looked like, and Bronco wasn’t a knock-off, but I was cautious. I didn’t understand his intentions. “Why does it have to be a surprise?”

  “Because a girl like you won’t want to go where a guy like me wants to take you, but it’ll help you.”

  His answer wasn’t good enough. “Surprises are for dreamers and their wishmakers, not two strangers.”

  “Then let me be the dreamer and you be the wishmaker. Come with me. You won’t regret it. It’s Sunday. Only good things happen on Sunday.”

  “Tell that to everyone in the hospital,” I said, but I accepted his invite. “As long as you don’t plan on bringing that wheelchair.”

  “It’s a ten-minute walk to my flat where my car is. Can you handle it?”

  I stretched out my arms as if I were preparing for a round of tennis. “Can you?”

  Soon, we were walking through his neighborhood—a bleached street full of foreign shops, nameless cafés, and low-rise apartments.

  “We’re almost there,” he said, but I stopped.

  Painted on the bark of a tree outside a grocer was the marking of the Owl—the artist responsible for the Bird of Paradise graffiti. This Bird of Paradise was blue and burgundy, with bright peach wings spread out in layers that made it impossible to tell if it was bird or flower.

  “What do you think of these?” I asked, running my hand along the paint, which had sunk deep into the pores of the bark.

  “I haven’t thought much about it,” he said. “Do they mean something to you?”

  “I’m fascinated by them,” I admitted.

  “You and the rest of Toronto. An owner of a gas station tried to wash one off his air tank, and his customers had a fit. Now he uses it as a marketing tool.”

  “You said you haven’t given it much thought.”

  “The paintings—not the news.”

  “Have you ever heard of the Bird of Paradise film? The one from 1932? Dolores del Río was in it. I tried to buy one of her dresses in an auction a few years ago, but someone much richer outbid me. In the film, she plays the daughter of an island chief. She saves a yachtsman’s life as he sails through the South Pacific, and they fall in love. Her father has arranged for her to marry another man, so they run away together, but when her village is threatened by a volcano, she leaves him to sacrifice herself to the fire, certain it is the only way to save her people.”

  Bronco set his hand on my shoulder. “Why does that have meaning to you?”

  “It didn’t, not until now. I wish my death was nobler.”

  “The woman in the film didn’t make the decision to sacrifice herself in death. She made the decision in life. Your death will be noble, because your life was.”

  “I thought you said there was hope.”

  He sighed. “I was wrong to say that to you. You’re dying, Hayley. I’m not going to try to tell you otherwise. But I would like to help you through it.”

  “Why?”

  “You didn’t call anyone. No family. No friends. You walked out of that hospital alone, as if you were homeless. I don’t want you to die homeless too.”

  I wasn’t homeless. I had my father, and I had Jean-François, but I had no intention of telling them what was happening, not until I had my own feelings about it under control. Maybe some company wouldn’t be so bad. If Bronco wanted to be my guard dog, I didn’t feel any need to stop him.

  “Would you like an herbal tea before we go to this secret place of yours?” I asked.

  “Noooo,” he said, as if I’d just suggested he eat dirt. “It’s beer and soda for me. Can’t even remember the last time I drank water...”

  “Some nurse you are,” I huffed, and I pushed him forward, towards a café at the end of the street. “Let’s get an herbal tea.”

  ***

  Night chased us as we drove out of Toronto and into the backcountry. I was comfortable next to Bronco in his car, comfortable enough to sleep part of the way, waking only when the car jerked to a stop outside a wide compound secured behind barbed wire and a vaulted security gate. Bronco punched a code into the gate, and it opened, allowing us entrance into a graveyard of rusted and hollow four-doors, hatchbacks, and pick-up trucks, cars that were broken and tattered, waiting to be crushed. They were lined up in neat rows, orderly despite their fate, unknowing castaways.

  Above, the stars shined down upon the junkyard without inhibition or judgement. “I weirdly love it here,” I said, fixated on the stars.

  “So do I. My buddies and I come here with our four-wheelers. You can’t find tracks better than these. The tracks are endless, and no one is around to complain about the noise.”

  “Did you steal the code to the gate?”

  He grinned. “We know the owner.”

  I looked around for some clue to break his secret of why we’d come. “Are we four-wheeling? Is this some sort of bucket list thing?”

  “No, Mame,” Bronco said, and he parked off-course, next to a lone tree with a short line of cars under it. “This is a let go of your anger thing.”

  “I’m not angry,” I alleged as I followed him out of the car. He opened his trunk and pulled out a bat. “What’s that for?”

  “Normally, to play baseball with my nephews.”

  “How American of you.”

  He slammed the trunk down and handed me the bat. “Tonight, those cars are the ball.”

  I looked at the line of cars under the tree, unconvinced. “They look like they’ve already been the ball. Why are you making me do this?”

  “I told ya—so you can release your anger.”

  “And I told you—I’m not angry. I’ve accepted my fate. I’m scared, but I’m not angry.”

  “There’s plenty of anger regarding your diagnosis that is yet to come, but that’s not why we’re here. I mean the anger you brought with you into the hospital.”

  “How could you possibly know that?” I asked skeptically.

  “Hayley, you lack a mask. You wear your emotions like a frog wears his legs. I like that about you. I respect it. So what has you all steamed up?”

  I didn’t want to admit that I was angry because it meant those responsible had won, but there were greater challenges I faced than Gerty and Edna, challenges I had to make room for. “Two really close friends proved to be no friends at all. They tried to ruin my reputation at work because I was given something they wanted. Girlfriends don’t do tha
t. A fight amongst girlfriends is supposed to stay amongst girlfriends.”

  “Ouch,” Bronco said. “If you were as good of friends as you say, I’m sure you’ll get an apology someday.”

  He didn’t know Gerty. She could hold onto a grudge as if it were a tiara designed by Alexander McQueen. “The problem is, I don’t have very many somedays left.”

  “Then why don’t you tell them that?”

  “Because I don’t trust them not to use it against me.”

  “It’s that bad?”

  “It’s that bad. None of my exes have ever broken my heart as bad as my friends have.”

  Bronco guided me towards the tree and the cars. “Crush the anger and the hurt. Break it apart, piece by piece.”

  With hesitation, I held the bat up over the car closest to me. I didn’t want this therapy. I wanted a boutique and a credit card. I wanted to scream my anger into a pillow. I wanted to tell the bitches where they could go. I did not want to batter cars, but when my arms came swinging down, it was a catharsis. Bits of metal sparked past me, but it was the sound that was the most satisfying, a thunder that absorbed my anger. There were no windows to the car, but I did not need shattered glass. The thunder was enough. I beat the car until my energy was gone, and even then I gathered enough to jump on the hood and smash the roof in before the bat involuntarily fell from my hands. Seeing I was going down too, Bronco leapt up and caught me.

  “I don’t want to die,” I sobbed as he lowered me down so that we sat on the hood together.

  “I know,” he said with sadness. “No one does, but we all do. Even me, someday. When I do, I’ll meet you up there. We’ll go four-wheeling.”

  I laughed, my eyes drying. “It may be heaven, but I’m wearing a helmet.”

  “I don’t think God allows helmets,” he teased. “Better?”

  “Yeah, better,” I answered. “But my arm hurts.”

  “Here.” He offered me a joint from the pocket of his scrubs. “This will help.”

  “No, thanks,” I asserted, shocked Bronco of all people had pot on him. He was not a stoner. He was a solid guy.

  “I don’t advertise its use, but it does alleviate the pain,” he explained. “When their prescriptions fail them, I’ve seen many patients turn to pot. It works, and it’s here, if you ever need it.”

  He moved to return the joint to his pocket, but my interest peaked and I grabbed his hand. Why should I give a damn whether it was safe or not? I was already dying. “Do you smoke it, or is it part of your guard dog duties?”

  “I only smoke it now and again.”

  I let go of his hand. “Will you smoke it with me?”

  “Sure.”

  “Then light it up,” I ordered, ignoring my father’s voice in my head telling me God was watching. God was causing my pain. He could watch all he wanted.

  “Life doesn’t stop because you’re terminal,” Bronco said a few drags in. “I’ve seen old men hours from death playing poker with their friends. I’ve seen sick children laugh their way into heaven’s grasp. Being sick, watching the clock tick down—it doesn’t mean anything. Our significance isn’t measured by how long we’re here.” He pointed the joint at the stars. “It isn’t measured by anything. It’s enough that you existed, same as the stars in the colorless sky.”

  I kissed him. It was probably the worst kiss ever. I was weak and sweaty, and I reeked of pot, but so did he. It was the worst, but it was also the best kiss, outshining even the kiss that made me the wife of Jean-François.

  When the kiss was over, I pulled away, smiling. Then my stomach lurched, warning me I’d soon be sick.

  “I better get you home,” Bronco said, and he picked me up off the hood I had hammered with my anger and carried me back to his car.

  ***

  “Do you have family?” Bronco asked when we were back at my apartment. “If so, I can call them for you.”

  “I have family,” I disclosed, exhausted, eager for a shower and my bed. “My father lives nearby, but I don’t want him to know. It would devastate him.”

  He didn’t push it. “Fair enough, you’ve been through enough for one day, but I can’t leave you here alone. I’m snooz’n on the couch.”

  I didn’t argue. I wanted him to stay. I didn’t want to be alone. “On the couch,” I repeated, firm but friendly, remembering the taste of our kiss.

  “Does your couch have blankets?” he asked, not at all put off. He didn’t expect anything from me. To do so would be cruel, given my vulnerability, and Bronco was anything but cruel. He had made himself my protector, a role I trusted him with, the way a drowning girl trusted the first hand to pull her from the water.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The Last Day

  Two Months Later

  My pantsuit was red, as red as the blood that infected my body, bright and fearsome. The cut was so low, it’d made Bronco blush when he’d said goodbye to me that morning. Using what reserves of energy I had, I sauntered into work wearing the pantsuit, passing by the fountain of Eos on the way. She didn’t speak to me today. What she had to say had already been heard. I was to join her, but I wouldn’t be wearing rose-colored wings. I’d be dressed in a consuming red. If Eos was the dawn, I was a fucking supernova.

  Like my years, my collection of vintage gowns was complete. I did not plan to buy another. There was no point, not when owning it would be a cutting joy. Instead, I’d spent my savings on a new wardrobe of designer clothes for work, clothes that made me feel much more powerful than the faults of my body. I would not wither away and become fodder for the bitches that wanted to destroy me. My makeup was flawless, my curves padded to hide the weight I’d lost. I was ablaze. Forget Gerty and her pyrotechnics. I was the true mistress of flame. I was the sunbird.

  In the corridor, Edna passed by me. She said nothing, ignoring me like a horse ignores a fly. It was for the best. I had no desire to reconcile. I wouldn’t waste my time.

  “You look great,” Olivia complimented, following behind Edna. “Where did you get the suit?”

  “Off the runway,” I said readily.

  “Well, I love it. Talk about a power booster.”

  “You can have it,” I offered. I didn’t plan to wear any of my new clothes twice. They lost their potency if I did. “I’ll have it dry cleaned and sent to you tomorrow.”

  Olivia blushed as hard as Bronco had that morning. “Oh, that’s not what I meant. I mean, I love it, but I didn’t expect—”

  “I know,” I cut in. “It’s a gift.”

  “For what?”

  “Judging for yourself.”

  Olivia understood. “I’ll accept, but only if you let me bake you my famous pop cakes. We can have them over coffee at my place.”

  “It’s a date,” I promised, knowing it was a date I would not make. Food had lost all appeal.

  In my office, I closed the door and fell into my seat. My entrance had taken most of my energy. My mind was strong, but a strong mind was no match for a failing body. I took deep breaths, trying to regain enough momentum to get through the meeting I had in an hour, ignoring the truth that I could not keep this up much longer.

  On my desk was a tea, left by Jean-François. I drank it gratefully, needing the rejuvenation. After finally having dinner with him and his girlfriend, I hadn’t convinced Jean-François I was okay—my tremors had given me away—but I had managed to keep him from finding out I had cancer. “I’m under a lot of stress,” I’d told him as I picked at a salad, admitting only a small portion of the truth. “It’s affecting my health.”

  A knock on my office door perked me up like a bad shot. In a panic to look like I was being productive, I scooped up random papers from my top drawer and scattered them across my desk. After doing so, I cringed. We didn’t keep papers on our desk. We used tablets, but there was no time to clean up. “Come in,” I called.

  Mr. Tremblay entered. “Hayley.” The bass of an older man’s voice had a calming effect on me. I enjoyed listening to men
of Mr. Tremblay’s age speak, but today there was an undertone of regret in his greeting. “May I sit?”

  “Of course.” I gestured to the chair in front of my desk. I would have stood for him, if my legs were capable. The tea had not yet reached them.

  “I’ve noticed you’ve been late to work lately, and you’ve missed a few meetings,” Mr. Tremblay said as soon as he sat. He was not a man of meaningless talk.

  “I have,” I acknowledged, my heart pounding with harsh beats. I wasn’t ready to tell him about the full extent of my illness. “But for good reason.” My plan was to admit I had been a little under the weather and leave it at that, but I didn’t get the chance to.

  “I know you have a good reason. You’re sick, Hayley. I know what cancer looks like. My first wife died from it.” It wasn’t a question. He wasn’t asking if I had cancer. He was stating it. “How bad is it?”

  Work had been the last place where my cancer didn’t exist, but it existed here now. I couldn’t escape it. Cancer had officially taken over my life, a fog that covered the land, suffocating me. Because of the respect I had for Mr. Tremblay, there was only room for honesty. “Bad. The worst kind of bad.”

  Indiscreet tears filled his eyes. “I’m deeply troubled to hear it.”

  “So was I.”

  He was quiet for a moment, lost in woeful contemplations, and then he spoke. “I think of the story you told me of Yeh-Shen and the importance of cherishing those who came before us. We must also cherish those who leave before us. You will be cherished, Haley. We will pray over your bones.”

  “Thank you,” I whispered, humbled.

  “Is there anything I can do to help?”

  “Let me work,” I pleaded. I wasn’t ready to quit. When I did quit, it was over.

  He nodded. “I know how important it is to keep moving. It was important to my wife, too. You stay here as long as you want, but I urge you not to. Go live, Hayley. This office isn’t how you should spend your last days.”