Time Stamps

by K. L. Kreig

  The first time was when I was eleven and the outgoing and carefree, Benny McCarran caught my eye. We held hands walking home from school. He gave me one of his 4-H recognition pins, which I stuck to my backpack like a trophy. We traded “will you go out with me” and “do you want to kiss me” notes during school. The answer was “yes” to both, of course, and Benny and I had our first kiss behind Mr. Hull’s lumber mill.

  We didn’t know what we were doing. Our tongues dueled awkwardly and there was way too much spit. I didn’t know which lip I should kiss, the top or the bottom. Neither did Benny, but we were managing. Until he tried to touch my boob, that is. So I clocked him with a right hook. I left Mr. Hull’s with a splinter in my left butt cheek that I got when I fell backward from the blow. It took Esther twenty minutes to extract it while she made me tell her the story over and over because she couldn’t stop laughing.

  Needless to say, I didn’t kiss Benny McCarran again. And I kept his pin.

  After Benny McCarran, I dated a couple of boys in high school who were nice, but neither could be taken seriously. And neither lasted long.

  Jim Barret was the first. He picked his nose when he thought I wasn’t watching. And yes, he ate them. And then he tried to kiss me. Toodle-oo, Jimbo.

  Raymond Tucker was the second. He had a vocal tic that sounded like he was constantly trying to hock a spitball. I later found out he had Tourette’s. For real. He told me this over a Frappuccino when he asked if that would change my mind about dating him again. Boy, that was rough. I felt bad. Raymond was such a gentleman I nearly agreed. But no.

  A few months after I broke Raymond’s heart, I went to college and met the second man I thought I fell in love with. But as we’ve already established, Ace Wallace was a liar and a thief, plus he made this horrible sucking noise as if he was struggling to dislodge a piece of food from his teeth. It was disgusting. In retrospect, I only dated him because I felt pressured by Mother to “find someone” and it was nice for a while to have her off my back. In the post Ace era, I had dates here and there, mostly set up by Carmen, but they always ended before they began.

  Reflecting on all of these brief encounters, there is one constant that sticks out. And it’s not their uncultured penchants for phlegm.

  I didn’t cry when they ended.

  I didn’t lie awake at night, asking myself where I went wrong.

  I didn’t wonder what I should do to change for the next guy I met.

  Mainly because I didn’t care.

  I didn’t care about love or romance or happily ever afters. I didn’t need men. I didn’t need anyone. I thought I could make it on my own. Be better on my own.

  They say ignorance is bliss, but sometimes ignorance is just ignorance. The unfamiliar often makes no sense, because how can you understand something that is undefined? On the flip side, how do you define something you don’t understand?

  It was a circular puzzle that took falling ass first into a heap of splinters and gin and murky hazel eyes to solve.

  Roth has not only shown me what love is, he has demarcated it. And he continues to do that day after day, hill after valley. He has given me purpose. Wrinkles from laughing. A reason to dance. He’s been a teacher. A lover. A constant. A hand to hold on to.

  I squeeze that hand now.

  I need that hand now more than ever.

  I can’t do this on my own. I am not better by myself. I am only good because of Roth. I am only me because he loves me.

  And I hate this far more for him than I do for myself.

  “Are you sure?” I ask Dr. Nuess.

  My oncologist’s mouth turns south. He’s a kind man. Gentle, I can tell. But I wonder how he can do this day in and day out. How do you stare death in the face, unable to defeat it, then have dreamless nights? He probably doesn’t. It makes me sad for him.

  “I am sorry, Laurel,” he tells me. His voice cracks. It’s hard for him to maintain eye contact.

  I’m sorry too. I let my grief run as wild as my mind.

  I had hoped differently, of course, but if you listen to your body, it talks to you. A lesson I learned a bit too late, I’m afraid. I should have listened harder. Taken action quicker. Would that have made a difference? I’m not sure.

  I thought those months of illness were the result of losing my baby girl, but now I’m convinced losing my baby girl was the result of my illness. After being sick for months, I did see my primary care doctor as Roth wanted. Dr. Valier is a sweet seventy-nine-year-old man who still runs his own private primary care practice. But after a couple of visits, he wasn’t giving me answers so I finally went to see Carmen’s doctor, a highly rated internist at Vanderbilt, whom it took me close to two months to get into.

  Dr. Thomas did a full workup on me. Blood work followed by a bone scan. An MRI. A PET scan. A CAT scan. And when the results were in, I was immediately referred to an oncologist.

  From there, events moved at both warp speed and a snail’s pace.

  They admitted me, took liters of blood, drilled into my bones, and sucked out the insides. They pumped me full of poison they said would heal me and gave me yet more medication to combat the brutal side effects.

  I have spent 89 days in the hospital since diagnosis. That’s 89 nights of falling asleep alone, and 89 mornings of waking up lonely. All told, it’s been 89 days away from my life, my friends, my lover, my students, my normal.

  I have been poked and prodded and had my butt wiped by strangers. I’ve had tubes shoved in almost every available orifice. Blood clots have clogged my veins. Machines have pumped oxygen into my lungs. I’ve lost my hair, my eyebrows, my eyelashes. I’ve thrown up so many times I’ve popped blood vessels in both eyes, not only once or twice, but dozens of times. My nose and gums bleed without warning and my breath has stunk so bad even I couldn’t stand it. I couldn’t think. I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t be intimate with my husband.

  Basically, I have been through the dregs of hell.

  Acute myelogenous leukemia is no joke.

  The treatment, however, is worse than the disease. I was battle-ready for a bone marrow transplant, knowing the end result may justify the means, but this…

  This, I can’t do again.

  This, I won’t do again.

  I won’t live what’s left of my life away from Roth. Not one second. I don’t want the stench of rot lingering in my nostrils when I close my eyes. I don’t want nurses waking me every two hours to take vitals. I don’t want bed sores or atrophied muscles or foreign toxins dripping through a central line. I don’t want to be some scientist’s Frankenstein.

  I won’t do it again and the mere thought that Roth will beg me to go to extraordinary lengths is enough to send me into a panic. He can’t, because we agreed that if we got to this point, we’d be done and we’d both be okay with it. He can’t, because I love him so much, I don’t know how I would tell him no.

  My gaze catches his. The forlorn devastation in them is heartbreaking. He is literally breaking my heart in two.

  He palms my cheek. My tears wet his hand. A stilted silence falls over the room, or maybe it’s only over us.

  I’m sorry, I tell him silently.

  Nothing for you to be sorry for, love, he tells me back.

  “How long?” Roth demands of Dr. Nuess, dropping his hand back to his lap. But I already know and so does Roth. Remission wasn’t expected and obviously it was short-lived. If remission held and the bone marrow transplant was successful…if, if, if…my life expectancy was maybe five years. Without remission, however, I’ll be lucky to have six months.

  I’ve been preparing myself for this day since we were given my diagnosis.

  And that day is here.

  Only much sooner than I expected.

  “Roth, it’s okay,” I whisper.

  “No. No. It’s not fucking okay. We came in today thinking we’d discuss the next treatment plan and instead we’re told all bets are off. That there is nothing more you can do for the person who is my
entire…” His voice is shredded. He’s spiraling downward fast. “So…How. Long. Do. We. Have?”

  As Roth pushes himself up off his chair, Dr. Nuess pushes himself back into his. Roth is rather intimidating when he’s not angry. But when he is… I tug on his arm and he sits back down in a huff.

  “You’d better start talking,” he demands. Dr. Nuess responds, but I fade out of the conversation.

  Roth is shattering into pieces. He needs me. We should go.

  “What’s next, then?” I ask Dr. Nuess calmly.

  His gaze bobs between mine and Roth’s. It settles on me. Then he speaks to me matter-of-factly and I appreciate that.

  “We manage your symptoms the way we’ve been doing. Pain and nausea. Anything else that comes up. We’ll adjust your medication as necessary. Infections are a main cause of hospitalization in cancer patients, Laurel, so you need to exercise caution around others the way you have been.” He pauses briefly to wet his lips. “We should also discuss hospice and put an end-of-life plan in place before you need it.”

  Hospice. End of life. Shit. Those words are a cold slap of reality across the face.

  “I don’t want to die in the hospital,” I tell him. I don’t know how Roth will feel about me dying in our home, but dying in the hospital is a no-go. I don’t get to choose when I die, but I damn well will get to choose where.

  “Many people decide to stay in their homes, Laurel. We can arrange for stronger pain control when needed. Hospice will help with that as well.”

  “Okay.”

  He hands me a couple of brochures. The one on top is titled What to Expect at End of Life. I fill my lungs. This doesn’t seem real. “Call my office with whatever you need, whenever you need it. Whatever questions you have, we’re here for you and your husband. Again, I’m terribly sorry, Laurel.”

  And I guess that’s that.

  “Thank you, Dr. Nuess.”

  I stand up and shake his hand. His hold lingers. He doesn’t want to let go. His sleep won’t be dreamless tonight.

  It’s not your fault, Dr. Nuess. You did all you could.

  The drive home is long and quiet. I ask Roth to stop at Wendy’s for a Frosty. He does but he doesn’t get anything. He says he’s not hungry. I don’t eat it anyway. It tastes spoiled. Roth calls his parents. I hear Elana keen in denial. I think about Esther. I wonder why my father didn’t want me. I contemplate what my last breath will feel like. I imagine holding my baby girl in my arms.

  “You should call your mother,” Roth tells me. I should. He reaches over and lightly brushes my knuckles. She’s going to lose her shit. I know. I swore again. Maybe suddenly I don’t care. I decide I do.

  “Okay,” I agree, thoroughly drained.

  I don’t call my mother.

  I fall asleep instead.

  I wake.

  We’re only halfway there.

  I fall asleep again.

  I dream of four horses. One of them is white.

  I wake.

  I’m in Roth’s arms. He lays me in our bed.

  I fall asleep once more.

  I don’t dream.

  When I wake again, it’s still dark outside. This time, I can’t force my eyes closed. The ceiling needs painting. A lightbulb is out in the hallway. Meringue needs more cat food. I have a dentist’s appointment next Tuesday.

  My thoughts are inane. Erratic. My chest feels hollow. I have this urgency inside me with everywhere to be and nowhere to go. What do I do now? Tomorrow? The day after that? What was important yesterday is suddenly meaningless today.

  I went to see Dr. Valier hoping to get my health back on track. Hoping to be able to try for a family again. Instead...

  Instead.

  Rising quietly, I grab a pen and a piece of paper from my nightstand and take a seat on the settee. Moonlight spills over my lap. I trace the yellowish beams as I watch Roth sleep. He’s restless. He’s so beautiful. I miss him already.

  I sob silently. I don’t want to leave him. I don’t want to die. I wish I could stay.

  How do you accept that your road has hit an unexpected dead end with a fatal drop on either side? That your best friend will be left to deal with life without you? That your dreams stop here before all of them were fulfilled?

  Did you do enough?

  Give enough?

  Live enough?

  Love enough?

  Laugh enough?

  Dare enough?

  Dance enough?

  Play enough?

  Pray enough?

  Sing enough?

  Learn enough?

  Try enough?

  Forgive enough?

  Were you enough?

  Of course, the answer is no, because enough is never enough when death’s rancid stench trickles down your neck. There’s always more. Only that’s not up to you. It never was, honestly.

  There’s a part of me that wants to scream and wail at the injustice of it or pretend this isn’t real. It’s tempting…the denial. The anger. I could easily let it consume me, but it’s not me. It’s not how I choose to live the little time I have left. And it is a choice, my reaction. It’s the only bit of control I do have in this entire situation.

  I sit there for what feels like hours, before I finally begin to write.

  And I write and I write until my hands ache and I run out of words. The important ones, at least. When I’m done, I fold up the paper I’ve scribbled on and tuck it into my nightstand, not knowing what to do with it quite yet.

  Then I slip back into bed and pull the sheet up over me. Sliding my arms around my husband, I sigh in contentment and finally let the darkness fall back over me, acutely aware of how short and precarious life really is.

  21

  A Sky Full of Stars

  Roth

  Present

  June 25, 4:59 p.m.

  * * *

  “Good job,” Laurel says, giving me a thumbs-up through the open door. “It only took you three tries.”

  “Ha ha. Stand-up comedy night?”

  I throw the Songbird into park and wipe off a profuse layer of sweat from my forehead. That was close. I almost hit the electric hookup the first two times I tried backing this monster into our spot for the week.

  I step out into heavy mugginess and take a look around our campsite. We are in The Meadows area of the campground, which was a whole ten dollars extra per night but offers more spacious sites and fewer campers. I was skeptical. Turns out they didn’t oversell it.

  “This is surprisingly nice,” I say, coming to stand beside Laurel on the cement slab that doubles as a patio. We have a lovely view of Little Pigeon River as long as the spaces behind us don’t fill up with RVs.

  “Did you see the lazy river when we drove in?” Laurel asks, laying her head against my shoulder. “It looks relaxing.”

  “It does,” I lie.

  It won’t be relaxing in the least. Lazy rivers are a haven full of screaming, unsupervised kids, but if she wants to go, it will be without complaint from me. This trip is for her, after all.

  She unfolds the map we were handed when we checked in and scans it. “They have bocce ball and horseshoes and cornhole and oh!” she pops her head off my shoulder, squealing. She is so melodramatic over the littlest things. I will miss that. “An outdoor cinema. I wonder what that’s about?”

  Not much, but I’ll let her discover that on her own.

  “Only one way to find out.”

  “There’s a barbecue on Saturday night. Want to go?”

  “Are you asking me on a date, Mrs. Keswick?”

  She tilts her face up to me. She’s beaming. It reminds me of the first time I went camping with my parents. I wanted to do every single activity they had. And we did. From bicycle races to tie-dyeing T-shirts to pool games. We did it all. And if that’s what Laurel wants to do, that’s what we’ll do.

  “Why, yes. Yes, I am.”

  I love it when she plays along.

  “Pick me up at five?”

 
; She giggles. “Five it is.”

  It makes me happy she’s happy. Pat said it best. If this only lasts for a day, it’s a day well spent. It already has been.

  “Wanna check the place out?” I ask her.

  “I thought you’d never ask.”

  I take her hand in mine. We make our way first to the bank of the river, not a hundred yards from our site. We pick a few flat rocks from beneath our feet and try to skip them across the flowing surface. Laurel is far better at it than I am, though I tell her that I let her win.

  We wander and find ourselves in Patriot Park, which isn’t much to speak of, and end up winding our way back around the outer edges of the campground, past the cabins, until we’re up by the lazy river and the recreational area.

  “That’s the outdoor cinema?”

  She sounds starkly disappointed as we stare at what I would describe as a weathered, oversized, mounted set of dry-erase boards cobbled together, along with a couple of scattered picnic tables and a few tree stumps for seats.

  “I’m sure it’s better in the dark,” I assure her, holding back a laugh.

  “It doesn’t matter.” She pulls me back toward the walking path. “We’re going to a movie one night anyway,” she proclaims with attitude.

  “I’m all in.”

  “Good.”

  We stroll lazily, planning what we’ll do in the Smoky Mountains while we’re here. A drive through Great Smoky Mountains National Park to where we were married is definitely on the agenda, as well as the SkyLift to the SkyBridge.

  She mentions having dinner tomorrow night at one of our favorite places here, the Old Mill. I hum in agreement, not caring what we do as long as it’s not the night before we leave. I have a surprise planned that will knock her socks off. In fact, I have a few of those planned along the way.

  “I found this place called the Sinks in Gatlinburg. It’s supposed to be a very beautiful waterfall,” Laurel says.

  “I love beautiful waterfalls.”

  “Can we go?”

  “Of course, love.”

  I make a note to Google it when we get back, wondering if it includes extensive hiking, as so many hidden wonders in the Smokies do. If it does, it’s out. Laurel is no shape for that, despite her assertions otherwise. But no reason to start an argument about something that hasn’t happened yet.