by Piper Lennox
She waited.
“So,” she says, and wets her lips as she takes the seat by my head, “you let Caitlin-Anne name the kid after all, huh?”
“What?” I try to sit up, held down by wires and the weight of my own exhaustion. “No, I named him.”
She raises an eyebrow.
“Bruce Banner?” I prompt. “Oh, come on.”
“No, I get the reference. But Banner Foster,” she deadpans, “sounds like a dessert.”
Her laugh hits me like a shot of adrenaline. I feel the full force of just how much I’ve missed her, a feeling I know well but try to push down, every single day.
“I’m so happy to see you,” I whisper.
She smiles, but it fades when she looks up and down the bed, taking in the view. “Cancer,” she says, her eyes welling up. “They said you have, like...tumors, in your heart?”
I nod.
“How long have they been there?”
“They think since I was seventeen, but they didn’t turn cancerous until later.” I cough. “It’s really rare, apparently. Just my luck, right?”
My joke seems to make her crying worse instead of better.
“And, uh...how long have you known?”
I force myself to look her in the eye. She deserves that much. “Since the day I told you to leave.”
A sob works out. She tries to stifle it, but can’t. “Fucking hell, Blake,” she whimpers, and puts her head on my arm, weeping.
Mel
“Why didn’t you just tell me?” I press my face into the blanket, the smell of cotton and detergent so sharp it makes my sinuses hurt. I turn my head and look at him. “You got sober, you changed…. We could have stayed together. Why did you leave?”
He blinks and opens his mouth with a false start, fumbling. I notice a tear on his cheek. “I didn’t want you to see me die,” he says, finally.
And now I’m seeing it anyway, I think, but the thought that he might actually be.... I bury my face again and cry some more. I can’t think about it.
By lunchtime, I stop crying. Not because I’m done; there’s plenty more sadness, just not enough water to get it out. I lift my head and grab some tissues, right when a nurse comes in to check his vitals.
“Dr. Gull’s coming in around two,” she says. The blood pressure cuff looks huge on his arm. “He’s got some options to discuss with you. For your treatment course.”
“He said radiation again, then surgery.” Blake feels for the adjustment button on his railing, making himself sit up. The effort makes him cough; the nurse gets him his rescue inhaler and pumps it once, then twice.
“Well, I have a feeling he’ll move that plan into the fast lane,” she says, smiling, which I take as a good sign. At least, as good as it can be.
When she leaves, I ask, “Dr. Gull? The guy whose house we got wasted at and puked all over his carport?”
Blake laughs, and even though it’s just this weak burst of air, barely a laugh at all, I feel the ache that’s been in my stomach since last night lessen. “The very same.”
“Does he know? I mean, that we—you—knew his sons?”
“Nah, it felt weird to bring it up.” He laughs again, then gets quiet, serious. “How’d you know I was here, anyway?”
“Caitlin-Anne came into the dispatch and told me.”
“That’s right, you work for a paper now. Movie reviewer.” His hand finds mine on the blanket. “Just like we talked about.”
“Yeah, well.” I shrug and tuck my hair behind my ear. “You gave me some good advice.”
He starts to speak again but coughs, sending me into a panicked dive for his inhaler. “I’m fine,” he sputters, laughing. “Thanks, though.”
“Sorry. I freaked out.” I sit back down. “Is, uh...is that related, by the way? The asthma and the....” The word tastes like dirt, gritty and dark. “The cancer?”
“Coincidence. Makes the asthma worse, but they’re unrelated.” He clears his throat. “The cancer’s probably genetic, though. It’s the same kind my mom had, just in a different place.” His voice softens. “I’m lucky, though. It didn’t spread. At least, it hasn’t yet.”
My eyes sting again. I can’t take anymore crying.
Instead, I rest my head back on his arm and breathe. In, out, measured and careful, until I hear his do the same.
Blake
“I really hate you for not telling me.”
The tape on my IV pinches my skin every time I reach up to stroke her hair, but I don’t stop. “I didn’t tell anyone. The only reason Cait knows is because the doctors told her, after I fainted in front of Banner.” I pause, debating. If there was ever a time to be totally honest with her, give her that open communication she always wanted, now is it. “I almost left, the day I found out.”
“Left? Like....”
“Yeah. Pack of cigarettes, never come back. Just drop off the face of the earth until I….” I bite my lip. Three years have numbed the shock, but I still remember.
It was two days after Banner was born. The day I told Mel to leave.
Dr. Gunnar shut the door to his office, sat down behind his desk, and ran his tongue over his teeth with his mouth shut. Instantly, I knew.
“Sarcomas…possible embolisms….” His voice rattled through the labels and complications, but all I heard was the one word he hadn’t even said. Cancer. This thing killing me from the inside out.
I threw up in his trash can. He didn’t mind.
“I’m young, but I’ve handled some cases like this before,” he said, when I calmed down and we started outlining my first treatment. “And it won’t just be me—you’ll have a team behind you, the whole way. Specialists, surgeons, everything you need. I want you to know there are options.”
He meant in medicine and surgeries. The only options I was thinking of were the places I could pack up and fly to, right then. New York, Los Angeles, Mexico, Canada. It didn’t matter where.
I went back to Caitlin-Anne’s room. Caught Mel just before she knocked. Told her to leave, then made the choice for her.
The hospital courtyard was windy and crowded. I sat at a picnic table and looked up flights. I checked my savings.
I could leave tonight, if I wanted.
Caitlin-Anne was awake when I got back to her room, giggling with her friends. “Hey! Where’d you go?”
I took the baby from Gillian without asking. She looked pissed, but I didn’t care. This is my kid. I can take him whenever I want.
The baby wriggled one hand out of the swaddle.
This is my kid.
“I can’t believe you guys haven’t named him yet.” Gillian picked up the baby name book I’d brought with me, the night of the birth. “I thought Bourne was the winner.”
“Blake doesn’t like it,” Cait sighed. I looked up, surprised she’d realized this, and more surprised she cared.
“Well, you like ‘B’ names,” I said, clearing flight schedules and packing lists from my head when the kid opened his eyes. They were gray, but everyone kept telling me they’d change, in time. “What about Banner?”
I prayed she wouldn’t ask me where it was from, because she hated all things comic-related. Almost as much as I hated Cats.
“Banner,” she repeated, and her friends did the same. I passed her the baby and she whispered it. No providential sign came down to tell us yes, this was the name, but we did feel something.
“Banner Andrew?” she prodded.
My heart raced under my shirt. “If you refuse treatment,” Dr. Gunnar told me, when I asked how long I could go on like this, “I’d say…six months. Maybe up to a year, if you’re lucky, and that’s if you stop all alcohol consumption.”
I’d cracked my knuckles against his desk, all eight fingers at once. “And what are my chances of surviving if I do get treatment? Like…no more cancer, all clear?”
He looked away, so I braced myself. New doctor, poor bluffing skills. “The survival rate is low. Usually, we can just…prolong a p
atient’s life. Three years, four.”
My head felt hot, like my brain was overheating, unable to process it. “So there’s no real cure.”
“There are a few cases documented where the cancer doesn’t return or spread. The tumors get removed, the patient goes into remission, and goes on living their life to old age.”
“How many?”
Again, he glanced away, messing with a wooden block calendar on his desk. It was turned to the wrong date. I had a fierce urge to fix it, but didn’t.
“So few,” he answered, finally, “that I can’t give you a number. But I think it’s worth it to at least try.”
Three years. Four.
New York. Canada. Anywhere but here.
“Is that a yes?” Cait asked, when I didn’t answer.
“Yeah.” I ran my finger down the baby’s cheek. He’d already fallen back asleep, the rise and fall of his chest somehow forcing mine to match. “Andrew’s good.”
“I didn’t want Banner to watch me die, either,” I explain to Mel, now. “You know? To get a dad for a few years, and then...that’s it.”
She’s quiet for a minute. “Some time is better than none.”
“That’s what I tell myself, whenever I feel guilty for staying. I honestly didn’t think I would live this long. I thought that…that maybe he’d get a few good years, and then he could forget me.” I pause. “Unless you were talking about us.”
“Both,” she whispers. She lifts her head. “What I don’t get is, how did you even manage to hide it?”
“I got lucky, I didn’t lose much hair during chemo. Then I had the first surgery—”
“No, I mean....” She bites her lip, sniffling. “How? Emotionally, how could you go through that all alone?”
Her hand reaches out and touches my face. I lean into the warmth of her palm. When I look at her like this, so close I can’t do anything but lock my eyes with hers, I wonder if I made a mistake, after all.
“Maybe it wasn’t the best option.”
She manages to laugh. “You think?”
I smile a little, kissing her fingers. My oxygen tube gets in the way the first time, so I do it again.
“When you told me to leave,” she says, but breaks down, and has to start again. “Being apart from you? That hurt so much more than anything we could’ve gone through, Blake.”
I nod. “I think I get that, now.” Now that I’m at death’s door. Now that she’s here, and I realize it doesn’t matter if we get five years or five decades, or even five minutes. As long as we get something. When you love someone, you want to see things through to the end. Whenever it happens.
“Too little, too late,” I mutter. “My life motto.”
“Some time is better than none,” she repeats, leaning forward to press her mouth against mine, just before she dissolves into tears again—wondering, probably, the same thing as me: just how much “some” really is.
Epilogue
Thirty
Mel
I sit in the theater with my leg bouncing so hard, my notes come out in jagged, illegible streaks under the pen. At least, they would, if I were taking notes instead of doodling. In reality, I’m not following the movie at all.
Since I’m the only one in the matinée, I check my phone again. It lights up in a blue fire, blinding me. No messages.
Screw it, I think, and walk out. I’ve got two articles due soon, but if today goes the way it’s supposed to, I’ll gladly sit through a double-feature on Monday.
My car glides through the streets too easily, like it’s lost traction. Work calls me once, but I ignore it. There’s only one message I’m waiting for, today.
The house is dark when I pull up. I do a U-turn in the cul-de-sac and keep driving, aimless. Like if I stop moving, I’ll ruin the outcome.
Finally, it rings.
“Hello?” I’m panting. I pull over at the gas station outside the neighborhood and yank the parking brake up so hard, it hurts my wrist. “Did you get it?”
“I did.”
I wait. He’s silent.
“And?”
“And,” he says, and now I can hear the smile; now, I can breathe again, “all clear.”
I put my head on the steering wheel. The phone slips from my hand, echoing his words—“Mel? You there?”—as I fall apart, sobbing and laughing and thanking God, all at once.
Blake
“Dad?”
I move my briefcase over as Banner gets into the car, all limbs and jaunty angles, the way I was at eight years old, too. He hates it, no matter how much I assure him things will change.
He doesn’t have to ask the actual question. I know what it is. It’s all inside the way he says my name.
“Yeah,” I tell him.
“Yeah?” He grins, like he can’t believe it. “Did you tell Mel?”
“I did.” I shift into gear and pull away from his school, getting in line behind a minivan with about forty stickers on the back. “She dropped the phone and cried.”
Banner laughs. I see him wipe his face.
“What, you’re crying, now?”
“No,” he snaps, but I know he’s lying.
When we pull up to the house, the first thing I notice is a tangle of balloons on the mailbox. Mel works fast.
Banner’s so excited, I think he’s about to jump out of his seat. “You’re gonna do it, right? You said you would.”
“I did, and I will.” I reach into my pocket and flick open the box with my thumb, showing him the ring again. It’s white gold, her favorite, with five diamonds set inside: one for all five years we’ve been together now, official. No giant fights. No stupid mistakes.
“Can I please be here when you ask?” he begs, for about the millionth time since I told him I was going to propose. He stretches out the please impossibly long.
“No deal, bud. Your mom wants you there for that benefit tonight.”
He pouts. I ruffle his hair until he pushes me away and laughs.
Inside, there’s a cake on the counter, more balloons, and a big “Congrats” sign over the fireplace. Everyone hugs me as soon as I walk inside: Josh and his wife, Emma, Mr. and Mrs. Thatcher, and Mel.
She’s wearing my favorite of her dresses, a black one that looks like it was made for her. “I’m so happy,” she whispers, and kisses me while she’s smiling, her teeth knocking into my lip.
I kiss her back. “Me, too. And I’m happy you’re happy.”
“To five years in remission,” Josh toasts. “It’s official.”
We lift our soda cans and knock them together. Everyone talks at once. Mel is crying. Banner keeps looking at my pocket, where I put the ring.
“No,” I mouth to him. He rolls his eyes and pouts again.
Mel
“Does it feel real yet?”
He looks up from his second plate of cake, while I untie the balloons from the cabinets. “Kind of. I mean, I’ve spent the last five years in this...in-between place, you know? Where I’m not sick, but I’m always on edge, too. Waiting for it to come back, hoping it doesn’t....”
Blake trails off. I step off the footstool and hug his shoulders; he reaches to hug me back, grabbing my ass more than anything, and we laugh.
“But five years,” I tell him. “That’s officially cured.”
“I know. I just wonder if I’ll ever stop looking out for it, I guess.” He pauses and sets down his fork. “Thank you for the party, by the way. You really didn’t have to do anything.”
“Of course I did, this is a huge deal!” I kiss his ear, fully intending to get back to my cleanup while he finishes his cake. But then he turns his head and kisses me back, and everything else starts to fall away.
“You want to celebrate upstairs?” he smirks. His breath smells like sugar and vanilla, irresistible. I can’t answer fast enough.
In our bedroom, he folds back the comforter for me, undoing the corners carefully. His hyper-cleanliness has gotten better since Banner was born—it’s hard to
be compulsive when you’ve got a kid—but some things never change.
Like the way he instantly transforms from the sweet, easygoing Blake I remembered, to the one I knew at twenty-two, take-charge and dominating, as soon as we get into the bedroom. It’s a compromise, of sorts, his old and new selves combined.
“Allow me.” He takes my zipper and undoes my dress for me, a slow, sweeping motion all the way down my spine that makes my knees weak. His mouth presses into the small of my back as he kneels and tugs the dress off my hips, down to the floor. When he sees I decided against underwear, he laughs.
“You were waiting for this, huh?”
I turn around. Before I can answer, he pulls my hips towards his face, holding me against his mouth.
“Oh, God,” I gasp. My knees weaken; I have to hold onto his shoulders to stay standing. He was right. I have been waiting.
Blake ignores my requests to lie down and, instead, pushes two fingers into me. I put even more weight on him, sure I’ll collapse. No one could stay standing under the force of this much pleasure.
When I tell him I’m close, he stops. He scolds me for sulking. “You’re the one who wanted to lie down,” he reminds me, and guides me onto the bed, his hands rough and broad on my hipbones.
“Officially cancer-free,” he says, undressing while I arrange the pillows behind my head. “Gotta say, it did feel pretty damn good to hear Dr. Gull say that.” He climbs on top of me, hovering just enough so our skin passes an electrical charge back and forth, without even touching.
My fingers trace the long, white scars on his chest. He takes my hand in his and holds it there, letting me feel his heartbeat.
Official. It means so much more than “cancer-free.” It means less worrying when he gets a cold or has an asthma attack; it means no more awkward pauses when he talks about Banner growing up, no more wondering if he’ll still be around to see it happen.
It means I can stop staring at him, late at night when I can’t sleep, and wonder how many more nights I’ll have beside him. Maybe—though I don’t dare ask, not yet—it means he’ll want to get married, after all, or have kids. Maybe, now that he knows he’ll have a lifetime to share with someone, he’ll want to officially share it with me.
