Abby stared at the screen of her laptop, hypnotized by the cheery yellow square with the silhouette of a blackbird perched in her dock. All she had to do was slide her cursor over it and click to open her Tweetdeck. She’d already taken the first step by turning the computer on.
She steadied her trembling fingers by closing them over her wireless mouse. Buffy and Willow Tum-Tum watched her every move from the foot of the futon she had called a bed for the past four years, managing to look both bored and expectant in the way that only cats could.
Outside the window the sun had already begun to set. Soon the room would be lit only by the intimate glow of the laptop. If Mark wasn’t actually in Europe, then they might even be in the same time zone. He might be lying in some hospital bed, watching the day fade and wondering if she was doing the same.
Knowing there was only one way to find out, she gave the mouse a decisive tap with her index finger. Her neglected Tweetdeck sprang to life, its orderly row of columns filling the screen. At first it was completely blank. She didn’t realize she was holding her breath until the first tweet popped up on the screen with a cheerful chirp, only to be quickly followed by a dizzying array of others.
She didn’t even glance at them. She only had eyes for the empty column that was her Direct Message column. She closed those eyes briefly, her heart catching in her chest. When she opened them, the Direct Message column was full. Confused, she squinted at the column. All of the messages had come from the same person, but she didn’t recognize the profile pic. That’s when she realized Mark had changed his avatar from the generic Twitter bluebird to a .jpg of John Cusack holding the boombox over his head as Lloyd Dobler in Say Anything.
She cupped a hand over her mouth to capture a sound halfway between a laugh and a sob.
Knowing it would be impossible to read anything but his most recent tweets on Tweetdeck, she minimized the app and went directly to the Twitter website. Every Direct Message she’d ever received was still stored there. She had to track back over five pages to find the date when she’d stormed out of their cyber-playground with her day-of-the-week panties in a wad.
Over twenty-four hours had passed before Mark had dared to tweet again.
Tuesday, June 14—7:35 P.M.
MarkBaynard: I’m guessing you’re listening to WE USED TO BE FRIENDS by the Dandy Warhols right about now. (You know—the theme from VERONICA MARS.)
MarkBaynard: You haven’t Unfollowed me or Blocked me yet so I’m going to assume you’re still receiving.
MarkBaynard: I want you to know that I don’t blame you for blowing me off.
MarkBaynard: I won’t even take it personally if you’re wishing me dead at the moment. But I should warn you that it takes more than that to kill me.
MarkBaynard: My doctors have been trying to kill me since I was sixteen. They redoubled their efforts recently, but have still met with limited success.
MarkBaynard: So far they’ve only succeeded in making me WISH I was dead.
MarkBaynard: At least we still have that much in common. We both wish I was dead.
MarkBaynard: You’re probably waiting for me to say I’m sorry. But I’m not and I’d be lying if I said I was.
MarkBaynard: And I figure you’ve had just about enough of me lying to you. The truth is you’ve been the only bright spot in some pretty dismal weeks.
MarkBaynard: If not for you, I never would have gotten to see the Eiffel Tower while sipping espresso in a Paris cafe.
MarkBaynard: I never would have watched the sun set over the vineyards from a balcony in Tuscany.
MarkBaynard: I never would have listened to the cathedral bells echo through a piazza in Florence.
MarkBaynard: And I never would have kissed the Blarney Stone and wished for the words to tell you the truth.
MarkBaynard: So I’m not sorry I lied to you, but I am sorry for being such a selfish bastard about it.
MarkBaynard: In the interest of no longer being a selfish, lying bastard, I shall now own up to having non-Hodgkins lymphoma Stage III.
MarkBaynard: (As opposed to Stage Right, where they’ll be expecting me to exit if this new experimental treatment doesn’t work.)
MarkBaynard: I was diagnosed and underwent chemo and a bone marrow transplant for the first time when I was 16.
MarkBaynard: I stayed in remission for 17 years until the lymphoma decided to kick my ass again. I didn’t respond as well to treatment this time around.
MarkBaynard: They’ve spent the past few months preparing to harvest my stem cells for a new experimental treatment.
MarkBaynard: This disease is a little like the California penal system—three strikes and you’re out.
MarkBaynard: At the moment the count is full with 2 strikes & 3 balls. But I decided it would be better to go down swinging than take a called 3rd strike.
MarkBaynard: Oh hell, here comes my nurse with my 8 PM meds: http://twitphoto.com/MB7stj
MarkBaynard: Are you too young to recognize Nurse Ratched? It’s times like this that I really miss your Naughty Nurse costume.
MarkBaynard: And you.
MarkBaynard: Goodnight Tweetheart …
Wednesday, June 15—7:30 P.M.
MarkBaynard: I hope you’re not disappointed to discover I’m still clinging to life.
MarkBaynard: Rough night last night. After Nurse Ratched and her magical mystery medications had their way with me, I was way too wired to sleep.
MarkBaynard: Only thing on TV was a KEEPING UP WITH THE KARDASHIANS marathon, which made me long even more keenly for the sweet oblivion of death.
MarkBaynard: So I downloaded a copy of A FINE AND PRIVATE PLACE and spent most of the night reading your favorite book.
MarkBaynard: If you’d told me it was about a guy who lives in a graveyard, a couple of ghosts & a snarky talking raven I’d have read it a long time ago.
MarkBaynard: The raven kind of reminded me of me. I like that in a talking bird.
MarkBaynard: I can’t decide if the moral of the story is that love transcends death or death transcends love.
MarkBaynard: I have learned that nausea transcends both death & love. As do the powdered scrambled eggs they feed you for breakfast in this place.
MarkBaynard: Who even knew it was possible to be nauseated and starving to death all at the same time?
MarkBaynard: I was wondering if we could go to Cracker Barrel on our next date?
MarkBaynard: Maybe order up one of those big sampler platters w/eggs, biscuits and gravy, hash browns, apples, pancakes, warm maple syrup, muffins …
MarkBaynard: … and an entire pig brought straight to your table w/another pig in his mouth instead of an apple.
MarkBaynard: That’s my sad little fantasy these days—you and a whole lot of bacon.
MarkBaynard: I could buy you something from the gift shop while we’re there. Maybe some saltwater taffy or Patsy Cline’s Greatest Hits.
MarkBaynard: Or one of those old-timey toys where you use that stick on a cord to try to get the magnetic shavings to stick to the bald guy’s head.
MarkBaynard: Or a bubble gum cigar. I could slide the little paper ring from it onto your finger and we could make jokes about how cheap I am.
MarkBaynard: Of course if you’re more of a Grand Slam from Denny’s kind of gal, I understand.
MarkBaynard: They usually let me wear my own clothes except on days when I have to have more tests.
MarkBaynard: These hospital gowns give a whole new meaning to the phrase “full disclosure.”
MarkBaynard: Today I accidentally mooned the grumpy old lady in the next room & an ultra-bitchy X-ray tech.
MarkBaynard: At least I pretended it was an accident.
MarkBaynard: Goodnight Tweetheart …
Thursday, June 16—3:47 P.M.
MarkBaynard: If it’s revenge you’re plotting, it should delight you to learn my mother breezed into town today for a visit. (Cue Darth Vader theme.)
MarkBaynard: Even after all t
hese years of dealing with this disease, she still seems torn between fluffing my pillow and smothering me with it.
MarkBaynard: I can never tell if she’s more disappointed in me for being inconsiderate enough to get sick again …
MarkBaynard: … or for not having expired in a more timely manner that wouldn’t have interfered with her Monday night Bunko game.
MarkBaynard: I think she’s always secretly believed there’s no ailment a pack of Virginia Slims Lights and a 3-martini lunch can’t cure.
MarkBaynard: Or a 3-Cosmo lunch since she got hooked on those SEX AND THE CITY DVDs my brother bought her last Christmas.
MarkBaynard: I can’t begin to tell you how disturbing it was to hear her use “absof*ckinglutely” in a sentence for the first time.
MarkBaynard: When I was in treatment as a teenager I was always afraid she’d show up at the hospital & accidentally drink 1 of my radioactive cocktails.
MarkBaynard: Did I ever tell you she tells everybody she’s five years older than she is just so they’ll say, “Wow! You look great for your age!”?
MarkBaynard: I’m going to start telling everyone I’m 75 so they’ll think I look fabulous.
MarkBaynard: I’m guessing you’re gleefully poking pins in your Mark Baynard voodoo doll right now bcuz here comes another vampire from the lab.
MarkBaynard: Those sparkly vamps from TWILIGHT can’t compete with these guys. They’ve drained enough of my blood to feed the entire Cullen clan.
MarkBaynard: I tried hanging a string of garlic on my IV pole but it turns out one of them is a big fan of Italian food. He took the garlic AND my blood.
MarkBaynard: If you’ll excuse me, I have to go surrender my veins (and what’s left of my soul) to Count Crapula.
MarkBaynard: Hopefully my suffering will give you cheer.
MarkBaynard: Goodnight Tweetheart …
Friday, June 17—1:15 A.M.
MarkBaynard: So how many days (and nights) do I have to talk to you without getting a reply before it qualifies as stalking?
MarkBaynard: At this point in my life even a visit from the police would qualify as a welcome diversion. (Or Chris Hansen from TO CATCH A PREDATOR.)
MarkBaynard: The one thing they don’t tell you about dying (or trying not to die) is how freaking boring it can be.
MarkBaynard: If I had a hospital, I’d fix it up like Michael Jackson’s Neverland with giraffes and carousels and roller coasters.
MarkBaynard: At least then I’d have a good reason to spend most of the day puking.
MarkBaynard: Or maybe it would be better to do it up like the Playboy Mansion with a lot of interchangeable blondes with interchangeable boobs.
MarkBaynard: At least then I’d have a good reason to spend most of the day in bed.
MarkBaynard: Don’t you think I’d look better in a silk smoking jacket with a vacuous blonde on each arm than in this hospital gown?
MarkBaynard: Speaking of Michael Jackson, I entertained myself this morning by reading his autopsy report online.
MarkBaynard: Odd Thing to Read After an Autopsy: “He was in much better health than we expected.” Well, yeah … except for the DEAD part.
MarkBaynard: Since I’m doing nothing, I have nothing to do but imagine what you’re doing.
MarkBaynard: Besides sitting there waiting for Congress to come pry your incandescent lightbulbs out of your cold, dead hand, of course.
MarkBaynard: You’re probably busy tweeting with some other English lit prof on sabbatical who doesn’t have lymphoma and has actually been to Paris.
MarkBaynard: I hope it was only a one-frappucino day for you. I hope the words flowed from your fingertips like rivers of dark chocolate.
MarkBaynard: I hope Buffy the Mouse Slayer didn’t eat Willow Tum-Tum. Or you.
MarkBaynard: I hope you’re going to forgive me someday.
MarkBaynard: Goodnight Tweetheart …
Sunday, June 18—3:31 A.M.
MarkBaynard: Hey, babe. (Do I sound too much like Tommy Lee talking to Pam Anderson in one of those sex tapes?)
MarkBaynard: It’s 3:30 a.m. and it feels like even the angels are sleeping.
MarkBaynard: The veil between their world and ours gets really thin at this time of the morning.
MarkBaynard: The hospital feels just like that one in HALLOWEEN 2 with the badly lit corridors & deserted nursing stations.
MarkBaynard: I keep expecting Michael Myers to pop by and offer to carve a jack-o’-lantern out of my brain.
MarkBaynard: I’ve had a couple of really sucky days. The doctor prescribed some new mondo pain meds so now I’m in pain AND high as the proverbial kite.
MarkBaynard: I’ve always tried not to tweet you when I was drugged up because I was afraid you’d think I was a junkie.
MarkBaynard: But now that you KNOW I’m a junkie, what does it matter?
MarkBaynard: I wish this was one of those Nicholas Sparks movies where everybody dies w/great hair & a romantic theme song.
MarkBaynard: He always leaves out the puking. And the whining.
MarkBaynard: If I had a theme song it would probably be “B-Boys Makin’ with the Freak Freak” by the Beastie Boys.
MarkBaynard: I’d say I wish I was dead right now, but it would be kind of redundant.
MarkBaynard: I’d say I wish you were here, but I don’t wish anybody was stuck in this hellhole with me, not even my worst enemy.
MarkBaynard: Not even the neckless jock who stole my lunch money (and my briefcase) and stuffed me in my own locker in the 7th grade.
MarkBaynard: Okay … maybe him.
MarkBaynard: I dreamed about my son last night.
MarkBaynard: It was so wonderful to see him, but he was standing at the end of a long tunnel and no matter how fast or hard I ran, I couldn’t reach him.
MarkBaynard: I guess we don’t need Freud to interpret that one, do we?
MarkBaynard: I wish I had dreamed about you too.
MarkBaynard: zo, odd upi dp, ivj zoy hryd dp ;pmr;u yjod yo,r pg mohjy/
MarkBaynard: Oops … sorry. Had my fingers on the wrong keys. Can’t remember what I was going to say anyway. Something deeply profound, I’m sure.
MarkBaynard: I never knew I could miss your voice so much when I’ve never even heard it.
MarkBaynard: Goodnight Twe
It was just as well that Mark’s tweets ended there because the screen of the laptop was swimming before Abby’s eyes. She groped blindly for the hem of her T-shirt, using it to scrub at her tear-stained face until her desk calendar came into focus.
Mark’s last unfinished tweet had been posted over forty-eight hours ago. She sat there in the dark for a long time, bathed in the glow from the laptop screen. Reading Mark’s tweets had been like tearing the scab off a wound just as it was beginning to heal.
She minimized Twitter and opened her Tweetdeck. Her hand hovered over the mouse. With one click of her fingertip she could Unfollow or even Block him. She could go back to living her safe little life in her safe little sublet apartment with no drama or needless complications other than the ones she created herself between the pages of her novels. She could look back on the bond they’d forged as nothing but a silly diversion. Something to distract her from the mundane, and often achingly lonely, reality of life as a single woman in New York City.
Like a disembodied appendage from some old sixties horror movie, her hand slowly drifted away from the mouse and toward the keyboard of the laptop. After a brief hesitation, her fingers attacked the keys, pounding out four words: What are you wearing?
She hit the Return key with a decisive click of her pinkie, then sat back in her chair and waited.
And waited some more.
As the digital clock in the corner of her screen ticked away the minutes, she struggled to convince herself that Mark was just fine. He was probably watching Home Improvement reruns on TV Land or sleeping off the effects of too much pain medication. As time dragged on, her pulse began to hammer in her ears
, making her feel a little sick herself.
She closed her eyes, no longer able to bear the sight of the brightly lit Tweetdeck. What if something was wrong? Really wrong? What if she’d wasted too much time being pissed off at him? What if the profound thing Mark had been trying to say when he’d ended up with his fingers on the wrong letters of the keyboard was good-bye? What if—
Her eyes flew open as the computer chirped, announcing the arrival of a new tweet.
Chapter Fourteen
Tuesday, June 21—7:45 P.M.
Abby_Donovan: What are you wearing?
MarkBaynard: Hospital gown flapping open in the back. Clear IV tubing. Look of bitter resignation. You?
Abby_Donovan: Coffee-stained sweats, Carrie White’s prom queen crown from CARRIE, and a bucket of blood.
MarkBaynard: Oh hell … you’re gonna kick my ass, aren’t you?
Abby_Donovan: Let’s put it this way. If you didn’t wish you were dead before, you will by the time I’m through with you.
MarkBaynard: I’m guessing you’re about to break out that whip-wielding dominatrix costume because I have been a Very Bad Boy.
Abby_Donovan: I’m polishing my handcuffs even as we speak.
MarkBaynard: Have I ever told you how cute you are when you’re mad?
Abby_Donovan: Have I ever told you I have your mother on my speed dial?
MarkBaynard: And they say death and public speaking are man’s two greatest fears!
Abby_Donovan: Before we even have this conversation, I’d like to know what other fibs you’ve told.
MarkBaynard: Well, I’m not really crazy about Insane Clown Posse. I’ve always preferred Anthrax or Slayer.
Abby_Donovan: Are you even divorced or was that a lie too?
MarkBaynard: I’m so divorced my ex-wife is engaged to another man.
Abby_Donovan: She didn’t waste much time, did she?
MarkBaynard: He was already warming up in the bullpen before she left me.
AbbyDonovan: She cheated?
MarkBaynard: I can’t really blame her. She was looking for something different in a guy. Like a potential survival rate higher than 20%.
Goodnight Tweetheart Page 12
