You Should Pity Us Instead

by Amy Gustine

  Shayla’s ex had wanted the divorce. The request stunned her as much for its delivery as its content, so matter-of-fact, as if divorce were a reasonable improvement whose time had come. After he moved out, friends and family kept asking how she felt. For a while she gave the right answers, until the day she realized she’d been lying. She’d confused expecting to be devastated with actually being devastated. One day Shayla decided not to be devastated, and discovered it was easy. Like taking off one outfit and putting on another.

  She supposed now she wore the outfit of a mistress, except she didn’t feel like one. Fawn had had a stroke three years ago, a freak kind of thing that left her permanently disabled. Mike didn’t speak of it in those terms, though. He hardly spoke of it at all. After they started sleeping together, the subject of Fawn was off limits. Shayla tried hard to resist the urge to probe for more information from his partners or the radiology techs, but it was like a scab she couldn’t stop picking at. Not because she wanted Mike to leave Fawn. Truth be told, Mike annoyed her at times. He talked too much, and insisted on things that seemed to defy certainty, like whether God exists, or whether there’s intelligent life somewhere besides Earth. Still, something about Mike and Fawn fascinated her.

  That evening Shayla stared out her kitchen window, mulling this while a filet of grouper browned and a cold wind plucked the leaves from her silver maple. She’d already changed into pajamas and planned to watch the news over dinner, so when the phone rang she let the machine pick up. With the exhaust fan running, she could hear her mother’s voice, but couldn’t make out her words. Shayla decided to listen to the message after dinner. If it wasn’t important, she’d call back tomorrow.

  Except later, on the couch, the message light blinking in her peripheral vision, she kept wondering what her mother wanted. It couldn’t be urgent. If it were, wouldn’t Norma have called her cell? Norma had no one else nearby to call. Shayla’s brother lived two hours away, in a big house on a man-made lake with his Canadian wife and four French-speaking kids. She counted back. Could it be last Christmas that she saw them? It bothered her enough to lay down her fork and think. Yes. Almost eleven months. They’d met at Norma’s the first week of December so Rick could spend the real Christmas in Quebec with his in-laws.

  Shayla wondered if she’d see Rick for the holidays once their mother died. What else would change? Nothing came to her. That seemed wrong, so Shayla kept thinking, but there was nothing. Norma would be gone. That was it.

  Once Fawn recovered her words, Mike asked if she was hungry.

  “I am always hungry. Where is dinner?”

  It hit him then that he’d forgotten to pick it up. “I thought we might order pizza.”

  “It’s Monday, Mike. We get Olive Garden on Monday.”

  For a moment he was happy. She knew it was Monday! Then he realized that from where he’d left her, sitting at the kitchen table with a fresh Pepsi, she could probably read the white board. She’d remembered Olive Garden, though. That counted for something.

  “I know, I just felt like pizza.”

  “Well, I don’t. I don’t like pizza. You know I don’t like pizza.”

  “Okay, that’s fine. What do you want?”

  “Ravioli. I always get ravioli from Olive Garden. Don’t change the schedule. I don’t like it when you change the schedule.”

  Mike stuck his head in the dining room, where Middie and the youngest, Abby, sat doing homework. “I’ll be right back. You want the usual?”

  They nodded without looking up.

  “Your mother’s in the kitchen. If she wants to go back to the living room, can you help her?” Fawn got around pretty well with the walker, but it never hurt to have someone spotting her, especially this late in the day. His fuck-ups—the pills missed, dinner forgotten—meant it was already six thirty, only an hour before meltdown.

  As he stepped into the garage, Fawn yelled, “And do not forget the breadsticks!”

  After he fed her—Fawn could use a fork, but sometimes her hand veered off course, and he didn’t need her poking out the one good eye—Mike gave her a second breadstick. While she worked at it, holding it in her fist like a two-year-old, he loaded the dishwasher, wiped down the counters and put away the leftovers. Fawn had drunk the last Pepsi for dinner. If he hurried, he could start a load of laundry, put her to bed, run out to the store, and still catch the Bears’ kickoff.

  Mike’s cell rang. He picked it up without looking at the screen and Shayla’s voice startled him. He glanced at Fawn. There was never any telling when she’d come in or out. For now, at least, she appeared absorbed in her breadstick.

  He stepped into the foyer, making for his study, where he could shut the door.

  “I’m sorry to bug you at home,” Shayla began.

  “I’m busy.”

  The girls had gone upstairs and Mike glanced toward the heat register, whose duct fed his study and, above that, Rebecca’s bedroom. He could go outside, except that would look suspicious.

  “It’s about my mother.”

  Relieved, Mike almost laughed.

  “I just got off the phone with her and her speech is slurred. I asked if she’s okay, and she’s telling me she’s had headaches for a couple weeks. Can I get her in tonight for a head CT? I mean, I know normally you’d do it in the morning, and I’m sorry, but I’m kind of worried.”

  Shayla’s mother was only sixty-two, a reformed smoker, otherwise healthy, so they’d treated her cancer aggressively, taking out half the affected lung and blasting the rest with radiation and chemo. The symptoms Shayla described could be nothing. Or they could be a minor stroke. Or they could mean the radiation and chemo hadn’t gotten all the cancer and it had metastasized to her brain.

  Mike said sure, she could take her mother in. “I’ll let the techs know she’s coming.”

  “Can you read it?”

  Mike hesitated. He’d have to tell the techs to send it to his computer instead of the radiologist on call, and they might wonder why.

  “Mike? You there?”

  “Sure, yeah.”

  “You’ll call me?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Thank you. Everything okay at home? Fawn okay?”

  Taken aback, Mike said, “I’ll call you as soon as I read it,” and hung up.

  Shayla drove Norma to the hospital, the silence between them both familiar and unsettling. There should be something to say to the woman who birthed and raised her and was now, possibly, dying.

  “How’re you doing?”

  Norma shrugged. “I’m all right.”

  Shayla sat in the waiting room’s blue vinyl chairs while they did the CT. On the way home she forced herself to ask if Norma had eaten dinner, and felt relieved she had. Shayla could take her home.

  “I’ll call you after I hear from…” She almost said Mike, but didn’t want her mother to know he existed. Which was insane. Shayla knew several dozen doctors in town well enough to request a favor.

  Norma pushed herself out of the car using the doorframe. Only when she was pulling herself up the porch steps by the rail did it occur to Shayla she should have helped her. Shayla rolled down the window. “You okay, Mom?”

  Her mother lived on a busy street and couldn’t hear over the traffic noise. She’d made the porch landing and was fumbling for her keys. Shayla watched, feeling the moment stretch to breaking. Get out now? Offer to help now? It’s too late. But she’s still fumbling. Shayla had just cracked the door, the dome light blinding her a moment, when Norma found her key. By the time Shayla reached the sidewalk, her mother had disappeared inside.

  •

  Norma had metastases. They showed up as the classic black hand in her cerebellum. Mike left the images on his screen and went back in to finish getting Fawn ready for bed. He’d left her on the toilet, so he tapped at the closed door. “You okay? Need any help?” He could hear the clink of the toilet paper dispenser followed by a flush.

  “Fawn, I’m coming in, okay?”
r />   Still sitting, she looked up at him, the unpatched, good eye stretching to a perfect circle, eyebrow raised.

  Oh no, he thought, not this again.

  “Who are you?”

  “Fawn, it’s me, Mike, your husband. You know that.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I live here, silly.”

  “Right,” she scoffs.

  “It’s time for you to go to bed.”

  “How do you know?” Pulling away from his reach, she banged her elbow against the wall. “Ouch! You made me hurt myself.”

  “I know, I know. I’m sorry. Here, let me see it.” He inspected the elbow, just to be sure, pressing on the bone. “Does that hurt?”

  “Of course that hurts. You are pushing on it, Mike.”

  Good. She knew who he was again.

  He got her to a stand, underwear up, and into bed, first removing her eye patch and then fitting the latest gadget in her mouth, a guard that kept her tongue flat and her teeth aligned, supposedly to prevent sleep apnea, which he’d read could be the cause of severe fatigue. Since the stroke he’d been chasing his own tail, going at each symptom—crossed vision, nausea, headaches, confusion, fatigue, ataxia, forgetfulness—only to discover none of the devices or exercises made any difference. What helped was treating Fawn like a child. She had to be fed, exercised, bathed, and napped on a tight schedule. Early on, he’d hired caregivers, but Fawn didn’t like them, and after the third one she refused any more. By then she could get herself to the kitchen and the bathroom, so he had the cameras installed and kept the feed up on his laptop almost all the time.

  Mike had left his cell in his study. It rang while he was arguing with Fawn about her pillow. The sleep doctor had recommended a foam one to keep her head at the right angle, but Fawn preferred her old feather pillow.

  “Dad?” Rebecca knocked lightly, then pushed open their bedroom door. “It’s some doctor. Dr. Clayton?”

  “I’ll call her back,” Mike snapped and Rebecca withdrew, looking hurt. He heard her mumbling shyly to Shayla and a bolt of rage went through him.

  Fawn began to cry. His tone must have upset her. “Who was that? Who was calling?”

  “Just another doctor. Her mom had a brain CT.”

  “Is it okay?”

  “Mets,” Mike said, not thinking.

  “Oh, that’s terrible.” Fawn began to cry harder, her breath coming shallow and catching in her throat. It was odd, the things she seemed to understand and the things that seemed to have escaped her permanently. “Mets” still meant something, yet she wouldn’t know if she herself had it. Mike could keep it from her, ignore symptoms. If he wanted to.

  “It’s all right. She’s very old.”

  “Oh, oh.” Fawn grabbed hold of this. “We all get old. We have to die when we are old. What can you do? You have to die.”

  “That’s right, honey. And she’s very old.” Mike wiped the tears from Fawn’s face with a tissue and helped her slide down in bed.

  “Thank you,” she said. “I love you, Mike.”

  “I love you, too.”

  As he started to close the door she said, “I’m thirsty.”

  He didn’t like to give her something this late. She’d have to get up in the night and he’d have to get up with her. Hampered by fatigue and the dark, or the shock of a light turned on, she was too unsteady to go it alone.

  “How about a sip of water?”

  “No, I want Pepsi. Pepsi with a straw. I like the straws.”

  “I know you do, honey.” He closed the door, thinking he’d give her a few minutes. Maybe she’d forget and fall asleep.

  While Shayla waited for Mike to call back, her skin began to itch. It was a psychological reaction to being embarrassed. She’d always had it, assumed everyone did until it came up during her psychiatry rotation in med school. To calm herself, she poured a glass of wine and flipped through a clothing catalogue. What was he doing? How long did it take to read a CT? She had another glass, then called her ex-husband.

  “My mom might have brain cancer.”

  “Oh shit, I’m sorry. That’s terrible.”

  Her ex hadn’t wanted kids, and Shayla was busy enough with work that this struck her as a reasonable life choice. He’d remarried quickly, though, and now had a one-year-old. Did that mean he’d changed? Been pressured? Or realized it was only Shayla he didn’t want? She wished she could ask, and was glad not to know. And she was embarrassed to have called him. Her mind, soft with wine, didn’t know this. Her skin did, though. She had a wicked itch on her upper arms.

  “I just thought I should tell people,” she said, “so it’s not such a shock if it turns out it’s bad. I mean, I didn’t want you to open the paper some day and see her obit.”

  Shayla cringed, hearing too late, even with an ear callused by daily contact with breast cancer patients, how cold she sounded.

  “You okay? You want me to come over?”

  “No, I’m all right. I just took Mom home and I’m making some calls, and I knew you’d want to know.”

  “Of course I do. Sure. Norma’s a great lady. Do you need something? Anything I can do?”

  Shayla could hear a TV and a baby in the background. It was after eight, so it might be his baby, or a TV baby.

  “No. No, I have some more calls to make. Maybe I’ll send around an email or something. Keep everybody updated.”

  But Shayla couldn’t think who everybody was. Her brother, of course, whom she would call once she knew something definite. And Norma’s sister, Aunt Polly. Shayla’s father had died of a heart attack five years ago and her grandparents were long gone. Cousins? On her father’s side they didn’t keep up, and Aunt Polly would take care of the others. Norma had friends, but Shayla wouldn’t presume to tell them, and come to think of it, didn’t know their last names, couldn’t have contacted them anyway. If Shayla called her own friends, it would only be for pity, not because they had to know.

  Still, there must be someone. Shayla poured a third glass of wine. When she finished it, she’d concluded no, there really wasn’t.

  Suddenly she felt very tired. Wanted to go to bed, to wait until tomorrow to know, but that was unacceptable. She’d just have to stay up until Mike called. His daughter had sounded very sweet, and that simple exchange they had—“Is your Dad home?” “Sure, may I tell him who’s calling?”—had brought her heart into her throat and Shayla didn’t know why. She really, truly had been fine with no kids. Was still, when she thought about it, fine. That wasn’t the problem. The problem was something else.

  Mike put in a load of laundry, then sat at his desk looking at the black hand, a dark gray mass with fingers separated by white matter. Shayla’s mother was dead. Four, five months maybe. They’d radiate to reduce brain swelling, which would buy her lucidity and mitigate the headaches.

  He stepped quietly through the foyer and down the hall to the master bedroom, listening at the door. Silence. Back in his study, he picked up the phone. He’d given patients bad news many times, their families even more often. This time, though, he felt strangely angry at Shayla, as if the situation were her fault.

  “Hi, it’s Mike, calling back about your mother.”

  He would have said the same thing to any colleague, except that usually he added his last name and he couldn’t shake the fear that Rebecca could hear him, would notice his omission even with the 4/4 drum beat of her music vibrating the heat duct.

  On the other end of the phone Shayla waited silently. “It’s not good,” Mike said.

  She knew what that meant. There was little more to say. A few questions about location and size, then she said, “Thanks. I appreciate it,” in the same tone she would have used if this were a patient, and he replied with similar dispassion, “Sure, of course. Anytime,” and they hung up.

  Anytime? How many mothers with brain cancer was she going to have?

  Shayla thought about this for several seconds until she realized she should be thinking about Norm
a. Who was going to die. Who would be gone this time next year. Everything from here on out would be their last. Last Thanksgiving, last Christmas, last birthday. Just the thought of all those lasts exhausted Shayla. That’s when it dawned on her that a good daughter would have had Norma come home with her tonight.

  She called Mike back.

  “Didn’t you say you had a friend at Anderson?”

  Mike’s roommate from medical school was an oncologist at MD Anderson Cancer Center. “Honestly, I don’t think he could add much.”

  “It never hurts to ask, right?” Beneath her jeans, Shayla’s calves prickled. She rubbed one against the other, waiting for Mike to respond. At the end of a long pause a girl’s voice, higher than the girl she’d talked to on the phone earlier, shouted, “Dad, I’m lost! Algebra makes no sense.”

  Middie. The one with the math problems. Mike had mentioned it before they started sleeping together. Shayla realized now that afterward he’d stopped mentioning the girls as well as Fawn. But it was too late. Shayla already knew from the pictures in Mike’s office what Middie looked like. The willowy, heavily-freckled middle daughter, her nickname a play on that position and not, as everyone assumed, an echo of her given name, Miranda. Shayla imagined her coming downstairs, plopping on the bottom step, the book’s tattered pages splayed across her knees. The scene played out in Shayla’s own childhood house, not Mike’s, because she had no idea what Mike’s house looked like. A decent mistress would have driven by, caught a glimpse of the foyer or kitchen through glowing windows.

  “I’ll call you tomorrow,” Mike said.

  “I can have her there tomorrow. I could book a flight tonight.”

  A blurring of the background noise alerted Shayla to Mike’s hand over the phone’s mouthpiece. He said something to Middie and Shayla raised her voice, interrupting, “Why don’t you give me the name of your friend at Anderson and I’ll try to reach him? I don’t want to wait. The gears grind slowly enough as it is…Mike? You there? Mike?”

  Even with the phone several inches from his ear, Shayla’s voice jumped from its holes, beseeching. Pressing the earpiece against his chest, Mike motioned for Middie to go away. She was scowling as if she’d recognized something in Shayla’s tone.