by JC Szot
Meg held her mother’s hand until the walls started closing in. Her chest felt stepped on, fighting for air. Her stomach swirled in sickness, a parasite gnawing its way through her gut. She stood up, waiting for the room to right itself. Meg leaned over and kissed her mother, leaving the menus on the dresser. The hallway floor gleamed like ice. Rows of rooms passed in her periphery. She wouldn’t look in. Each doorway led to the end, an end to another life. Were people comfortable with that? Or were they tormented by regret?
Meg had so much life left, and so did Zane. Her footsteps quickened, breaking into a run. Her lungs gasped for air, air that was heavy, decayed, and lifeless. The scent of cooking meat and urine bombarded her senses. She swallowed past the lump that was throbbing in her throat, her body cutting through the thick air. Her arms locked, shoving the double doors wide open. An alarm sounded, ringing in her ears, fading as she ran across the parking lot.
Meg gulped the cool, fresh air down, needing to coat her insides with it, needing to feel clean.
* * * *
“We’re gonna do a little yoga and then have some dinner. Come on.” Meg snapped her fingers. She stood at Zane’s door. His body slumped against the doorframe. “Let’s go. I made a nice high-protein meal.” Zane’s face broke into a scowl. Meg pushed past his frosty eyes. The last time she’d seen him, they were both euphoric from their mind-altering orgasms. There was no turning back now. After yesterday’s traumatic visit at the nursing home, her plan had solidified. Now all she needed to do was get it into motion, and Zane’s lack of enthusiasm wasn’t going to stop her.
“It’s nice to see you, too.” Meg grinned. “It’s been awhile. How are things going?”
“I have fucking cancer, Meg, and I’m puking like a dog that just pigged out at the local dumpster.” His voice rose, echoing through the hallway.
“Yes, I’m fully aware that you have Hodgkin’s disease, a cancer with about an 80-percent cure rate, but you’re on your way to being healed. Now let’s go.” Her tone hardened. “Get your sneakers on. We’ll do some stretches, and I made a nice steak, and roasted yams with some green beans.”
“Steak, huh?” Zane was in a pair of black sweatpants and a muscle tee, his feet bare. He canted his head at her. Shadowed growth covered his face, his hair a scanty, messy, dark tuft. She urged him again. “Go on.” Meg waved. “I’ll wait.” She glued her grin in place. Zane’s last thread of patience seemed to snap, but when his lips tipped into a strained, defeated grin, Meg felt a small wave of victory. It was enough for now. She would not be deterred.
* * * *
“They call this move the lotus.” They were in her living room, sitting on the floor with their legs crossed, their feet resting on their thighs. “Take a deep, cleansing breath.” Meg closed her eyes and breathed deep, raising her hands into the air. Zane’s stare pressed at her lids. She felt the weight of it but kept the flow moving. “Breathe in and out, deep on the inhale, slow on the exhale.”
Zane’s breaths wheezed in her ears. She hoped he wasn’t getting sick. His resistance was very weak. The common cold could cause a lot of problems for him.
“Okay, that’s good. Now on your feet.” Meg held out her hand. Zane shook his head, accepting her help. Their fingers threaded together. His touch seeped into her. Her pores drank him in like a dry plant drinks water. Meg took them through a series of standing stretches. “This is the mountain pose.” Meg placed her hands together in front of her chest, staring straight ahead, her breathing slow and rhythmic. “Let’s do a few high lunges,” she suggested. Meg modeled for Zane. He was keeping up with her fairly well, his long legs a bit clumsy. “Now when you fan your fingers and keep your hands together, they call that the warrior. And if you lean back like this”—she arched back, placing her hand on the side of her leg—“that’s the reverse warrior.” Zane laughed, the first smile she’d seen since their hands at cards.
“What’s so funny? You’re supposed to be breathing,” she insisted. “Remember to breathe.”
“If you tell anybody I did this, I’ll kill you,” he growled.
“Don’t be so vain.” The words shot out before she could stop them. Heat spread through her face and neck. The last thing she wanted to do was make him angry. Zane straightened his lengthy body. Meg’s body eased into a down-dog split, avoiding his glare.
“You think I’m vain?” His chest rose. His breaths accelerated. Dewy sweat clung to the fine dusting of hair on his chest. Meg turned off the hypnotic new-age music that had prompted Zane to sarcastically ask where the deck of tarot cards was.
“How about some water?” Meg walked into the tiny kitchen. Zane occupied one of the stools that lined the counter. Their apartments were similar in layout. Meg slid a tall tumbler of ice water across the Formica. Zane’s glare melted through the glass.
“Well?” he prompted her impatiently.
“Why don’t you answer that for yourself? Your top priority is getting well. Who gives a flying fuck what people think? And for that matter”—she pointed at him—“they should all be doing a little yoga, they’d be better off. Now I’m going to get our dinner ready. Help yourself to the TV while you’re waiting.”
* * * *
Zane’s gaze escorted her tiny ass into the kitchen. Her legs were long, encased in black leggings. A bright-yellow button-down was knotted at her trim waist. She was in great shape, subtle curves in all the right places. He’d just gotten done watching her body bend like a silly straw, enjoying every minute of it. He’d had his hands on that sexy, little body of hers. He sank down into her vintage couch. An inky black sky coated the bay window. Raggedy Ann was staring at him from where she was seated in a hanging wicker basket chair. Blood-red geraniums leaned into the glass, yearning for another five minutes of sunlight. Flowers in winter? How’d she do it? Her surroundings screamed hippy, holding the atmosphere of another time.
The pots clattered in the kitchen. A sweetened steam drifted through the air, settling in his nose. His back eased into the couch, becoming one with the cushions. His lids grew heavy. Why was he so tired all the damn time! He now felt weightless, breathing in all the aromatic flavors. His bones cracked, his body now a bit stiff. No muscle could move as he floated into a state he couldn’t describe.
Chapter Ten
“Zane,” Meg called, slinging the dishtowel over her shoulder. She rounded the corner to find his long body sprawled out on the couch, his feet dangling off the edge. She sat down on the edge of the coffee table. His face was tranquil, free of frown lines and pain. His chest rose and fell in a calm, relaxed tempo. She wanted to touch him, caress away all his discomfort and misery. His hand lay on the exposed skin of his hollow abdomen. His fingers were long. She could see his hip bones pushing against the material of his sweatpants. She leaned into him and lightly traced the twin fishes on his upper arm. Getting up, she returned to the kitchen and wrapped up his meal. She’d also made ginger cookies for him, hoping they’d soothe his stomach.
She quickly changed her clothes, grabbed a bucket from underneath the kitchen sink, and quietly closed the door, leaving Zane to his much-needed slumber.
Meg opened the door to Zane’s apartment. The place was a mess. She set the food in the fridge and placed the cookies on the counter. The deck of cards was still on the counter, as if to mock her. Meg worked hastily, wanting to get everything done before Zane woke up. After bagging up all the garbage, she lingered at the threshold of his bedroom, afraid to enter into his private sector.
A black-and-white striped quilt lay twisted at the bottom of the bed. A large poster of AC/DC was pinned up over his dresser. Various designs were tacked on the walls, a wolverine with glowing ruby-red eyes, a shapely mermaid, and an assortment of shaped and curved squiggly lines filled with fluorescent colors. Another pile of drawings caught her eye, scattered across the nightstand. Bold, vivid colors swirled with glittery metallic strokes of a fine-tipped marker had her edging across the aged carpeting. Her mouth slowly fell open. Zane’s
private artistic world filled her vision. She slowly sifted through the thick-papered sheets.
Her initials jumped out at her, the letters fine and skillfully scrawled. Another set was drawn in a bubbled style. Another letter M was a series of angled lines garnished with ivy and roses. A set of almond-shaped green eyes had her feet stuck in their tracks. Were they her eyes? Was he seeing her through his art?
The floorboards creaked behind her. Meg turned, scrambling out of Zane’s room. She darted into the bathroom, not wanting to be caught invading his privacy. She hadn’t meant to. She’d become so enamored with the drawings. Her heart ached for him. How he missed his tattooing, a skill and passion that was now at a standstill since his diagnosis. She hastily wiped down the vanity in the bathroom, seeing his sluggish reflection fill the mirror.
“What are you doing, Meg?” Zane rubbed sleep away from his eyes.
“I’m only helping, and now I’m done.” She pushed past him. She spoke as she walked away, afraid to look back at his face, afraid of what she might see. “Now your dinner is in the fridge, and I made you some ginger cookies, too…”
“Meg?” Zane shook his head, his lips contorting.
“They’ll help with your upset stomach. Hope you like the food, see you soon.” Her words were anxious and hurried as she fled.
* * * *
“Where’s Joe?” Zane looked up at the nurse as she concocted his dose of poison. His gaze dropped down to her name tag—Linda.
“I’m really not permitted to discuss the other patients with you.” Her lips pursed.
“He’s dead, isn’t he?” Zane’s jaw twitched. Anger surged through him. This one has no compassion. She should be working at a toll booth, collecting change.
“Like I said…”
“Why don’t you just fucking say it?” Zane’s hands shook. Her blue eyes settled on his, her brows lifting. Suspicion crossed her face. She took a breath. It echoed through the room. White noise roared in Zane’s ears. Gaunt faces and emaciated bodies stared, their eyes wide with reaction but vacant within. No life was in them. The world had gone colorless and numb around him. He was so done with this! One more visit after today and he was free, pending his lab results. He prayed every night to a God unknown that his cell count was good, so he could flee this place.
“Yes,” she sighed. “Mr. Gallo has expired.”
“Expired.” Zane’s words bit back, cutting through the hushed room. “You make him sound like a fucking can of fruit cocktail.”
“Mr. Miller, please—” Zane waved her away. He sat back in the recliner, staring up at the white-tiled ceiling. The same tiles Joe had stared at. This room made him sick, all the chemical concoctions and the smell. It was sterile, medicinal, and metallic. It settled on his palate like metal, making his lips pucker with a sourness that made him want to vomit. His stomach tightened.
Joe was gone. He’d told Zane he had it in the bag with this fucking disease. An enraged energy barreled through him, wiring him with sound. His limbs tensed. Every fiber of his being prickled back to life. Damn it! He was going to fucking walk out of this place, or he’d die trying to do it.
Zane watched the chemo inch its way through the clear tubing, entering his body, running through his weary veins. He gritted his teeth, wanting to gnaw at his own body and bite the cancer out of him, chew it up and spit it out, right at Nurse Linda’s feet. Her composed voice scraped over his skin.
“Don’t forget your appointment at the lab before leaving, Mr. Miller. Today is your last treatment, and Dr. Reed wants your levels taken.”
* * * *
The weeks passed, one running into the other. The calendar on the wall in the kitchen was a farce. A daily tool that people lived by became a foreign object to Zane. Winter darkness transitioned into the light of spring for some, but for Zane his world had grown smaller and darker. Was it March? He’d become a recluse, locking himself in his apartment, coming nose to nose with his enemy. His illness was a dark, cloaked figure that lurked behind every door and in every corner.
“Fuck!” He rolled over, slowly sitting up. Strands of dark hair were scattered across his pillow like burnt beach grass. He ran a hand across his head. This would be the last admission to defeat. He walked down the hall, into the bathroom. Zane grabbed the clippers from up on the shelf. He buzzed the sides of his hair once a week. Today it would be his entire head.
Wispy, dark hairs decorated the white porcelain sink. He ran the clippers over his head and around, shaving the little growth he had left, close to this scalp. Now he really looked like a freak. His body ached, his lungs heavy and gasping for air. The whistling of his breaths echoed off the tiled walls. His legs were folding like wet noodles. He was withering away, his skin pallid. He looked down at his shaking hands. His flesh was scaly and cool, but his forehead was beaded with sweat. His reflection had him swaying backward into the wall. He dropped the clippers in the sink. He needed his bed. He felt like he was drowning, being pulled under by a toxic quicksand. Everything was tilting off its axis. He couldn’t stand anymore.
Zane shivered underneath the covers. He was hot and cold, his body at battle, spewing a sweating stench that had his stomach retching. He closed his eyes, drifting in and out of the uncharted waters of pending death. The sun spilled through the window, brightening his room at the peak of the day, only to darken and fade out into the smeared grays of early evening. Digital numbers burned through his lids with each passing hour. Getting air into his lungs was like engaging in combat. He reached for Meg’s newsletter on the nightstand. A mug of ginger tea fell on the rug, the fibers drinking it in.
The numbers of the Holistic Hut and her cell phone trailed across the page. He felt like he was on a bad acid trip. He scrambled for the phone, the number pad dancing in his vision. Her cheery, feminine voice was like a symphony to his ears.
“Meg,” he gasped. “Meg, are you there?”
Chapter Eleven
“We’re lucky he was able to call you.” Dr. Reed leafed through Zane’s chart. “I’m going to keep him here for a few days. His cell count is good. I just want to keep him on the IV antibiotics so we can give his body the boost it needs to fight this thing. The body often does this after a cycle of chemo. It’s the body’s way of purging itself.” Meg turned, looking at Zane’s lanky body buried beneath the covers. He was sleeping now. He had bronchitis that could’ve easily gone into pneumonia.
Thank God he had the sense to call her. Since their yoga session, he’d been grouchy. She’d look in on him a few nights a week. Some nights they’d talk through the door due to Zane being unwilling to let her in. She’d been jarred by his pale face and shaved head when she found him in bed, the phone buried beneath the covers.
“What about remission?” Meg faced him.
Dr. Reed smiled, his honey-colored hair neatly gelled back. “Our boy’s almost there. He’s a fighter, I tell you. I was worried in the beginning, but he’s right on course. Actually, I’ve sort of been waiting for this. A good fever will help him, believe me. It tells us that the body’s fighting.” He patted her shoulder. “He’s privileged to have you.”
Meg laughed, thinking of what she’d just gone through getting him here. Zane had refused, arguing with her, using every obscenity in the book until he had no energy left. Getting him down the elevator and into her small Honda Civic was a challenge she’d rather not repeat. Maybe she’d ask Nora if she could borrow her van when he got discharged. Dr. Reed took down all of her contact information and then was off, confessing that he had two more patients down in the ER. Meg went down to the cafeteria to get a coffee and returned to Zane’s room.
She settled in the chair next to his bed, the nighttime shadows blanketing the air. Nurses bustled out in the brightly lit hallway. Zane’s breaths rasped in and out of his lungs. His lips were cracked and dry, the corners red with dried blood. Meg dug through her purse and took out her vitamin-E lip salve. She squeezed a glob onto her finger. Her eyes began to sting, burning as they
filled. It was all the same, yet different. Her mother had no mind, but Zane had a brilliant one. He had an imagination that could come to life by the talent of his mind along with his gifted hands. Zane’s markings were displayed on the flesh of living and thriving bodies, and for life.
Her eyes misted with tears. She wiped them away and touched his lips, lightly and gently, smoothing the salve over them. The IV bag glinted in the limited light. Its fluid dripped slowly, slinking down the tube and into his body. She moved her chair to the foot of the bed and pulled the covers out at the bottom. God, if he woke up, he’d kill her. He thought the yoga was wacky. His feet were bare, rough and cool in her palm.
Meg started massaging the middle of his foot, which interacted with the liver. She hadn’t done reflexology in a long time. She used to work on her mother, thinking it would help her disease. Her fingers gradually traveled over to the outer edge of Zane’s foot, targeting the area that related to the spleen. She pressed on the skin right below his toes, which was connected to the lungs. Zane’s other leg twitched as she worked. Meg continued, her fingers kneading and manipulating his foot, rubbing the bottom in small circles.
A hoarse groan spilled from his mouth. She covered his feet and stood, moving to the head of the bed. Her fingers gripped the cool railing. Zane’s slate-gray eyes fluttered.
“Meg.” His breaths were short and clipped. She took his hand, his palm damp.
“I’m right here,” she whispered. She looked away, fighting her tears. Her anguish would only anger him. She knew he didn’t have the energy, but she wasn’t taking the chance. Her emotions might tell him something she wasn’t ready to unveil.
“Where’s Joe?” Zane’s hand trembled in hers. His eyes blinked then closed. Meg stroked his abrasive cheek. Who is Joe? His body was spouting a sharp-smelling sweat, his skin firing heat like a furnace. He smelled rancid, like something spoiling. He smelled like her mother. Her heart drummed in her chest. She let go of his hands and fled out of the room, slamming right into a nurse carrying a small tray with medicine cups on it.
