I watch Mom get out of bed, her movements only hinting at her pain. She’s such a warrior, putting on a brave face because she thinks I need it. I just need my mom.
I order a movie and room service while Mom showers and make her spend the afternoon relaxing in the room. There’s nothing important enough to make me take her out of here and into a bad environment. I can tell she’s getting stir-crazy around dinner, and have no choice but to leave the safety of our non-smoking room.
It’s just down the strip from our hotel, but I get us a cab to the Venetian so we can have a gondola ride before dinner. Mom seems to have fun, and we both love that our gondolier sings incredibly. His voice is an operatic odyssey, while he pushes our boat through the man-made canals around the hotel. Our reservation for dinner is at Bouchon, A Thomas Keller restaurant at the Venetian.
Mom looks a little confused, but smiles when we arrive. “Another French restaurant? Vegas has everything imaginable. I thought you would have picked something different.”
“You were the one to put France on your bucket list. I’m just doing everything to make it sort of happen.” I shrug my shoulders and tilt my head apologetically. I can make other arrangements if she pushes the issue.
It turns out to not be an issue at all. Later, she apologizes for even questioning my choice of restaurant. We both love it, and declare French food to be our new favorite food ever.
“How are you feeling now?” I ask Mom after our plates have been cleared and we are sipping small cups of espresso.
“Really good, honey. Don’t worry about me so much, I’m fine.” Her brave smile is a good front, but I know the truth.
“If you feel up for it, there’s a concert I want to take you to tonight.”
“Absolutely, let’s go.”
When we arrive at the arena and the marquee tells us who is playing, Mom turns to me with an unbelieving expression on her face.
“Fleetwood Mac? Bliss, seriously, how did you make this happen?”
I laugh. “Mom, I promise I didn’t book them or anything. It was just our luck that they happened to have a show here this week. It was meant to be.”
“This is…it’s just amazing, honey.” The tears in Mom’s eyes and her utter disbelief makes me feel a little better about exposing her to health hazards on this trip.
We find our seats and wait excitedly for the band to take the stage. All throughout the show, Mom keeps looking over at me, a happy smile on her face. We stand to dance in the crowded space between the seats. We sing along to our favorite songs. We jump and hold hands like the sappy fans we are when Stevie Nicks moves toward our side of the stage. It’s an incredible experience to see the band that has been sort of a bonding experience for us. Their music was the only thing that could get me to sleep as a child with fear of missing out. Something about the blend of voices, the lyrics, the music, that connects with me. Mom says I’m an old soul, and it’s no wonder I like a band like this. I think I adopted her love of the band because I wanted to be just like her. Soon I realized their music meant more to me than just as a connection to my mother.
When Christine McVie sits down at the piano and begins to play Songbird, Mom and I cling to each other happily. Mom’s voice warbles in my ear as she sings me the words that are so familiar. The last line she sings with a voice thick with tears.
“And I love you, I love you, I love you, like never before.”
I commit this moment to memory, savoring the feel of her arms wrapped around my shoulders, her off-key voice rasping in my ear. I love her so much I could burst with it. Her love for me is a balm that could always soothe my soul, as well as any physical pains I ever had. I would be so lucky to find a man that could love me even half as unfailing and selflessly as she has.
There’s something untouched about a mother’s love. This is why the English language should have more variations of the word that properly convey the intricacies of the emotion. The very feeling of love. It’s too big to be contained by four letters. Too abstract to have one all-encompassing word to hold it.
Chapter Thirty
Mom and I make it back home Friday just in time for the appointment with Dr. Ong I scheduled while Mom was sleeping. I was lucky to get an appointment so quick. I pressed the receptionist with the needs of a dying woman, and she managed to squeeze us in. I’m worried about Mom. The coughing continued, especially bad at night, or when aggravated by the Las Vegas atmosphere. I can’t help beating myself up over and over for my choice to put her in a bad environment. She insisted it wasn’t my fault, however I couldn’t get past my bad decision.
My hands find no rest, fidgeting and twisting and tearing magazines while we wait on Dr. Ong. I’m a freaking mess, unwashed and bleary, but determined to be here directly off the plane. My mind won’t stop running, my eyes jumping from one piece of art to the TV to the clock on the wall that ticks menacingly. I hate clocks that tick; the sound is unnerving, not pleasant in the least. I rub my eyes and yawn, my body no match for my incessant brain. I am physically exhausted from a whirlwind few days and not getting any sleep. I shift uneasily in my chair, finding no comfort in the hard yellow plastic.
“Bliss, stop it. I know what you’re doing, and you can take those thoughts and shred them like the magazines you’re destroying.” Mom’s voice is stern with her reproof.
I twist my hair guiltily, avoiding eye contact. “I’m just worried, okay? I needed to have you checked out after spending a few days in less than desirable circumstances.”
“Whatever she says, it’s not your fault. It doesn’t matter if I drop dead next week or next year; I’m dying.”
My heart clenches in my chest, the beat pausing and restarting out of sync as her words hit me. Tears spring to my eyes, held back by the mightiest force of my lashes with a few rapid blinks.
“I had the best time with you these past few days, and I wouldn’t trade that for the world. The trade-off for being healthier had we not taken the trip is in no way even close to what I was able to take away from it. My time with you, experiencing life and making memories, is better than any medicine or treatment I could get here at the hospital.”
“What if I made you worse? What if I—”I break off, not sure how to voice the guilt and fear. “What if I just took time off what’s left of your life with my selfish decision to take you to Las Vegas?”
“Honey, what if I didn’t go, and still got worse? What if I decided to go through chemo and radiation, only to have it not work? There are a million what if’s you could ask, and still never get any answers. You have to be satisfied with not knowing; with living your life as if you had no other options. If you make decisions that you love, how can you doubt that it was anything but the right choice?”
As I grapple with my mother’s wise words, Dr. Ong calls us into her office. She still very much reminds me of a cancer-fighting elf.
She gets right down to business once we are seated in her office. “How are we doing today, Lisa?”
Mom looks over at me before returning her attention to Dr. Ong. “Never better, living the dream.”
I sputter in disbelief, unsure how she can crack jokes when this is her life we are talking about.
Dr. Ong smiles, her almond eyes twinkling. “I appreciate your humor, it’s very important for cancer patients to keep their spirits up. Depression is a very real factor in this stage of things. But really, how are you doing?”
Mom sighs, dropping the funny pretense and getting down to the nitty-gritty. “Not so good. I’ve been coughing harder and more frequently. I feel the weight settling in my lungs again, like when I had the pleural effusion. I thought the catheter would keep the fluid from building up again?”
“Lisa, that weight would be the tumors in your lungs, not fluid. They’re growing extremely quickly. They take up room in your lungs so you can’t draw a full breath, and they have weight to them, which you are feeling now that they’re bigger.”
Dr. Ong goes on to explain the course the cance
r has taken, and where it will go from here. She recommends we begin to use hospice care, since Mom needs more care than I can possibly provide on my own. It hurts to hear that I am not sufficient; that my love and determination alone are not enough. She prescribes even more medications to control the side effects of the cancer, to make Mom more comfortable as the pain begins to increase in severity. She suggests ways for us both to manage the stress, and gives me support groups for caregivers I can utilize when I find myself struggling. Dr. Ong prepares us both for Mom’s imminent death. She gives us a new timeline. No longer do I have a lifetime to spend with my mom. No longer do I have even six months to process that she is dying.
Now I will be lucky if I have my mom for six more weeks.
Chapter Thirty-one
I settle Mom at home with Amy, begging her to let me know if they need anything, no matter the time, and head back to San Francisco. I wanted to stay with Mom, but I have a wedding at the Fairmont booked tomorrow.
I’m desperate to be held, comforted, told I’ll be alright. I’m desperate for what Talan can give me; his own special brand of temporary memory eraser that keeps me from focusing on anything by what he is doing to me in the moment.
I haven’t heard from him since Monday.
He didn’t call or text me once while I was in Vegas. It would be weird, except I didn’t call or text him, either. This is the busiest time of the year for his winery. He’s probably been swamped with work and too tired to call. I get it.
I pop a piece of gum in my mouth and rake my fingers through my hair after parking on the street near Talan’s condo at the Watermark. I could use a shower and twelve hours of uninterrupted sleep. Maybe I can convince him to shower with me.
I have no hopes for the uninterrupted sleep.
I’m half a block away when I am stopped dead in my tracks. My happiness and excitement to see Talan drain in the wake of the cold chill that descends my body. The gum in my mouth turns sour, bile rising in my throat with the onset of nausea. Hot and cold simultaneously war for control of my body temperature. I shiver as a hot, prickly sweat pops out all over my skin.
Talan is holding the door to the building open, leaning casually against the jamb as he smiles and nods at a petite brunette. She’s standing too close, right in front of him. Her hand reaches out and grasps his forearm, lingering there in familiarity. She rises up on her tiptoes, too short to meet him without his help, which he provides as he meets her face for a quick kiss. Her hand finally leaves his arm, but instead of relinquishing him, she runs her fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck, and across his cheek.
My own hands shake, my stomach a violent sea of churning acid and revulsion. They hug, and she turns. I know who it is before I even see her face. She’s haunted my nightmares. Now they have finally come true.
Nassim leaves Talan’s building, heading in the opposite direction I am coming from. Talan watches her for a moment, then lets the door close and is hidden from my view. I lean against the wall of the closest building as hot tears scald my cheeks.
I feel betrayed.
Broken.
My heart is cast into the air, bloody glitter raining from the pieces that were so carefully constructed just minutes before. My breath is coming in gasps, the very air too thick to provide any relief. I turn and run back to my car, unable to convince myself that what I just saw was anything innocent. I should never have trusted him; never given him the chance to prove my insecure thoughts right.
His betrayal is heavy, slicing, final.
I manage to make it back to my apartment without running over any pedestrians or rear-ending any cars. My preoccupation is dangerous, my depression debilitating. I am thankful none of my roommates are around when I arrive home. The dark apartment is exactly the cave I would like to crawl inside and never leave. I dump my suitcase in my room, and head to the bathroom where I sit in the bathtub, crying until the shower runs cold. I scrub every inch of my skin and still feel the shame of having given so much of myself to him. I wish I had never let him bareback me in the barrel room. What if he had some STI from banging other chicks behind my back? I am so stupid. I dry heave into the drain, my stomach offering nothing to purge to make me feel better. I dry myself off and crawl into my bed, exhaustion finally ending my tears and providing the only relief I can find for the pain that digs and tears at me with a muffled numbness.
Despite my exhaustion, I am restless, unable to sleep as thoughts invade my brain and force me into deep contemplation. My thoughts mostly flit between Talan and my Mom like a hummingbird to the most brightly colored flowers. The trip with Mom had been fun, restorative, a bonding experience I won’t forget. It was a high even though she ended up worse for wear. Coming home to find that Talan has completely misled me, and took Nassim into his arms the minute I was gone stings like the lashes of a whip.
I am bewildered that I am struggling with the part of me that still needs and wants Talan to feel complete. Apparently, it didn’t get the message that we aren’t wanted, needed enough to hold out for three days. Despite, or maybe because of, everything else I have going on, Talan seemed to fill a hole that was previously wanting. Now that hole is blown wide open, exposing my heart and soul to the world, showing me broken and bleeding.
I had previously come to the conclusion that a heart could be divided up into separate but equal portions that can hold more longing and love and lust than you ever imagined. When you think your heart is full of one person and your feelings for them, someone comes along to show you there is room for more. That’s the lesson I learned when I let Talan in, because I found room for him even though I was full with Mom, life, and work. Different compartments, dimensions even, allow the complex feelings to exist on the same plane without stealing space from anyone else.
But how can a small muscle, an organ that is susceptible to disease and failure, hold so much feeling? I’m realizing that maybe it’s the soul instead that captures and holds those feelings that the heart generates. A soul is all encompassing, without limit, and doesn’t break like a heart can. A soul is as elastic as a rubber band, stretching to fit your feelings. That same soul is able to compress, wrapping you in armor to keep you together when your heart is broken. My soul is shrink-wrapped around me now, intent to hold me together as the pieces are determined to float away.
I manage to fall asleep, tears soaking my pillow and my head a mess of tangled emotions, deceived and still wanting this man I was on my way to giving my heart to.
Maybe I already had.
Chapter Thirty-Two
I look like shit when I wake up the next morning. My eyes are puffy and bloodshot, my hair a tangled mess, and my skin a sallow shade that would frighten my clients. I have to talk myself into putting makeup on and doing my hair, but once the work is done, I do feel better.
On a bad day, there is always lipstick.
I put my big girl panties on and look at the job ahead for what it is—my sole source of income—and manage to get my ass to the Fairmont on time. I even plaster on my fakest smile, and pull out the easiest conversation starters to use with the bridal party as I only pretend to pay attention to everything. I manage to fake interest when it’s only their hair and makeup I care about. Eight hours later, the entire bridal party looks picture-perfect, their airbrushed skin, painted lips, and softly curled hair worthy of a magazine. I give air kisses and hugs all around before I pull my kit and myself out of the suite and out of the beautiful hotel. I normally love working jobs here, but my heart just isn’t in it today. I pay my ungodly expensive garage parking bill and drive back to my apartment, not looking forward to facing Willa who will be demanding an account of the trip.
I almost think I have made it in undetected, having just opened my door to dump my bag, when Willa ambushes me in the hallway.
“How was the trip? Did you have fun in Vegas? Why won’t you answer my texts? Where have you been?” Her questions come in quick succession, my brain barely registering one before the ne
xt has assaulted me. I wave my hands between our faces, unable to deal with this level of demand.
“Later, please. I’m really tired, I just need to go lay down.” I turn back to my door again, intent on escaping.
Willa snatches my arm and turns me all the way around, taking in the puffy bags under my eyes and the overall tone of misery I’m wearing like perfume.
“What happened?” Instead of letting me answer, she steers me to the kitchen, depositing me in a chair at our tiny table and reaching into the pantry for a sleeve of Oreos. She fills a glass with milk and plunks both in front of me before returning to the fridge.
“Eat those. I know you had a job today and probably didn’t get a chance to eat. I’m making you a grilled cheese. And whatever else I can find.”
My fingers manage to take control, opening the plastic wrapping on the Oreos and dunking one in the glass, sopping up milk before I put the whole thing in my mouth, sucking milk from my fingers. The sugar hits my taste buds, hunger roaring through my numbness. I proceed to eat a whole row of Oreos before Willa hands me the steaming sandwich and removes the rest of the cookies from my gnarled grasp.
I blow while chewing, burning my tongue on hot cheese and buttered bread, too hungry to care. When I’ve devoured half the sandwich and finished off the dregs of my cookies and cream milk, Willa returns to her questioning.
“Is your mom okay?”
I wipe my mouth and hands on a napkin, swallowing the bite I had just taken. “She’s worse. I didn’t think about how the cigarette smoke would affect her while in Vegas. Dr. Ong has reduced her sentence to maybe six weeks. We called in hospice, and she now has an oxygen tank that she will use all of the time.” My response is robotic, the facts spilling out of my mouth without emotion.
Willa grips my hands, her face a mask of determined encouragement. “Sweetie, it’s going to be okay. We will be here for you, support you with anything you need. We love your mom and want to make sure you both are taken care of.”
A Taste of Bliss Page 20
