They finally reached St. Patrick’s Cathedral, arriving with pretty much everyone else in the vicinity who’d come for the same reason. The crowd was so large that they were stranded halfway down the block, and though Maggie couldn’t see the singers, she could hear them thanks to the large speakers they had set up. Mark, though, was disappointed, and she realized she should have warned him this would happen. She’d learned upon moving to New York that attending an event in the city and really seeing the event were often two entirely different things. In her first year here she’d ventured out to see the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. She’d found herself wedged against a building, surrounded by hundreds, and stuck in place for hours, her primary view the backs of people’s heads. She’d had to crane her neck to see the famous balloons and had awakened the following morning so sore that she’d had to visit a chiropractor.
Ah, the joys of city living, right?
The choir, even if unseen, sounded rapturous to her ears, and as she listened, Maggie found herself reflecting back on the last few days with a light sense of wonder. She’d seen The Nutcracker, decorated a tree, shipped gifts to her family, skated at Rockefeller Center, seen the window displays on Fifth Avenue, and now this. She was checking off once-in-a-lifetime experiences with someone she’d come to care about, and sharing the story of her past had lifted her spirits.
But as the floatiness started to fade, she felt fatigue setting in, and she knew it was time to go. She squeezed Mark’s arm, signaling that she was ready. They’d listened to four carols by then, and turning, he began leading her back through the crowd that had formed behind them. When they finally had breathing space, he stopped.
“How about some dinner?” he asked. “I’d love to hear the rest of the story.”
“I think I need to lie down for a while.”
He knew enough not to argue with her. “I can ride with you.”
“I’ll be okay,” she said.
“Do you think you’ll make it to the gallery tomorrow?”
“I’ll probably stay home. Just in case.”
“Will I see you Christmas Eve? I want to give you your gift.”
“You didn’t have to get me anything.”
“Of course I did. It’s Christmas.”
She thought about it, finally deciding Why not? “Okay,” she offered.
“Do you want to meet at work? Or have dinner? Whatever is easiest for you.”
“I tell you what—why don’t I have dinner delivered to the gallery? We can eat under the tree.”
“Can I hear the rest of your story?”
“I’m not sure you’ll want to. It’s not really a holiday story. It gets very sad.”
He turned, raising his hand to hail her an oncoming cab. As the taxi pulled over, he glanced at her without pity. “I know,” he said simply.
* * *
For the second night in a row, Maggie slept in the clothes she’d been wearing.
The last time she’d peeked at the clock, it was a few minutes before six. Dinner hour in much of America; still-at-the-office hour in much of NYC. She woke more than eighteen hours later feeling weak and dehydrated, but thankfully pain-free.
Not willing to risk a relapse, she took a single pain pill before wobbling her way to the kitchen, where she forced down a banana, along with a piece of toast, which made her feel slightly better.
After taking a bath, she stood in front of the mirror, barely recognizing herself. Her arms were stick thin, her collarbones bulged beneath her skin like tent supports, and her torso sported numerous bruises, some of them deep purple. In her skeletal face, her eyes resembled an alien’s, bright and bewildered.
What she’d read about melanoma—and it felt like she’d read just about everything on the subject—suggested that there was no way to predict her final months. Some people had significant pain, requiring morphine via an IV drip; for others, it wasn’t debilitating. Some patients had worsening neurological symptoms while others were clear-headed up until the end. The location of the pain was as varied as the patients, which she supposed made sense. Once cancer metastasizes, it can go anywhere in the body, but Maggie had been hoping for the more pleasant version of dying. She could handle the loss of appetite and excessive sleep, but the prospect of excruciating pain frightened her. Once she moved to IV morphine, she knew she might never get out of bed again.
But the actually-being-dead part didn’t frighten her. Right now, she was too busy being inconvenienced for death to be anything but hypothetical. And who knew what it was actually like? Would she see the bright light at the end of a tunnel, or hear harps as she entered the pearly gates, or would she simply fade away? When she thought of it at all, she imagined it as akin to going to sleep without dreaming, except she’d never wake up. And, obviously, she wouldn’t care about not waking up because…well, because death made caring—or not caring—impossible.
But yesterday’s last-ditch holiday celebrations drove home the fact that she was one seriously sick woman. She didn’t want more pain, and she didn’t want to sleep eighteen hours a day. There wasn’t enough time for those things. More than anything, she wanted to live normally up until the very end, but she had a growing suspicion that it wasn’t going to be possible.
In the bathroom, she slipped her necklace back on. She pulled a sweater over a set of thermal underwear, and thought about putting on jeans, but what was the point? Pajama bottoms were more comfortable, so she stuck with those. Finally, she donned warm fuzzy slippers and a knit hat. The thermostat was set in the midseventies, but still a little chilly, she plugged in a space heater. There was no reason to care about the electricity bill; it wasn’t as though she had to save for retirement.
She heated a cup of water in the microwave, then wandered to the living room. She sipped at it, thinking about where she’d left off in her story with Mark. Reaching for her phone, she texted him, knowing he would already be at work.
Let’s meet at the gallery at six tomorrow, ok? I’ll tell you the rest of my story and then we can have dinner.
Almost immediately, she saw the dots indicating that he was responding to the text, and his reply popped up in bubble form.
Can’t wait! Take care of yourself. Looking forward to it. All good at work. Busy today.
She waited, seeing if he would add anything else, but he didn’t. Finishing the hot water, she reflected on how her body was choosing to defy her. Sometimes it was easy to imagine that the melanoma was speaking to her in a haunted, creepy voice. I shall take you in the end, but first? I shall make your insides burn and force you to waste away. I’ll take your beauty and steal your hair and deprive you of conscious hours, until there’s nothing left but a skeletal shell…
Maggie gave a morbid chuckle at the thought of that imagined voice. Well, it would be silenced soon enough. Which raised the question…what was she going to do about her funeral?
She’d been thinking about it on and off since her last meeting with Dr. Brodigan. Not frequently, just every now and then when the thought suddenly surfaced, often in the most unexpected moments. Like right now. She’d done her best to ignore it—death still being hypothetical and all—but yesterday’s pain made that impossible.
What was she going to do? She supposed she really didn’t have to do anything. Her parents or Morgan would no doubt take care of it, but she didn’t want them to have to assume that burden. And since it was her funeral, she certainly deserved some say in the matter. But what was it that she wanted?
Not the typical funeral, she knew that much. She had no desire for an open casket, or sappy songs like “Wind Beneath My Wings,” and definitely no long eulogy from a priest who didn’t even know her. That wasn’t her style. But even if it had been—where would the funeral take place? Her parents would want her to be buried in Seattle, not New York, but New York was her home now. She couldn’t imagine forcing her mom and dad to find a local funeral home and cemetery, or to arrange for a Catholic service in a strange city. Nor was she sure h
er parents could even handle such a thing, and while Morgan was more capable, she was already overwhelmed with young children at home. All of which left only one option.
Maggie had to arrange everything in advance.
Rising from the couch, Maggie found a pad of paper in the kitchen drawer. She made some notes about the kind of service she wanted. It was less depressing than she’d imagined, likely because she rejected outright all the somber stuff. She reviewed what she’d written, and while it wouldn’t make sense to her parents, she was glad she’d thought to express her dying wishes. She made a note to herself to contact her attorney in the new year so it could all be finalized.
Which left only one more thing to do.
* * *
She needed to get Mark something for Christmas.
Though she’d given him a bonus earlier in December, just as she’d done for Luanne, she felt like something more was warranted, especially after these past few days. But what to get him? Like most young people, especially those who intended to go to graduate school, he’d probably appreciate an additional gift of money more than anything else. Lord knows, when she was in her twenties, that’s what she would have wanted. It would also be easy—all she had to do was write a check—but it didn’t feel right to her. She sensed that his gift for her was something personal, which made her think she should reciprocate in a similar vein.
She asked herself what Mark enjoyed, but even that didn’t lead to many answers. He loved Abigail and his parents, he intended to lead a religious life, he was interested in contemporary art, and he grew up in Indiana and played hockey. What else did she know about him?
She flashed back to their first interview, remembering how prepared he’d been, and the answer finally presented itself. Mark admired the photographs she’d taken; more than that, he thought of them as her legacy. So why not give Mark a gift that reflected Maggie’s passion?
In the drawers of her desk, she found several flash drives; she’d always kept plenty on hand. For the next few hours, she began to transfer photographs onto the drives, choosing her favorites. Some of them hung on the walls of the gallery, and though the photographs wouldn’t be part of the limited-edition runs—and thus without monetary value—she knew that Mark wouldn’t care about that. He wouldn’t want the photographs for financial reasons; he’d want them because she’d taken them, and because they’d meant something to her.
* * *
When she was finished, she dutifully consumed some food. Salty cardboard, as disgusting as ever. Throwing caution to the wind, she also poured herself a glass of wine. She found a station playing Christmas music on the radio, and she sipped her wine until she became drowsy. She traded her sweater for a sweatshirt, put on socks in place of the slippers, and crawled into bed.
She woke at noon on Christmas Eve, feeling rested and, miracle of miracles, completely pain-free.
But just in case, she took her pills, washing them down with half a cup of tea.
* * *
Knowing that it would most likely be a late night, she lounged most of the day. She called her favorite neighborhood Italian restaurant, where until recently she had been a regular, and learned that a delivery for two shouldn’t be a problem despite the large crowd expected for dinner that evening. The manager, whom she knew well and who she guessed knew of her illness due to her appearance, was particularly solicitous. He anticipated what she might enjoy, remembering the dishes she frequently ordered and suggesting a few specials as well as their famous tiramisu. She thanked him warmly after reading him her credit card number and scheduling the delivery for eight p.m. And who said New Yorkers were callous? she thought with a smile as she hung up.
She ordered a smoothie, drank it while taking her bath, and then reviewed the flash drives she’d created for Mark. As always, when revisiting her past work, her mind re-created the particulars of every shot.
Losing herself in the memories of so many exhilarating trips and experiences made the hours pass quickly. At four, she took a nap, even though she was still feeling pretty good; after she woke, she slowly got ready. As she had in Ocracoke so long ago, she chose a red sweater, albeit with more layers underneath. Black wool slacks over tights, and a black beret. No jewelry except for the necklace, but enough makeup so she wouldn’t frighten the cabdriver. She added a cashmere scarf to hide her gangly neck, and then put her pills in her bag, just in case. She hadn’t had time to wrap Mark’s gift, so she emptied a tin of Altoids and used the container for the drives. She wished she had a bow but figured Mark wouldn’t care. Finally, with a sense of dread, she retrieved one of the letters her aunt Linda had written, which she kept in her jewelry box.
Outside, the weather was bone-chilling and damp, the sky promising snow. In the short cab ride to the gallery, she passed a Santa Claus ringing a bell, soliciting donations for the Salvation Army. She saw a menorah in an apartment window. On the radio, the cabdriver was listening to music that sounded Indian or Pakistani. Christmas in Manhattan.
The door to the gallery was locked, and after entering, she locked it again behind her. Mark was nowhere to be seen, but the tree was glowing, and she smiled when she saw that he had set up a small fold-out table flanked by two fold-out chairs in front of the tree and covered it with a red paper tablecloth. On the table was a gift-wrapped box and a vase with a red carnation, along with two glasses of eggnog.
He must have heard her enter because he emerged from the back as she was admiring the table. When she turned, she noticed that he, too, wore a red sweater and black slacks.
“I’d say you look fantastic, but I think that might come across as self-serving,” she observed as she removed her jacket.
“If I didn’t know better, I’d think you came by earlier to see what I’d be wearing,” he countered.
She motioned toward the table. “You’ve been busy.”
“I figured we’d need a place to eat.”
“You do understand that if I have the eggnog, I won’t be able to eat at all.”
“Then just think of it as table decoration. Can I take your jacket?”
She handed it over and he disappeared into the back again while Maggie continued to survey the scene. In no small way, it reminded her of the Christmas she’d spent in Ocracoke, which had no doubt been his intention.
She took a seat at the table, feeling content, as Mark emerged from the back with a coffee cup in hand. He set it before her.
“It’s just hot water,” he explained, “but I brought a tea bag if you’d like a little flavor.”
“Thank you.” Because tea sounded good, and the caffeine even better, she added the bag to her water, letting it steep. “Where did you get all this?” She swept her arm over the scene.
“The chairs and table are from my apartment—it’s actually my temporary dining set. The cheap tablecloth came from Duane Reade. More importantly, how are you doing? I’ve been worried about you since I saw you last.”
“I’ve slept a lot. I feel better.”
“You look good.”
“I’m a walking cadaver. But thank you anyway.”
“Can I ask you a question?”
“Haven’t we moved beyond that yet? Where you have to ask permission to ask me something?”
He stared into his cup of eggnog, his brow creased by a slight frown. “After we finished skating, you know, when…you started feeling bad. You said something like…Pac-Man? Or Packmin? Or…”
“Pac-Man,” she said.
“What does that mean?”
“Have you never heard of Pac-Man? The video game?”
“No.”
Dear God, he really is young. Or I’m getting old. She pulled out her phone, went to YouTube, selected a quick video, and handed the phone to him. He started the video and began watching.
“So Pac-Man moves through a maze eating dots along the way?”
“Exactly.”
“What did that have to do with the way you were feeling?”
“Because that
’s sometimes how I think about cancer. That it’s like Pac-Man, moving through the maze of my body, eating all my healthy cells.”
As she answered, his eyes went wide. “Oh…wow. I’m so sorry I brought this up. I shouldn’t have asked…”
She waved a hand at him. “It’s not a big deal. Let’s just forget about it, okay? Are you hungry? I hope you don’t mind, but I went ahead and ordered from my favorite Italian restaurant. The food should arrive by eight.” Even if she couldn’t eat more than a few bites, she was hoping to enjoy the smell.
“Sounds great. Thanks for that. And before I forget, Abigail told me to wish you a merry Christmas. She said she wishes she could be here with us and that she can’t wait to meet you when she comes to New York in a few days.”
“Likewise,” Maggie said. She gestured at the gift. “Should I open it now, since the food won’t be here for a while?”
“Why don’t we wait until after dinner?”
“And until then, let me guess…You want to hear the rest of my story.”
“I’ve been thinking about it ever since you left off.”
“It’s still better if we end with the perfect kiss.”
“I’d rather hear it all, if you don’t mind.”
She took a swallow of tea, letting it warm the back of her throat while the years rolled in reverse. She closed her eyes, wishing she could forget, but knowing she never would.
“Later that night, after Bryce brought me home, I barely slept at all…”
The Third Trimester
Ocracoke
1996
Part of my insomnia had to do with my aunt. When I got home, she was still on the couch, the same book open in her lap, but when she lifted her eyes in my direction, one look was all it took. No doubt I was radiating moonbeams, because her eyebrows twitched slightly, and I finally heard her sigh. It was an I knew this was going to happen kind of sigh, if you know what I mean.
The Wish Page 25
