The Days Without You: A Story of Love, Loss, and Grief

by Skylar Wilson

  Kylie nodded goodbye and latched the door shut after her. A certain tension lingered in the silence between her and Adam. At Adam’s cough, she flicked her gaze to the microwave’s digital clock. “Do you…want to stay? I mean, only if you want to. It’s almost midnight.”

  “Er, yeah. Sure.” His tension seemed to ease, his posture less rigid. “About what happened…”

  With her head bowed, Kylie spoke, “I’m sorry. Too much alcohol. We shouldn’t…yeah. Not yet.”

  She reached up to kiss his cheek. His dark eyes regarded her with a softly calculating gaze. Part of her, in some way, wanted to ask about his experience with his brother. What had it been like watching his brother die? How long had he survived after his diagnosis? What had Adam felt through it all? Asking might be too intrusive. When her father passed away, it had all happened so quickly. Shot in the line of duty. Body lost in the harbor. This, her mother’s diagnosis…this was different. She felt lost, unsure of what to expect in the coming weeks. Hospital stays, surely. Endless appointments and visits with doctors. How quickly would her mother fade away? What would her prognosis be? A flurry of questions had been rattling relentlessly around in her mind since she returned home this evening. She had hoped Adam would be a distraction from it all. But, in a way, she was grateful for the interruption upon reflection. They were far too early in…whatever this was with Adam. She had yet to truly know him. It had been a year since anyone other than Cat or her mother had visited her apartment.

  Adam broke the silence. “Well…”

  “Um, well…I mean…” She swallowed. “We should just…go to bed.”

  “Yeah. I’ll just…crash on your sofa.”

  She nodded. “If you want.”

  In the following days, Kylie fought to follow her routine as if nothing in her life was about to collapse around her. She went to work, completed her assignments, returned home, all while numbing herself to any overwhelming emotion that threatened to claw its way into her consciousness. Her phone chimed sporadically, once or twice a day, delivering a message from Adam to say hello or to ask how she was doing, and she spoke to him briefly several times. Their conversations were amicable; Adam described a recent show his band had performed, dominating most of the conversation, while Kylie mostly listened. Still, she found a small escape in simply listening to the rise and fall of his tone with his waxing and waning excitement.

  Friday evening brought Kylie to Cat’s apartment, where Cat had made them a simple dinner of beef and overcooked asparagus. Kylie forced it down with a smile regardless.

  Cat scrutinized her after a few moments of quiet chewing. “You’re awfully quiet.”

  “Just worried about everything.”

  “I’m sure it won’t be as bad as you think,” Cat soothed. “I’m sure she’ll get through it. Your mama is a tough lady. She’s a fighter.”

  “You’re just saying that.”

  “I’m not.” She nipped the head of an asparagus stalk. “Look at how she handled losing her husband. She did everything she could to make sure you were okay and got through it.”

  “Doesn’t mean she’ll survive cancer,” muttered Kylie.

  Her cheeks flushing lightly, Cat set her fork down. “Kylie, try to have some hope. You don’t know anything yet.”

  “We know she definitely has c—” She paused involuntarily, her lips closing then opening. “Cancer.”

  “Just have some hope. Pray or throw pennies in a fountain or something. Whatever it is that gives you some freaking hope.”

  Kylie swallowed. Part of her wanted to be angry at Cat for saying such a thing. She may very well lose the only family member she had left. Not that she didn’t acknowledge the inevitability of death, that everyone dies at some point, it was just that…it was too soon that she might lose her mother. Sarah was barely in her fifties, after all. The other part of her, however, knew Cat was right. She should hold onto whatever shred of hope she had left.

  “We’ll find out next week,” she said simply.

  On Monday, she accompanied her mother to another appointment, this time with the oncologist.

  Dr. Gordon’s office was in a building separate from the hospital, located a few blocks away. The waiting room here proved much cleaner than that of the hospital—no stains showed on any of the upholstered metal chairs. Sarah’s hands fluttered through the pages of a notebook filled with questions, while Kylie stared, unblinking, at the far wall.

  Upon Sarah’s name being called by the nurse, they rose and trailed her into a small exam room. Impressive medical degrees hung on one of the blue walls. The blue was a pale blue, as if it were supposed to soothe their nerves. The paper lining the exam table crinkled as Sarah lifted herself onto it, and Kylie sat in a spare chair in the corner. Nearly all the color had drained from Sarah’s expressionless mask, and her eyes widened and stared at nothing in particular. Nausea rolled through Kylie, and she folded her arms across her stomach.

  Several minutes later, a gentle knock sounded at the door. Dr. Gordon entered, carrying a chart. With a long, dark mane and all leg, she looked more like a model than a doctor, Kylie thought.

  “Let me guess—sisters?” Gordon offered a serene smile and shook their hands, and immediately opened the chart.

  Sarah forced a nervous, jerking laugh, clutching her notebook to her chest. Kylie frowned. It seemed an inappropriate time to make jokes. Or, perhaps one had to have some sense of humor to work in such a field of medicine, to deal with constant death and grieving families. The thought made Kylie shudder.

  “This is my daughter, Kylie,” said Sarah.

  Gordon smiled again and nodded at her. Kylie, unsmiling, offered a stiff nod in return. Weakness had overcome her limbs as the reality of her surroundings set in. This was happening. They were at the office of an oncologist. Her mother had cancer.

  After rifling through the chart, the doctor slipped what appeared to be two x-rays onto the lighted frame on the wall.

  “I reviewed your PET scan earlier,” she began, brisk and businesslike, turning on the frame.

  Sarah sat motionless, still clutching the notebook to her chest. Her face was ghostly pale as she watched Gordon point to the scans. Kylie dared to glance at them. They displayed an outline of a torso in opaque gray; within them were several darker spots. Her knee bounced incessantly, her thigh jiggling while her clammy hands balled into fists. She fixed her gaze on those dark spots, staring at them until her gaze grew blurry and unfocused. Even her ears had gone fuzzy, and she barely heard Dr. Gordon as she spoke. Her focus came and went, as if listening to the buzz of static on a radio just on the outskirts of the tower’s reach.

  “You’ll see… excised the two largest… unable… smaller… metastasized… lungs… lymph nodes.”

  A chill washed over her, starting at the crown of her head, and her focus returned, sharp and unreal. The leg that had been jiggling, unbeknownst to Kylie, came to a slow rest.

  “Metastasized?” repeated Sarah.

  “The cancer has spread to other parts of your body, including the lymph nodes.” Her tone softened. “Your cancer cannot be cured. I want you to know that up front.”

  “Oh.” It came no louder than a whisper. Sarah’s hands trembled, rattling the notebook pages in turn, all questions forgotten.

  Kylie stared out of the small window, her pulse pounding in her ears. Metastatic breast cancer. It was just as bad as she had feared.

  Dr. Gordon wasted no time in launching into a treatment plan to attack the aggressive cancer, including chemotherapy, hormone therapy, and possible radiation.

  “If I’m not going to survive this, why do I need chemotherapy?” demanded Sarah. Her tone had become harsh. “It’s only going to destroy the rest of my body, won’t it?”

  “We still sometimes administer chemo, hormone therapy, and-or radiation to metastatic patients to lengthen their quality of life.”

  “Please,” begged Kylie. She stood and reached for her mother’s hand. Sarah clutched onto
it as a cry escaped her lips, her shoulders shaking. Kylie slipped the notebook from her hands and, steeling herself, began to read the questions aloud. “What’s…what’s her prognosis? I mean…how long…” She gulped down the words. “How long until…?”

  Dr. Gordon offered a small, sad smile. “Based on cases I’ve seen and the statistical data available, I would say most likely around six months. Could be shorter, could be longer. We won’t know until we have a better idea of how you’ll respond to the chemo.”

  Kylie’s heart sank, and it felt as though ice water had poured into her stomach. Six months. That was almost nothing.

  The next day—another day home from the office—Kylie spent the morning at the hospital with a book in hand while her mother had another surgery to have a port inserted just below her collarbone; the afternoon saw her dredging over work with her laptop at the kitchen table while her mother rested and watched soap operas in between short naps. Monday would see her first chemotherapy infusion, requiring several days inpatient.

  Kylie’s head still spun from it all. How quickly it all seemed to happen. A mere fortnight ago, life had been normal. Routine. She had known what to expect every morning when her feet touched the floor. Now, however, she felt as though she was barely holding on while life clawed and clung to any last shred of normalcy.

  Long after Kylie had finished her work and set her laptop aside, Sarah padded into the kitchen, wiping the languor from her face and gently brushing her fingers along her collarbone.

  “Well, good morning,” said Kylie with a soft grin, setting aside her phone and rising from the table.

  “Morning? It’s five o’clock,” Sarah chided, patting Kylie’s shoulder.

  “So, I was thinking we could have Cat over for dinner tonight. It’s been awhile since she’s seen you, and I know she’s off from work today.”

  Sarah paused, her posture stiffening. “Does she know yet?” Kylie bowed her head. “All right, then. Give her a call.”

  After Cat had agreed to come over, Kylie set about preparing a meal of oven-fried chicken and a side of greens, while Sarah returned to resting on the sofa while taking in the evening news. As she cooked, she allowed her mind to wander to her night with Adam. He had crashed on the sofa and risen early to return home despite Kylie’s offer to brew a pot of coffee. They didn’t speak much after Cat’s departure, other than to bid one another goodnight. The room had continued to spin, even as she lay in bed, her head buzzing from both her intoxication and the failure of her inhibition. Lying there, she considered continuing what they had started; a spark had ignited deep within, and a yearning for a physical connection burned inside her. Well over a year had passed since intimacy had played any role in her life.

  The doorbell sounded, and a few moments later Kylie heard her mother exclaim, “Cat, sweetheart! I love your haircut.”

  Setting aside the pan of chicken on a trivet, Kylie wiped her hands on a dishrag and made her way into the foyer to find Cat and her mother in a long embrace. Cat hugged Kylie in turn.

  Sarah rubbed Cat’s arm. “Kylie says you know about my diagnosis already.”

  “Yeah, Kylie told me the other night.” She smiled sadly and slipped her hands into the back pockets of her jeans. “I’m sorry.”

  “What’s meant to be will be.”

  Kylie shifted her weight, idly folding the dishrag still in her hands. A certain unease rose in her throat at her mother’s words, but she swallowed the words she wanted to shout. How can you say that! Don’t you want to keep fighting! You can’t leave so soon! But she forced a smile, her hands continuing to fold and unfold the rag.

  “How’s dinner coming along, pea?” Sarah swept a long lock of Kylie’s hair behind her ear with a feathery touch.

  “Just waiting for the chicken to cool a bit.”

  “You girls visit while I set the table.” She smoothed Kylie’s hair down her shoulder blade before padding out of the foyer.

  A smart grin grew across Cat’s mouth. “So, anything new with the boy toy?”

  “Nothing happened,” said Kylie, flush spreading across her cheeks. Please, don’t bring this up right now. “And he’s not a ‘boy toy.’”

  “Not how it looked.” She slapped Kylie’s shoulder.

  Kylie closed her eyes and murmured, “Mama doesn’t know about Adam, and I don’t want to bring it up, not yet.”

  “Okay, fine.” Cat held up her hands, but her tone and expression softened. “How did her appointments go, anyway?”

  She bit her lip. She had yet to say the word out loud: terminal. Neither she nor her mother had spoken it. For the most part, their conversations carried on as normal, as if death did not loom over them, a dark cloud overtaking what was once a sunny day. Still, a certain tension lingered, an unspoken anxiety that hung thick in the house. Speaking about it made it real, shoving reality in their faces.

  “It’s terminal. Maybe six months,” whispered Kylie. “She starts chemo on Monday, but it’s not going to cure it, only make her live a little longer.”

  With parted lips, Cat stared, her eyes unblinking, and her hand cupped her mouth. “Kylie…I’m so sorry.”

  Heaving a breath, Kylie closed her eyes. “Let’s eat. Chicken should be cooled enough by now.”

  In the kitchen, Sarah was placing silverware at each place setting, all of which were perfectly aligned. A distant quality had taken over her gaze as she straightened the floral vinyl placemats. While piling food onto each plate, Kylie debated if she should mention Adam. Something inside begged her not to. Pleaded. To share her feelings made them real somehow, in turn making her vulnerable to hurt, to loss, to betrayal. Things she had experienced enough in life. She supposed she had never really recovered after the death of her father, and then to lose her dignity more than once was more than she could bear.

  Setting the last plate on the table, she sat and tucked her chair in. A small, coy smile played on her mother’s face as she scooped a forkful of collards.

  “So,” she said, “who’s Adam?”

  Fork and knife in hand, Kylie slowly shredded her chicken, avoiding her mother’s keen eyes. Cat’s glance darted back and forth.

  “A guy I met at the concert Cat and I went to,” Kylie said, hoping to sound casual. “Went on a couple dates. That’s all.” She rolled her shoulders in unease.

  “It’s about time you got out with someone.”

  “Mama.”

  “I mean it. You coop yourself up at home too much. Who else do you talk to besides Cat?”

  Her jaw tightened as she chewed. “People at work,” she answered through her food.

  “No, you don’t,” Cat interjected. “You dodge Bruce when you can and pray Amanda doesn’t berate you when your work is late. You can’t even name your coworkers and you’ve been there several years.”

  “And? I know Maggie.”

  “It’s just that I worry about you,” Cat continued. “You’ve isolated yourself so much after you found out Ben was cheating on you. I just don’t want you to become depressed again. Some days, I feel like I don’t know how to help you when you get into a mood. I just wish you would be more open with me when you feel bad.”

  Sarah nodded in agreement. Kylie glanced at her, her gut sinking at her mother’s pained expression and the sad wrinkles around her eyes.

  “When did this suddenly become all about me?” Kylie teased, forcing an airy tone.

  “I’m just worried that when I’m…gone, you’ll have a hard time.”

  She prodded at the greens on her plate, pushing them from side to side as a lump rose in her throat. What could she say to them? It was true that she had emotionally shut down after the incident with her last boyfriend, shutting herself up at home when not at work, refusing to take any calls, even from Cat. Her hair had gone unwashed, the apartment remained a mess, the sink piled high with dishes. Part of her had felt silly for such a reaction, but it had been the second time a relationship ended in such a manner—the second time she had lost her
dignity.

  “I’ll be fine.” She strained a smile, hoping to convince herself of her own lie.

  After Sarah’s infusion on Monday morning, Kylie sat in the reclining chair in her hospital room, legs crossed, numbly staring at her laptop perched on her thighs. An email to Amanda, with an attached file of her work and an explanation of her circumstances, had been sent already. She sat there, hoping to get ahead for the week, but her mind drew nothing but a blank. The squeaking of the nurses’ shoes, the muffled voices from outside the door, and the quiet television still playing a game show drowned out any focus Kylie clung to. She wore Adam’s jacket, the scent of his cologne still weakly clinging to its fibers. Despite the jacket’s comforting weight and enveloping size, the pale green walls seemed to be closing in on her, looming ever closer.

  Her phone lay beside her on the recliner’s arm, glaring at her. Adam had sent a few sporadic messages over the weekend, but she had yet the energy to reply. Figuring her mother was asleep anyway, she shut the laptop, set it aside on the bed tray and, grabbing her phone, headed out into the hall. Leaning against the wall, she dialed Adam. Nurses and staff bustled by, a call bell dinged, and Kylie plugged one ear.

  “Hey. Everything okay?” Adam answered.

  “Yeah. Sorry I haven’t called. It’s just been…I don’t even know how to describe it.”

  “It’s fine. I know how it is.” His voice came low.

  She smoothed the nap of the black jacket, her words pausing. Guilt had settled in her stomach for not calling sooner. Perhaps she could redeem herself, in a way. Hoping to sound firm, she asked, “Do you want to do something? I’m at the hospital now with Mama, but sooner or later I’ve got to escape for a little while.”

  “How about coffee later? My shift is done at three. Kaminsky’s on Market? Should only take me ten minutes to get there.”

  “Sounds great. I’ll wait for you at the door.”

  A smile grew evident in his tone. “Perfect. See you then.”