by Nina Lane
Warmth flows through me, heavy and welcome. Nicholas and Bella are both on either side of me, their heads resting against my breasts. Before long, I lose track of whose journal Dean is reading from, and all the Important Things coalesce and merge into a bright ribbon that wraps around my family like a protective shield of sunlight.
“Finger paints. Sugar cookies. Getting a pet snake one day. Falconry. Keeping your room clean. Oranges. Jellyfish. Hot showers. Gargoyles. Going somewhere you’ve never been before. Fuzzy slippers. Babies. Miniature golf. Picnics. Flying buttresses. The sky. Monopoly. Sleeping in on Saturdays. Swinging so high your butt comes off the seat. Having lunch with a friend. The Lord of the Rings trilogy. Filing cabinets. Monkeys. Colored pencils.”
Sometimes Dean’s words are so rich and soothing that Bella and Nicholas both doze off under the spell of his voice. In those moments, I know that our strength as a family is undiluted.
Nicholas will always believe in superheroes and Legos. Bella will always know cute animals and finger paints are better than medicine. I will always champion doing your best and taking risks. And Dean will always stand guard over us, only allowing the good into our dreams.
At least three times a week, a wrapped package appears on our doorstep, holding a butterfly of some sort. We receive a beautifully embroidered butterfly pillow, and a set of colorful wire wall hangings that Dean puts up above the staircase railing.
There’s a painting of an African butterfly, a set of butterfly potholders, a photographic collage of exotic butterflies, pottery jars with butterfly patterns, and a bunch of butterfly balloons.
Not to mention plenty of edible things—butterfly-shaped cookies, cakes, and chocolate—along with a butterfly shirt for Bella, and a live butterfly garden with real caterpillars, which appeases Nicholas’s demand for a greenhouse.
The thrill of the mysterious sender is a bright spot in our lives, and Nicholas descends on each gift with a plastic magnifying glass to check for clues and fingerprints.
I love that our house is now filled not only with butterflies, but the unspoken power of their lovely transformation.
On my good days—or in my good hours, as is often the case following an infusion—I try to get things done, even if it’s just cleaning up the sunroom or filing Nicholas’s school papers. Allie emails me different projects, but I suspect it’s all stuff she has already completed and is sending to me as busy work. I do it anyway, glad at least to have something else to fill the time in the hours when Dean is on campus and the kids are at school.
I also make an effort to continue drawing “things that make me happy.” I can grudgingly admit North was right—creating pictures of the Eiffel Tower and a lantana plant refills the dry well inside me, filling me with the reminder that I’m so much more than my illness. That this will not last forever. I will get through it to decorate cupcakes again, see Notre Dame cathedral again, dig my toes in the sand at the beach again.
Friends drop by with gifts and meals, often staying to visit. Kelsey comes to see me after work every day, always bringing little gifts—a new fluffy pillow, a pair of slippers, bottles of thick, rich cream to help with my increasingly dry skin, tubes of fruit-flavored lip balm. She and Archer are always on hand to help, and they often stay into the evening to spend time with Nicholas and Bella.
“I picked this up on my way over.” Kelsey opens a shopping bag and holds up a boy’s leather jacket. “I guessed at the size, but I think it’ll fit him.”
“Cute.” I struggle to sit up on the sofa. “What’s it for?”
“Nicholas’s school concert tomorrow, remember?”
I search my fuzzy brain for something about a concert, but come up empty. “No, I don’t remember.”
“The first-grade classes are doing a concert with songs from the 1950s, and the director asked parents to have the boys dress up like Elvis or in jeans and leather jackets. The girls are supposed to wear poodle skirts or something similar. Dean said Nicholas didn’t have a leather jacket, so I picked this up. Got him some hair gel too, if he’ll let me give him a James Dean pompadour.”
Something inside me cracks. I pull my knees to my chest and rest my forehead on them.
“Hey.” Kelsey puts her hand on the back of my neck. “What’s going on?”
“I can’t go.” Tears clog my throat. “I can’t go to my son’s first-grade concert because I’m so fucking sick. I didn’t even remember he was having it.”
“Oh, Liv, there will be other concerts. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you feel even shittier.”
“It’s not your fault.” I wipe my eyes, lifting my head. “Thanks for taking care of it for him. I just wish I could go, you know?”
Kelsey March is nothing if not a woman who gets things done. So I shouldn’t be surprised when she shows up at the front door at ten a.m. the next morning and tells me to take some anti-nausea medication, get dressed, and get in the car.
I shouldn’t be surprised when she drives me to the school gym, where dozens of parents are seated in folding chairs arranged in rows in front of the tiered stage.
I shouldn’t be surprised when Dean and the school principal come into the gym and lead me to a set of empty chairs with a clear view of the stage.
I shouldn’t be surprised when the first-graders file in, heartachingly adorable in their 1950s costumes, or when Nicholas spots me and Dean in the audience and waves with surprised excitement.
I shouldn’t be surprised when the off-key, six-year-old chorus of “Hound Dog” and accompanying dance makes me cry. I shouldn’t be surprised afterward when teachers and other parents greet me warmly, when children from Nicholas’s class shout “Hi, Nicholas’s mom!” in passing, or when my son gives me a bear hug before trotting back to his classroom.
I shouldn’t be surprised.
But I am.
Chapter 31
Dean
March 23
“You okay?”
The minute the question escapes my mouth, I want to bite it back. But Liv only nods, grasping the porch railing as she comes up the steps. The fifth round of chemo has hit her especially hard—maybe because of the build-up of drugs in her system, or her increasing weakness.
In addition to the chemo infusions, there are check-ups, blood tests, plans for radiation, counselor and nutritionist appointments, shots, and the seething fear that every ache Liv feels, every headache or bone pain, could mean something worse than a side-effect. It could mean that the cancer has taken root in another part of her body.
At this afternoon’s appointment, the results of a blood test didn’t prompt Dr. Anderson to hospitalize her, despite the fact that she struggled to make it to his office. He only prescribed some new medicine for nausea, since none of the previous ones have worked well. For the hundredth time, I had to smother my urge to demand that the doctor do more.
I help Liv off with her jacket before she starts up to the bedroom. She gets halfway up the stairs, then sinks down onto a step to catch her breath. Her skin is white, her eyes glassy, her breathing too fast. She bends forward, clutching her stomach. Beads of perspiration dot her forehead.
My chest knots painfully. I reach to pick her up. She shakes her head.
“I can do it, Dean.”
“But you don’t have to.”
“I will.” She waves her hand, her chin setting with stubbornness. “Go away. I get a little tired of you hovering all the time.”
I bite back the retort that I hover because she has dizzy spells and panic attacks that render her incapable of moving. What if she faints or falls or—
“Dean. Go.”
A raw feeling of helplessness surges inside me. I back down the stairs, suddenly hating this big house with all the staircases and floors, and the space that makes it necessary for us to text each other when we’re in different rooms.
I stop around the corner in the foyer, where at least I can hear her if she calls. My shoulders are tight with impatience. I wait for what feels like
an interminably long time before I return.
Liv is no longer sitting on the stairs, which is a relief since that means she made it up okay. I stop in the bedroom doorway. Fear lashes through me.
She’s on her hands and knees, halfway between the bed and the bathroom, her face shiny with sweat and tears. Her back arches with a violent spasm of heaves. Vomit spills onto the carpet.
“Oh, Jesus, Liv…”
I rush to grab hold of her, haul her upright. She shakes her head, ineffectually pushing me away.
“Go away,” she rasps, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.
“Liv…”
She manages to yank herself from my grip, retching with another spasm as she crawls toward the bathroom.
“Let me help you.” Panic burns in my chest.
“No!” She makes it to the bathroom, half closing the door behind her.
I shove it open, grabbing a hand towel and dampening it with cold water. Liv leans over the toilet, heaving so violently that her scarf slips off her head.
“Baby, please.” I get to my knees beside her and put the wet towel on the back of her neck. “I can…”
“Goddammit.” Tears spill from her eyes into the sweat on her cheeks. “Go away, please just go away.”
“Why won’t you let me help you?”
“I hate that you have to see me like this,” she cries.
For an instant, I can’t move. I pick up her scarf from the floor and push it into my pocket. She inhales and sits back, dragging her arm across her mouth.
“I’m not going away,” I tell her.
She looks at me, her eyes bloodshot.
“I’m not going away.” I move closer to her, putting my hand on her head. “I’m not leaving you. We’re in this together. We always have been. Every part of you, the best and the worst, belongs to me. I can take it. I’ll take anything for you.”
“I hate that I can’t even be a real wife to you anymore.”
My heart breaks a little. I run my hand over her shorn scalp.
“You’re real, beauty. There’s no one more real than you.”
She closes her eyes, then grabs for the toilet again. The sound of her vomiting echoes against the tile, a horrible retching like it’s tearing her insides out.
I tighten my grip on her and drag a few breaths into my lungs, battling the endless pain and fury that always lurk close to the surface. My heartbeat thunders in my ears. I force it to slow down, force my brain to focus.
Liv pulls herself away from the toilet, putting her hand on my shoulder as she gets to her feet. She’s sheet-white and shaking. I help her cross to the bed and get underneath the covers.
After she’s settled, I clean the vomit on the carpet and turn off the light. Liv’s body shudders with a sigh that makes her sound a thousand years old.
My vision blurs. I wait a few more minutes, until she shifts into the rhythm of sleep. Then I adjust the sheet around her, wipe the lingering sweat from her forehead, smooth my hand over her head.
I walk back downstairs just as the front door opens. The dark cloud lifts as Nicholas and Bella stomp in with a flurry of noise and chatter.
“Daddy,” Bella yells, flinging herself into my arms.
I hug her tightly, extending one arm toward Nicholas. I want to hold them both forever, but before long they’re squirming out of my arms and taking off their coats and hats.
“Hi, Dean.” Claire closes the door behind them. “I didn’t know you’d be home.”
“Yeah…uh, Liv had an appointment for a blood test, so I went with her.” I swallow hard and drag a hand across my eyes.
Claire looks at me perceptively and bends to help Bella take off her gloves.
“There’s a snack on the table for you,” she tells both children. “Go on in.”
Nicholas and Bella charge toward the sunroom. When they’re out of earshot, Claire moves closer to me.
“Not good, huh?” she asks in a low voice.
“The blood test came back okay,” I say. “But Liv is in pretty bad shape.”
“I’m sorry.” Claire shakes her head and sighs. “I’ll make some oatmeal for her, if she feels like eating.”
She starts to go into the kitchen, then pauses to look at me. “Dean, you don’t look as if you’re doing all that great yourself.”
I suppress a wave of irritation. What the fuck does it matter how I’m doing when my wife is so sick she has to crawl to the bathroom?
“I’m fine.” I walk down the remaining stairs and go into the sunroom to join the kids at the table.
They’re busy with a snack of cheddar crackers, grapes, and milk. Claire starts bustling around the kitchen, so I take the opportunity to sit alone with my children. I ask them about school, their friends, what they did at recess, and for a few minutes I’m able to conceal my bone-deep despair.
“Where’s Mommy?” Bella asks.
“Upstairs. She’s not feeling well, so she needed to take a nap.”
“I want to show her my bird sculpture.” Nicholas gets up and goes to rummage through his backpack. “It’s blue and red.”
“She’ll want to see it, but let’s wait until she wakes up.”
“I see her now,” Bella says, a faint whine in her tone.
Not only does Liv need to sleep undisturbed, I don’t want the kids seeing her so sick. We’ve been honest with both of them about what’s happening and haven’t tried to hide the effects of chemo, but I still want to protect them from the worst of it.
My heart is brittle, on the verge of shattering. I reach out to straighten my daughter’s crooked pigtails. There’s a half-circle of milk on her upper lip. I wipe it off with a napkin.
“Look, Dad.” Nicholas comes over with his brightly colored, cloth bird sculpture, which is on a wooden stand and has real feathers sprouting from its wings.
“That is so cool.” I take the sculpture and study it from all angles. “How long did it take you to make?”
“We’ve been working on them all month.”
“I want Mommy,” Bella says, her voice more determined this time.
“Hey, Snowbell, why don’t you make a list of things you want to tell Mom when she wakes up?” I suggest.
She shakes her head, her pigtails waving. “I want to see her now.”
“You can’t see her right now, honey.”
Bella gives me the mutinous look that precedes the start of a tantrum. In two seconds, she jumps off the chair and darts toward the stairs. Knowing how fast she is, I run after her and catch her on the stairs, grabbing her arm to stop her.
“Bella, I told you you can’t see Mommy right now.”
“I want her.” She pulls at her arm, trying to free herself from my grip.
“I know you do, honey, but she’s really sick and needs to sleep.”
“Mommy!” She kicks at me and grabs the stair railing to hold her ground.
“Bella, stop it.” My tone hardens. I tug her arm to get her to come downstairs. “Come and finish your snack. You can see Mommy when she wakes up.”
“Now!” Bella yells, her face reddening with the effort of clinging to the stair railing.
Frustration slams into me. I latch my arms around her.
“Let go,” I order.
She shrieks and grips the railing harder. What little patience I have left snaps like a twig.
“Bella, enough!” The words come out on a roar that shocks me as much as it does her, but suddenly I can’t stop, and next thing I know I’m yelling. “We are leaving your mother alone. Let go and come back downstairs. Right now!”
My daughter lets go of the railing. And stares at me, her brown eyes filling with tears. Before the guilt can claw at me, I pick her up and carry her back to the sunroom. She sobs and wiggles free, then throws herself facedown on the sofa.
I stand there, my breathing too fast, my fists clenching and unclenching. Nicholas is still at the table, silent and watchful.
I drag my hands over my face. Guilt
surges, raw and jagged.
“She’ll be fine,” Claire says gently.
“I…I’m going to get some work done in the garage,” I tell her. “Will you be here awhile?”
“Yes, until dinnertime.” She squeezes my arm, as if she’s trying to tell me that it’s okay.
But it’s not. It’s not okay that I lashed out at my daughter for wanting to see her mother. It’s not okay that my son is looking at me warily, like he’s afraid of what I might do next.
“I have my cell.” I grab my jacket from the back of a chair. “Listen for Liv. If she calls, text me.”
“Of course.”
I pull the jacket on and leave through the sliding glass door. The afternoon air feels good on my face. A few birds chirp in the trees that have already started to bud.
There’s a loose section of the back porch railing that needs to be fixed. It won’t keep me busy long enough, but at least it’s a job. I get the toolkit from the garage and stabilize and reattach the railing.
Then I walk around looking for something else to do. I pull a few weeds, fix some loose flagstones, clean out the birdbath, and rearrange the garden tools in the garage.
A stack of logs sits behind the garage, waiting to be split into firewood. I’d been postponing doing that until I could get a chainsaw, but suddenly it’s urgent that I get the job done right now. I grab an ax from the garage and haul a log from the pile onto an old tree stump.
I lift the ax and slam it into the wood. Hard satisfaction fills me when the blade strikes. The wood splits, two halves falling to the sides. I cut them each again, then drag a new log onto the cutting block and lift the ax.
Thunk. It’s a good feeling, a good sound, the wood splitting cleanly halfway down. I slice through it to separate the halves and go back for another log.
I lose track of how long I’m chopping, but my hands start to burn with blisters, and my muscles strain. Sweat drips down my forehead. Crack thunk crack thunk.
The pile of firewood grows until there are only a few logs left. I wipe my forehead with the back of my hand, my chest heaving with exertion. The logs at the bottom are especially thick, from the widest part of the trunk.
