Life After Death: A Story of Love, Loss, and Living

by Jamie Hitchcock

  Henry cracked a smile. “She would have happily paid rent if I’d let her. I think it was the small kitchen that finally got her. I swear she pulled up with her entire kitchen and half the pantry packed in the trunk of her car.”

  Amara chuckled lightly, and they faded into silence again.

  Henry speared a chunk of potato and ate it while Amara observed him closely, watching his eyes shift uneasily, avoiding hers. Every few breaths, he paused on the inhale, then released the air in a sharp sigh. After a long silence, he finally met her stare.

  Amara sensed where this might be going. “Just say it,” she blurted.

  Henry set his fork on the plate and clasped his hands underneath the table. “Mara ...” he trailed off.

  She pushed him to continue, “You’re sick, aren’t you?”

  “Yes,” he confirmed.

  “How sick?”

  “Dr. Azrael called with the results earlier this week. It’s a tumor … in my brain.” He looked down at his hands quizzically, as though unsure of how to use them.

  “Cancer?” Her heart lurched.

  He forced a thread of courage into his voice. “Stage four. It’s called a glioblastoma. I went in for a biopsy a few days ago, then they called me in yesterday to ‘discuss my options,’” he explained, gesturing with finger quotes. “I don’t know. I mean, this is just so surreal.” He paused as the resolve drained from his face. “I have brain cancer.” It came out sounding almost like a question.

  Amara stifled a cry. For a few moments all she heard was her heart pounding in her ears. Collecting her senses, she inquired, “What are your options?”

  “Surgery, to remove as much as they can. But they said it’s unlikely that they can get it all – something about different kinds of cells and tissues, or something like that – chemo, or radiation, maybe both. ” He sighed heavily. “My mom wants me to quit school and move back home.”

  “But it’s curable? I mean, those treatments will work?” she pressed hopefully.

  He didn’t answer.

  “You’re going to treat it, aren’t you?”

  His voice was suddenly tired. “Amara, the doctor says the treatments will buy me more time, maybe a couple years if I’m lucky, but they can’t cure it.”

  Now it was Amara’s turn to pause. She was too stunned to cry. This couldn’t be happening. He was young and strong! His birthday was only a few months away, not that that fact held any weight against his prognosis. How could he have cancer? I don’t think I can live without him, she realized abruptly.

  Henry read her thoughts on her face. He pushed the side table out of the way and scooted closer to her on the bench. He enclosed both of her hands between his own.

  “You can, and you will,” he said decisively. “I’ve spent all week thinking about this, Mara, and I’ve done some research. I don’t want to drag it out if it means having pieces of my brain cut away slowly and taking God knows what kind of medications that will probably make me sick anyway. I would rather spend one good day with the people I love, you and my mom, than two years in and out of hospitals.”

  Amara’s eyes grew wide, realizing the weight of his words.

  “I love you too, Henry,” she professed hopelessly. Tears welled behind her eyes, but she clung desperately to her composure. This conversation was too important to lose it now.

  “But you’re strong, you could fight this. Maybe I’m being selfish, but I want all the time that I can get with you. We could do a lot in a few years, even one year,” she pleaded.

  Henry stared at his lap, caressing the back of her hand lightly with his thumb.

  “But it won’t be years of grand adventures and bucket lists. Don’t you get it? The recovery time for the surgery alone can take months. And who knows what I would or wouldn’t be able to do after they take out parts of my brain. I would much rather keep my brain in my head, tumors and all. At least that way the changes might be more gradual, even if it does kill me faster.”

  The word “kill” effectively sobered her thoughts. She wanted so desperately to reject his words, to pretend she didn’t hear them. Her brain tried to block out the noise, but all that achieved was a damp, muffled sound, as if Henry’s voice were being carried down a long, echoing tunnel. The effect only made her feel farther from him. She realized he was leaving, with or without her.

  Hesitantly she asked, “Without treatment, how long do we have?”

  “It’s hard to say, could be a month, maybe six.”

  They sat in silence for a long while, processing this information.

  “Are you sure this is what you want to do?” Amara asked finally.

  Another long pause.

  “Yes,” he concluded definitively.

  Reluctantly, Amara conceded. “Okay, Henry, we’ll do it your way. But just to warn you, you can’t get rid of me that easily.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it,” said Henry, kissing her hand weakly.

  Though it took all of her remaining resolve, Amara made it all the way home before completely breaking down. She sobbed hysterically for hours. In her greatest despair, she prayed to God, all the gods in fact, any who would listen, but her prayers only left a bitter taste of disillusion as they fell from her tongue. If some divine powers had intended to intervene, surely, they would have done so before he got sick, or at least before he had decided against treatment. Maybe it was some cruel joke, a game designed to gamble with the lives of mortals. Maybe it was karma. If so, it truly was a bitch.

  After she regained some measure of constitution, she called her mom, but immediately upon hearing her mother’s voice, she lost it all over again. It took her so long to catch her breath that Mrs. Pula was nearly convinced that her daughter was the one dying. Even with her mother’s best efforts, Amara was inconsolable. She waited for her tears to subside, but they never did. Wave after wave came crashing down on her until she felt that she might drown.

  Then take me, she thought. At least then I could stay with Henry. Eventually her sadness lulled her into a fitful sleep.

  *14*

  The rest of September passed in a blur for Henry. He had withdrawn himself from the university the day after disclosing his prognosis to Amara, as essays and quizzes seemed objectively futile in light of his impending death. Though he tried not to think in such morbidly dramatic terms, sometimes he couldn’t stop those thoughts from sneaking into his head. Amara had also applied for a temporary leave of absence this quarter, against Henry’s strong objections.

  After only a half-hearted argument, Henry had also agreed to move back into his mother’s house. His childhood home was a rustic rambler at the front of long plot of woodland. It wasn’t grand or modern, but it was cozy, and he had fond memories of playing in the fields with his clumsy mastiff, Bo. In truth, he already started to feel the strength draining from his muscles, which made it increasingly cumbersome to access his third-story apartment. His only condition had been that the guest bedroom be prepared to create a space for Amara as well.

  “Whatever you want, dear. I just want you home,” was his mother’s only reply, and with that it was decided. Emily had fallen seamlessly back into her old motherly roles: cooking his favorite meals, doing his laundry, and making his bed. Most days she feigned normalcy by acting as though he had never left at all, as if it were just a long summer vacation.

  Shortly after Henry moved home, the hospital sent over a hospice coordinator to complete the initial intake. Henry sat on the blue checkered couch between Amara and his mom, and listened to the elderly nurse explain his care plan, which included various medications to manage his rapidly growing list of symptoms. Henry tried earnestly to listen, tried to be engaged, but the best he could manage was a steely, cold silence.

  After a long hour of countless intake questionnaires, the nurse repacked her materials in a backpack on wheels and took her leave. In her wake, colorful charts, timelines, and figures about the potential progression of his deterioration lay scattered across the coffee tabl
e.

  His mom didn’t even wait until the nurse was out the door before she began cleaning again. In the process, she swept the scattered papers into a pile and stacked them on the desk in the corner, where a pile of medical bills was steadily growing.

  In the absence of his studies, Henry filled his time by taking in as many sights as he possibly could, filling pages and pages with his drawings. He drew the weeping willow in the field behind the house and the dilapidated barn down the street. He sketched the old theater downtown, with its sweeping arches and incandescent lettering that ran vertically down the towering entrance sign. He painted the harbor in monochromatic smudges of blue and gray. His favorite project was an elaborate city block downtown on which he imagined commercial buildings covered in walls of greenery, creating a living, breathing city.

  Some days were good, others less so. He lived with a constant, pressing ache behind his left ear that sometimes radiated to the whole left side of his face. At times, the pain made him dizzy and violently ill. On better days, like today, Henry tried to enjoy as many of his favorite things as he could, like walking Bo. This particular walk, though, had been threatened by the dark clouds pressing against the mountain. The city below clung desperately to the last warm days of summer.

  Upon their return, the mastiff lumbered through the back door past Henry, who bent over to take off his sneakers. In the kitchen he found his mom seated at the table pouring milk into her coffee. Her hair was similar in shade to Henry’s, with the exception of a few silvery strands in her crown that added a subtle softness to the warm auburn hues. A few loose strands hung from her bun to curl around her neck.

  She stood up from her chair as soon as she saw him and began bustling around the kitchen. Though she was a broad woman, she moved through the small space with all the grace that years of familiarity can bring. Without asking, she grabbed a carton of orange juice from the fridge and poured him a glass.

  He took it politely and slid into the chair across the table.

  “How was your walk?”

  “It was fine. Just took Bo down to the end of the road and back. I stopped at the clearing to draw the mountain. The clouds were really cool this morning, kind of ominous.”

  He pulled his small sketch pad from his coat pocket and placed it on the table, forcing his mom to return to her seat to see it. Mount Baker rose up from between the foggy trees, dusted with a fresh blanket of snow and a swirl of charcoal haze pressing from behind.

  “That’s beautiful, Henry,” Emily praised warmly.

  Amara entered the kitchen from the hallway, still wearing her pajamas and an oversized sweatshirt. She breathed in the smell of fresh coffee and sweet bread.

  Emily immediately jumped from her seat again as if the chair would inflict physical pain if she sat for more than a minute or two. She rushed over to the cabinet and took down a clean coffee mug, then grabbed the heavy cream, almond milk, sugar, Splenda, and chocolate sauce and spread them on the counter. She offered Amara a cup of freshly brewed coffee.

  Amara thanked her and took the mug.

  “Help yourself to whatever you want,” Emily added, gesturing to her display of additives.

  Amara smiled warmly and nodded. She’d been staying here over a week now and didn’t have the heart to tell Emily for the tenth time that she liked her coffee black. By now Amara was getting the sense that there wasn’t much she could say that would calm Emily’s constant movement. She nestled the warm mug between her hands and walked over to where Henry was seated. She spotted the drawing.

  Henry, noticing her glance, reached carefully to retract the notebook from the table.

  “Henry, that’s great,” Amara said, hoping her compliment might afford her a longer glance at the page. The lines were crisp and technical but the colors were fluid and bright, adding a dreamlike sense to his realism. She’d caught glimpses of his drawings before when he worked on them while he thought she was reading, but he never showed her anything in completion. Though Henry was open about many things, his art was always something of a mystery.

  Henry blushed at being caught and quickly slid the notebook into his lap.

  “Good morning, Mara,” he said with an affectionate kiss on her cheek that was also meant to soften the sting of his secretiveness.

  Amara didn’t let it slide so easily.

  “Why don’t you let me see any of your drawings?” she asked directly. She aimed for a casually curious tone but it came out more interrogatory than she intended.

  Henry looked down in embarrassment.

  “I don’t know, I just don’t like people seeing my stuff. It’s nothing personal. It’s just … private, you know?” His cheeks flushed with a mix of modesty and nervousness that washed out the small, boyish freckles on his nose.

  Amara sighed into her hot coffee, disguising her disappointment as if the exhale meant merely to regulate the temperature of her drink. She didn’t press it further.

  Emily returned to the table with a plate of freshly baked muffins and set it between them.

  “Oh, Amara, don’t worry. He wouldn’t let me see his pictures until he was practically in high school. He used to hide his notebooks under his mattress when he was at school so no one would find them. Just give it time.”

  Emily’s face wrinkled involuntarily at the last word. She smoothed her hands down the front of her sweater, resetting her expression at the same time. With a warm smile she gestured to the plate. “Blueberry muffin?”

  Henry and Amara each helped themselves to a warm muffin.

  Emily changed the subject to avoid any other disagreeable thoughts. “What’re you going to do today?” she asked them.

  “I think I’m going to go for a ride before it rains.” Henry smiled at Amara invitingly.

  “The doctors said you shouldn’t be on that thing anymore,” Emily snapped quickly. Her previously warm demeanor turned suddenly scalding hot.

  “I’m already dying, Mom, what’s the worst that can happen?” replied Henry pointedly.

  His mom didn’t find his frankness amusing. “You could hurt someone else,” she stated seriously, throwing a quick glance at Amara.

  Henry thought for a moment and agreed that it wasn’t funny. Softening his tone, he said, “I can’t spend the rest of my time sitting around the house. I’ll be careful, Mom, I promise. I’m really feeling all right today. We won’t go far.”

  Emily sighed wearily, but didn’t say any more on the matter. She didn’t have the heart to keep her son from feeling alive just a little bit longer.

  *15*

  As promised, Amara barely left Henry’s side that fall. The only exception she made was when her parents drove up from Seattle at the beginning of October. Their visit forced Amara back to her apartment near campus for a few days, a place she desperately tried to avoid now that fall semester had started without her. Her roommates hurried off to class every morning, leaving her alone in their dark apartment. The city around campus bustled with youth and new beginnings. It made Amara’s stomach turn.

  Though she welcomed her mother’s warm hugs, the majority of their conversations were much less comforting. Amara’s father persistently pushed her to return to her classes, and her mother fretted over her daughter’s health. Amara tried to distract them with tours around downtown, away from campus, but with little success. Everywhere they went they were surrounded by the eager hum of new students studying in the coffee shops or walking to and from the bus station.

  By the third day, Amara couldn’t take it any longer. She worried about Henry and longed to be back in the quiet countryside with him. It was only after she conceded to sign a written statement agreeing to return to school by the following semester that her parents finally relented.

  She was ultimately relieved to finally see her parents drive away, but the minute she lost their taillights down the road she began longing for just one more of her mother’s hugs. If only she could turn back time, years back, to when she and her older sister, Keya, used hi
de under the blankets and read stories to each other. Things were easier then, simpler. She didn’t have to worry about failing her parents’ expectations or her dying boyfriend.

  Amara crawled into her bed and allowed herself a few hours of solitude to wallow under the covers. By late afternoon, she emerged from her bed and retrieved some clean clothes from her closet before heading back out to the countryside. She slipped quickly out the front door before her roommates returned from class.

  The rest of October passed much the same, though the days grew colder and shorter, which forced Amara and Henry indoors most of the time. They lounged on a wicker bench in the solarium, surrounded by the fading leaves outside.

  Emily hung a few long birdfeeders from a tall metal hook in the lawn. Chickadees and finches flitted around the feeders before darting back up into the branches of a nearby maple tree. Ruby-throated hummingbirds raced in and out in wide circles around the jars of sugar water, hovering only long enough to replenish themselves before they sped out of sight in the blink of an eye. The world beyond the large, glass panels shifted so slowly it was almost imperceptible, even to the most attentive of observers, until a subtle gust of wind rattled all the leaves to the ground in one fell swoop.

  One evening at the beginning of November, Henry and Amara relaxed comfortably by the fire in the living room, where they retired most nights. Emily diligently maintained a steady flame in the hearth, ensuring the house was always filled with warmth and comfort. Heaven forbid that the house be too cold, or Emily would have never forgiven herself.

  Amara reclined across the sofa, casually reading, with her legs stretched across Henry’s lap. Henry worked on a book of crosswords that his mom had gifted him at the breakfast table that morning. Soft snores drifted peacefully from Bo who rested at Henry’s feet.

  Looking up from his crossword, Henry turned to Amara.

  “What’s the word for that animal with black and white stripes?” he asked, perplexed. “Five letters.”