by Beck, Jamie
Javi prodded again. “In certain cases, the photographs are more raw than the narrative, although they blend seamlessly together. All but the cover photo, which has no explanation or accompanying exposition. It’s a spectacular, harsh image . . . Can you tell our readers what was going through your mind when it was taken?”
“You mean aside from ‘I’m going to kill you, Logan’?” She chuckled, buying herself a precious moment to compose her thoughts, Mitch guessed.
Meanwhile, Javi raised his index finger with a sly nod, as if she’d proved the point he’d made a moment ago about her defense mechanism. Rather than venture another attempt to flirt his way past Peyton’s defenses, Javi simply stared at her this time, waiting for a real answer.
Her gaze drifted, eyes cloudy. If she’d wanted to discuss whatever happened at the time of that photo, she would’ve put it in the memoir.
Mitch loosened his fist and wiggled his fingers. She needed to do this for herself, and it might be easier on her if he left the room. It would certainly be easier on him not to listen to the story behind the photo that had captivated yet haunted him for weeks.
He wrestled with his internal debate until she sighed.
Without looking at Javi, she picked up the pen and began doodling on the pad in front of her while she spoke. “Forty-five minutes before Logan shot that photo, I’d used the magic mouthwash to help with my mouth ulcers. After the waiting period, I went to the kitchen to get some water. It was predawn, so I’d assumed Logan was sleeping. I took a few sips and then wandered to the living room window. Outside, the street was already coming to life, all shadows and movement and secrets. Garbage men emptying bins, night-shift workers heading home, a stray woman dashing toward the subway on an obvious walk of shame . . . ordinary people living their lives. Probably worrying about the electric bill, or looking forward to a sporting event, or maybe daydreaming about a new love. Things that had once occupied my thoughts but, in that moment, meant less than nothing to me.”
When she paused, Mitch stole a look at her notepad. Daisies?
Her expression shifted to something self-deprecating. “And yet I envied them and those small worries . . . envied their health. Their nonchalance about another new day. I was so separated from it all—and not only by the glass. I swallowed a scream because I knew they, like me before my diagnosis, were taking everything for granted. I watched them, resentment festering because I might not exist long enough to even see those people months later. Worse, they’d never know. Life everywhere would go on without me, and very, very few people would care. Just like that”—she snapped her fingers—“it hit me that my whole life never mattered much. No spouse. No children. No impressive legacy from my Globejotter days. What, of value, had I done with my time?”
The room remained silent while she resumed her doodling. “I don’t know what woke Logan. All I remember is that I turned when I heard the camera click, and then he kept snapping.” She finally looked at Javi and tapped the book jacket with the back end of her pen. “That was his favorite of the bunch.”
Javi straightened his posture while finishing his notes. Peyton shot Mitch a quick glance punctuated by a half shrug. What a strange, intriguing woman. Drawing flowers while relaying her existential crisis to a total stranger.
Mitch offered a sharp nod of approval when what he wanted was to gather her in his arms like a bouquet of delicate flowers and tell her that he would care very much if she didn’t exist tomorrow or the next day or the one after.
Although riveted by her and his own daydream, when Mitch’s phone vibrated, he had to check it because of the other client troubles. Rebecca. He grimaced apologetically before excusing himself from the room.
Chapter Seven
Peyton sat on the serpentine bench of Park Güell’s main terrace and tucked her phone away after another failed attempt to reach Logan, then hugged her knees to her chest. Beyond the rooftops of Barcelona—with the iconic Sagrada Família rising toward heaven in the distance—lay the sparkling Mediterranean, all of it bathed in the dusky-rose light of late afternoon. She searched the horizon for answers, as she did at home. And as at home, she came up empty.
Two hours. Two hours from now, a roomful of strangers would be staring at her, listening to and judging her words, asking who knew what kinds of questions. This time she’d need to relive it all in front of many people, not simply one blogger at a time. Her stomach lurched again. It might take an act of God to get her off this bench and to that venue tonight.
Mitch had to be frantic wondering where she’d gone, but she’d needed space. Air. Freedom. Privacy. The daisies he’d sent to her room to wish her luck tonight hadn’t helped any more than the profuse apologies and vague references to some sort of emergency he’d uttered each time he’d ducked out of the earlier interviews.
She’d be sympathetic if she believed it to be a family thing, but she had the distinct impression that he was in the middle of a work-related crisis. Not that that wasn’t important, too, but she was also in a work crisis, and his number-one job while here in Europe should be to hold her hand through it.
Of course, those flowers had been a sweet—almost romantic—surprise. He must’ve learned of her love for daisies from the memoir, although she couldn’t call to mind a passage that mentioned them.
She practiced ujjayi breathing while admiring the fantastical construction of the park—yet another unique Gaudí creation rife with his signature fluid curves and mosaics. Stacked in layers, its hidden nooks and crannies begged for exploration by curious visitors, the drip castle–looking buildings with tiled pinnacles teased the imagination, and a scalloped main terrace with an intricate ceiling provided shade. People lingered on the benches and meandered the many pathways. Flowers—so many flowers—in every direction.
Life unfurling everywhere—beautiful and unhurried. A gift from a man of great vision. A legacy, like her great-grandfather’s.
Her phone buzzed. Probably Mitch, his thumbs flying across his keyboard, typing out “Where are you?” yet again. Sweat it out, buddy. If he couldn’t hang in there with her when she needed him, then he’d better get used to trusting that she’d get herself to her appointments on time. Drawing a deep breath through her nose, she took another moment to soak in the beauty around her, in this small way keeping that promise to herself.
The urge to back out of the rest of the tour swallowed her like an icy pond on a winter day. She rested her forehead on her knees and blew out that breath. She’d faced worse, of course, like when biting her sharp tongue to keep from taking out her stress on a poor nurse who’d needed to triple-check her patient bracelet. Or climbing the walls and pacing the floor while waiting and waiting and waiting for each and every test result.
By comparison, this book stuff should be easy, yet it wasn’t. Any way she sliced it, she’d known chemo would end, one way or another. This—going public with her story in a digital age—would last forever. Letting that book find its way to strangers had been one hurdle, but coming face-to-face with readers? The fact that her mother might have been right all along caused her to gently bang her forehead against her knees.
“Mare, vull més aigua.” A young girl shook her empty water bottle at her mother as she plunked onto the bench a foot or so from Peyton.
The first thing Peyton noticed about the girl’s dark-brown, shoulder-length wig—it wasn’t real hair. The second—it didn’t fit well. A hand-me-down from someone, perhaps? Then the kid’s spotty eyebrows and lashes slingshot Peyton back to that dehumanizing time, causing a chill to tickle her spine despite the warm summer afternoon. Hairlessness makes one look like some sort of alien that no one—let alone a child—should have to become while praying for good news and better health.
“No hi ha més aigua. Has d’esperar que sortim,” replied her mother, a gorgeous Catalonian in a white muslin dress with a bright-orange poppy print. The woman took the empty bottle before holding her daughter close and kissing her head.
“Però l
a vull ara.” The girl grabbed at her throat, sticking her tongue out like she’d die without more water.
“Ho sento.” The mother frowned apologetically. She looked to be Peyton’s age, yet the weight of chronic worry tugged at the corners of her eyes, making them appear much older.
Peyton didn’t need to know what they’d said to each other. She knew what wasn’t being said. The suppressed resentment and alarm at life’s injustice. The bone-deep pain each hid in order to let the other enjoy a good day. The uncertainty they wrestled to the point of complete madness.
Giving the people one loves a sense of optimism by covering one’s own fears and doubts can create unparalleled loneliness. Countless times, Peyton had been stoic with Logan or her friend Steffi when all she’d wanted to do was dissolve into a puddle of tears and be held and promised that everything would be okay. But she wouldn’t ask for promises they couldn’t keep while also forcing them to witness her pain. Even now, she never shared her concerns about the upcoming tests or recounted the recurring nightmare about being chased by a monster she couldn’t see.
It could happen. Right now, a cluster of cancer cells could be regrouping, planning another battle. She could be thrust back into treatment, fighting for her life again, like this poor young child. The tingling sensation of tears filled her nose.
Another glance at the mother-daughter duo gave her the jolt she’d needed to keep from losing it. She was Peyton Prescott—a strong, competent fighter. She would pick herself up off this bench and do what she’d come all this way to do, if for no other reason than because the two women beside her might hear her story and find hope.
She smiled at them before rising from her seat and brushing off her skirt. The mother’s gaze lingered, and in that silent space of time, Peyton’s body flushed and tightened with the desire to offer some assurance. Instead, she withdrew her last water bottle from her bag and handed it to the child, because no words in any language made dealing with cancer easier.
That was the ultimate irony of her memoir, and one big reason why she found selling it difficult. Writing it had helped her sort through her own life, but she still questioned whether she—a sometimes selfish, vain woman from Connecticut—could truly help anyone else. Maybe the best she’d be able to offer was showing that sickness had some silver linings, too.
With her warmest smile, she waved goodbye. “Enjoy the beautiful day.”
Perhaps the silver lining for this young girl and her mom was the shared hug here in this sunny, fantastical park, rather than an afternoon spent fighting about an unmade bed or forgetting to load the dishwasher or any of the myriad other trivial complaints people lodge when they take their lives for granted.
La Central—originally a maternity hospital—retained a monastic feel with its vaulted ceilings and hardwood floors. Peyton took a short break to sip some water, her gaze wandering over everyone’s heads to avoid latching on to that of another person.
She set the bottle back on the podium—the only buffer between herself and the audience.
Mitch appeared to be pleased with the turnout, but to her, the large crowd represented more people to judge her and her story. She turned the page to continue reading from a part of the book that didn’t force her to get too personal in front of strangers.
“Today, when Frank still hadn’t returned to the hospital, I knew he’d stopped treatment, as he’d warned he would. The audacious, pale-eyed, dark-skinned fossil who’d made me laugh during the most humbling days of my life will no longer greet me with his lopsided smile in these sterile waiting rooms. Or enlighten me with outrageous accounts of his late wife’s kitchen disasters and his grandkids’ feeble attempts at rap. Or boost my spirits with his gratitude for God, love, and the life he’d been given, which had lasted so much longer than those of the youngest patients in our ward.
“We came from different worlds, yet were united in our humanity and our desire to survive. Now Frank was another loss I’d need to overcome, like each clump of hair tumbling into the sink bowl.
“Had I wasted our time together, passively listening to his stories and laughing? Frittered those precious hours when I should’ve told him that he’d leave an everlasting imprint on my life—for however long my life lasts, anyway.
“And still I fail him with that knee-jerk deflection. My go-to for running away from anything too real for fear of what embracing the stark, terrible truths of my life might mean.
“I’ve tried to picture death’s door—to imagine the look in Logan’s eyes at our final goodbye, to accept never knowing what will become of my family and friends down the road, to wrap my head around the concept of no longer existing.
“Acceptance won’t come. I get only close enough that my heart feels too big for my chest, so I shove the thoughts away, as if refusing to face them will somehow reduce reality to a bad dream that will disappear when I wake. Yet I know denial will never bring me peace. Even now, panic strikes a match at the edge of my consciousness, its flames licking at the hope I cling to.
“So again I allow the cool hand of reason to rescue my heart from having to be brave. From having to stand in this moment and feel my life slipping through my fingers.
“Death will come for me, as it will for everyone. On a fundamental, philosophical level, I accept that, even if I can’t quite connect with it. Maybe that makes me weak. Or strong? Either way, I feel better only when I focus on what cancer gives me rather than what it steals.
“One silver lining of sitting here being force-fed poison is that I have time to plan for my death. To make amends and say my goodbyes. Another? I’m not leaving young children behind, although I might’ve liked to experience motherhood.
“Still, like a summer swarm of gnats in the woods near the Sound, the irritating truth buzzes round my head. None of my rationalizations will teach me how to make the most of my life today, tomorrow, and if I’m lucky, the next day.
“I imagine Frank winking at me now, telling me to trust him and let the darkness fall so that I can see those stars.”
Peyton closed the book, sweat rolling down her spine, voice rough from the tightness that came whenever she remembered Frank. She avoided Mitch’s gaze by staring at a blank spot in the back of the room while the audience clapped.
“Thank you all for coming. I’m happy to take a few questions now.” Peyton forced a smile, praying no hand would shoot up. Three ascended simultaneously. Another prayer ignored.
“Yes?” She nodded at a slight woman with spiky purple hair.
“Did you let that darkness in?”
“Not willingly.” Her sarcasm didn’t yield a single chuckle. Now hotter than a Rolex on Canal Street, she gulped more water. “I doubt anyone can escape it altogether, despite our best efforts. There were moments . . .” She closed her eyes and shook her head. No way would she go there now in front of all these strangers. How much more did she owe these people? If they wanted to mine her most painful thoughts, they could buy the book and support the cause. “Some are revealed later in the book.”
That reader didn’t ask more, so Peyton moved on to another—a tall man toward the rear of the room. Something about the harsh angles of his face gave her pause, but she couldn’t ignore him. “You, sir, near the back.”
Again she smiled, although that flimsy shield didn’t protect her from the bladelike sharpness of his expression.
He had his phone held near his chest like he was recording the event. “Does your memoir offer any new or different insight on life and death than the dozens of similar books?”
Her pulse picked up and she shot Mitch a questioning glance, but his face remained a blank page—one of the scarier things every writer faces. Like when sitting at the keyboard, she was on her own now. The stranger’s unwavering gaze tightened around her like plastic wrap. “I couldn’t say. I didn’t read other cancer-patient memoirs because I didn’t want to be influenced by them.”
He grunted, scoffing. “Most writers read widely and often.”
/> “As do I, just not patient memoirs. Regardless, this book is about my personal experience—for better or worse. Other patients may have very different experiences with and feelings about this illness.”
Before she could move on to the next reader, he broke in again. “So your last name—not the work—helped you get a publishing contract? And the fund-raising . . . a way to push sales?”
Bodies shuffled in chairs, and whispered murmurs of “Horrible” and “Silenci” floated into the air. But more debilitating than the obvious pity fanning through the audience was how this man had speared the epicenter of her own self-doubt.
She blinked, trapped beneath the overhead lights like an entrée under a heat lamp. Then that part inside that resented this tour—white-hot and sharp—found release. “Only someone petty or jealous—or both—would care how I got a publishing contract, but I assume my last name didn’t hurt. My donating half of the profits to research is a mission, not a sales ploy. I assume you understand the difference, or should I ask my translator to jump in?”
A quick glimpse of Mitch’s disapproving expression told her the defensive edge in her tone wouldn’t win her fans, but she didn’t care. She could name a dozen celebrities who got bigger book deals than she had despite using a ghostwriter. At least she’d written her own book.
The man—who she now assumed must be a frustrated writer—opened his mouth again, but Mitch cut him off, though probably to save her from making another self-destructive remark more than to spare her that guy’s nasty insinuations.
“Sir, this is moving away from a discussion about the book.” Mitch stared at her from his position on the side of the small stage. “Peyton, I think the young woman in the blue dress has a question about your experience.”
Inside, Peyton quaked. She would kick the podium to feel better, but her recent tirade had given Mitch enough to smooth over. Her gaze darted around, seeking her escape—some way to bolt off this stage to avoid any more questions.
