Alana
I LEAN MY head on the white wall of Dr. Jackson’s office. Charles paces the pale-blue tiles as we wait until the doctor calls his name. Charles is making me nervous, and I want him to tell him to sit the hell down before I lose my mind.
Haven’t spoken to Darien since last night. Figured I’d give him some space to let off steam. I still care about Charles, otherwise I wouldn’t be here, but I don’t love him in the way that I love Darien.
A nurse with red scrubs ushers us to the small office and tells us that Dr. Jackson will be with us shortly. I lace my fingers together to keep from shaking and focus on a multicolor picture of a brain. The caption says, “Wherever the brain thinks, the man follows.” I close my eyes and listen to our labored breaths and the air conditioner pumping out warm air.
My eyes flutter open when I feel a warm hand over mine. I want to pull away, but I don’t. I figure Charles is touching me to seek comfort.
Ten minutes later, a tall, dark-skinned man walks in. He appears to be in his late thirties or early forties, and he has brown eyes and hair cut low to his scalp. He has a lean build. A white medical jacket covers his crisp baby-blue shirt and dark gray slacks.
We shake hands and introduce ourselves to each other.
“Sorry I’m late.” He turns the Mac computer screen towards us, pulls up Charles’ MRI and he takes his mouse and circles a big black hole on the grayscale picture. “You see this?” Jackson says, casting his brown eyes to Charles. “You have stage four glioblastoma. It’s a tumor that affects the brain and spine, and it’s growing at a rapid speed. You have a seventeen percent chance of surviving the next three months.”
Squeezing Charles’ shaking hands, I ask, “What does that mean?”
“It means I’m fucking dying, that’s what that means, doesn’t it, Doc?” Charles blurts out.
“I’m so sorry,” Dr. Jackson says.
“What are our options?” I pipe in.
“Medication for pain, and we have a new experimental medication where it can shrink the tumor, but it can grow back. It can extend his life—it depends on how Charles responds to it.”
“What about chemo?”
Shaking his head, Dr. Jackson says, “The tumor is too aggressive and it won’t work for him.”
I bite my lips as tears burn in the back of my eye sockets. Charles slams his fist on the desk, making me jump out of my skin.
“When can we start the treatment?” I whisper.
“No, Alana. I don’t want any treatment,” Charles says.
I whip my head so fast that my ponytail slaps me in the face. “What?” He can’t be serious.
“What’s the point? I’m going to die anyway,” he says, running his fingers through his hair.
“I’ll let you and your wife discuss this in private,” Dr. Jackson says.
“No.” Charles speaks up. “We’re not married, so the decision is not up to her.”
Well, his words sting like a bee. I don’t want to hear anymore, so I storm out of the office and wait for Charles.
Several minutes later, Charles hops in the car, and I hit the start button and drive off onto the icy asphalt.
Pissed off, I don’t utter a word. I grip the steering wheel tight until my palms hurt.
“So, you and Darien?” Charles asks.
“How do you know his name?” I ask. Looking in the rearview mirror, I hit the blinker and switch into the right lane, cutting in front of a taxi.
“Facebook. Your page is private, but it showed your relationship status, so I clicked on his page.”
“You’re stalking me?” I glance at him sideways.
“Just want to know who replaced me.” He exhales.
“Are you happy for me?”
“Yeah.”
“Really?”
“No, not really.”
“You should be. At least he didn’t leave me for a dumb bimbo,” I snap.
Ouch. I feel bad for yelling at him, but I couldn’t keep it in. Have so much pent-up anger towards him. He made me feel so low about myself when he dumped me for Rebecca.
“I deserve that, Alana, and you didn’t deserve what I did to you.” His words are genuine, but it doesn’t take the pain away.
I pull up to our old home. Memories flood my mind as I stare at the white two-story Georgia-style home. A brown porch is wrapped around the house, and there is a two-car garage. At least he kept up the place while I was gone.
The minute I step out of the car, my nostrils are smacked with the smell of fresh-cut grass and dry chilly air. Inside, everything looks the same, but it feels different. There is no longer the smell of Febreze and citrus, replaced with musk and stale chips. Beer bottles and Coke cans litter the black square table. Empty boxes of pizza spatter the gray tiles.
“What happened here?”
“Have been too tired to clean,” he says, making his way to the open kitchen. Stainless steel fridge, black granite countertops, and black cabinets. When Cole was three years old, we’d just bought this house and he picked out the color to paint the cabinets. I grab the white trash bag from under the counter and throw the bottles and pizza boxes in the bag and take it to the curb of the street.
When I walk back inside, Charles leans against the kitchen island, sipping a glass of orange juice.
“Thank you, Alana. I know it was hard for you to be there for me,” he says, setting the glass back on the counter.
I swing my keychain around my fingers and ask, “You need anything else?”
“No.”
I wrap my arms around his shoulders, and he squeezes my waist tight. His chest vibrates as he cries.
“Shh. Everything will be okay,” I whisper as tears leak from my eyes and we stand there crying in each other’s arms. Even though we both know that my words are a load of crock, he doesn’t correct me. I think we both want to believe that everything will be okay, but it won’t be.
I close the car door behind me and head to Darien’s apartment. I don’t want to go home now. Just want to be under Darien and let him love me. I feel like my energy has been sucked out of me. I want to cook him dinner because I feel guilty for still having an emotional connection with Charles.
Inside, I grab the blue cutting board on the counter and take out the green onions and red and yellow bell peppers from the bottom of the fridge and chop the veggies.
I’m supposed to be moving on with the love of my life, but I can’t help but wonder, if things hadn’t turned out so ugly with Charles, would we still be together? What if Cole didn’t die? Would we have been the same happy couple we were before his death? My mom always told me that things happen for a reason, and I don’t know if I believe that.
I want to make Darien’s favorite dish—steak and veggies. I place the chopped veggies in the white bowl, and I take out the fresh-cut steak from the fridge and place it on the blue cutting board. Grabbing the garlic and black pepper seasoning, I dab it on the steak. I grab the cast iron from under the cabinet and place it on the stove. I turn the knob to medium-high and use a pair of tongs and place the steaks in the skillet and they sizzle. Tonight is going to be about us, not Charles. I care so deeply for Darien that I don’t want Charles’ health to affect our relationship. I grab my phone from the counter and send Darien a message.
Me: Are you working late?
He responds.
D: Yes, sweetheart.
Me: How late?
D: I’ll be home by six.
Me: OK. I’ll have dinner ready for you.
D: OK. Thanks, sweetheart.
Me: You’re welcome.
As I turn the steak over in the skillet, I turn the knob, fixing our plate and sticking them in the fridge. I go to his library and run my fingers along the different books on his bookshelf. Business textbooks and horror books decorate the bookcase. Too bad there isn’t any Ghost in the Shell manga stocking his collection. Might buy some so I can have something to read when Darien isn’t here.
Since I’m bored, I want to check my Facebook. I go to his computer and wiggle the mouse. I type in Facebook in the search engine, and Darien’s page pops up. I click the log out button.
“You found what you were looking for?”
His voice makes me jump out of my skin. I press my palm against my chest. “Jesus, Darien. You’re going to give me a heart attack.” I stand up from the desk.
He wraps his arms around my waist and pulls me into a kiss.
“I cooked dinner,” I say, leading him to the kitchen. I grab his plate from the fridge and stick it in the microwave, and I heat up both our meals. “I went to the doctor with Charles.”
The microwave beeps and I grab his warm plate and place it on the breakfast nook. He stabs the steak with his fork and doesn’t say anything. Awkward silence.
“He’s dying. He’s got three months to live. I tried to convince him to take the medication to shrink the tumor, but he doesn’t want it.”
No response. The thick veins in Darien’s arms pop as he frowns. I hate the silent treatment. Hate the fact that I don’t know what he is thinking. What the hell am I expecting him to say? “Sorry for your loss.” “I hope he gets better.” “If you need me, call me.”
“Please, say something,” I whisper.
“If I say something, it’s gonna hurt your feelings, and I don’t want to do that,” he says, getting up from the nook, carrying his plate to the room. The slam of the door echoes throughout the condo. I bury my face in my palms and cry.