I close my eyes tightly. Push back the flood that threatens. I’ve held it off this long. It has been years now. I know I can do it again. I turn my attention back to the screen. The clipped Canadian accent now describing the killer’s heinous act. She’s mixing gun control into the conversation baldly. And she is matter-of-fact. There are statistics that all add up to the fact that people kill people with guns. The numbers are so horrendous they seem to make no sense. So deeply do I immerse myself in these thoughts that when my phone rings I jump, startled, and feel my heart begin to pound.
“What are you doing?” His voice, firm and warm. I suddenly want him here. To feel the firm, real length of him. To feel his strength. His warmth. And, yes, his desire and humanity.
“I’m watching television, if you can believe it.”
“Good! You figured it out. Bright girl. I often have trouble with it myself.”
“Why are you calling? Did you want to check to see what I stole?”
His laugh is deep. I could listen to it all day.
“Not at all. But if you do steal something, can you please take the sculpture in the foyer? My decorator said I paid a lot for it, but I don’t care for it much.”
We chat a bit more. To me we sound like normal people and that wrenches at my heart. I had not thought I’d sound or feel like normal people again.
And yet, of course, we aren’t like normal people at all. The reality of that washes over me again in a wave.
“You ever think about running away to a desert island?” The thought comes from nowhere and I just blurt it out.
“Let’s do it. I’ll peel grapes and fan you with coconut leaves.”
“What sort of desert island has grapes?” I ask.
And so on. Because it is right there and because we can.
We agree: I’ll meet him at the restaurant at six and then we’ll come “home” together. The way that makes me feel confuses me so deeply I can’t look at it.
I spend the rest of the morning performing a methodical search of the premises. I don’t know what I’m looking for but I need to do something to dispel the restless energy. Plus I have questions. And I feel some of the answers might be hidden here.
So I toss the place. Searching deeply and carefully without leaving a trace. I don’t know what I’m looking for but when I find it — deep in a bathroom cabinet — everything falls into place.
It is a stash of drugs. Prescription medications. Zytiga. Rasburicase. CAPOX. Lenalidomide. Dexamethasone. Elotuzumab. Neupogen. And more still. I have no idea what I’m looking at, but all of the prescriptions have been filled within the last year. And they are all in his name.
I photograph the bottles, then replace them before heading to my laptop to hunker down and do some more googling. I easily determine they are all drugs used in the treatment of cancer and, coordinating the dates, it doesn’t take an oncologist to guess that the prognosis is not good.
I don’t remember the rest of the day. There was waking in his arms. Then my discovery. And there was his potential explanation. And there was nothing I could put between that would have the balance of the day make sense for me.
The restaurant proves to be the kind Vancouver does very well. Elegance so understated it appears causal, until you glance at the prices and see a different story. In this one, everything seems like traditional comfort food, but with some exotic twist. And so hamburgers, but instead of bacon, the menu advertises the addition of lardon. And coleslaw isn’t just chopped cabbage, it’s a creamy ginger slaw with jicama and organic heritage carrots. It all seems a bit much.
“Isn’t this place fun?” he says when he joins me.
I smile. He appears happy to be pleasing me, so I leave it be but find myself watching him closely, a new layer between us now. Are his hands stable? Does he look at all wan? How do his clothes fit his frame? But I only know this version of him; no before to hold against the after in front of me.
I find I can’t focus enough on the menu and ask him to order for me. He lifts an eyebrow in my direction, but doesn’t say anything, ordering vegetables that have been variously roasted and then put together with strong flavors — beets with harissa, cauliflower with chimichurri, and a chicken that has apparently been flame-broiled under a brick, which seems senseless, but I hold my tongue as I sip the cocktail he ordered us in advance of the meal.
“You’re quiet tonight. Is everything okay?”
“Not really,” I say. “There’s something I want to talk to you about. I don’t know where to begin.”
“Sounds ominous.”
Another sip. “It is.”
“You want to talk about it now or leave it until after dinner?”
“Are you sick?”
“So we’re opting for now.”
“I think it’s possible you are unwell.”
The levity falls off him and he looks at me, exposed. There’s a sudden haggard cast to his features.
“Sorry?” And it seems to me he says it in such a Canadian way.
“Yes,” I say.
He dips his eyes to his lap. Then raises them to a point just above and to the left of my face. He is searching for a reply, for something to say. But he can’t meet my eyes.
“How could you tell?” he asks at length.
“I couldn’t. I didn’t. I found your stash.”
“It wasn’t out.”
“I dug.”
“Ah.” He drops his eyes again. I can’t imagine what he is thinking about.
“How bad?” I ask when neither of us has said anything for a while. The remnants of cocktails are whisked away. Wine brought and approved and poured. We are sipping that, largely ignoring the appetizers that arrive at the same time.
I see him consider my question then appear to decide to give up and give in. I have the feeling that whatever he tells me at this point will be the truth.
“As bad as you can imagine,” he says. It’s not what I want to hear.
“You don’t look sick.” The words escape before I can stop myself.
He laughs. A brittle sound. “I even say that to myself. To my mirror self. It’s foolish, right? Perfect health.”
“And yet...”
“Exactly. I’m assured it won’t last.”
“The appearance of health?”
“Right. I’m told from here it will get ugly.”
“When?” I ask, but I don’t think I really want to know.
“Weeks. Possibly months. Certainly no longer.”
“And so you ordered a hit.” My voice is quiet. Still. I can feel tears standing in my eyes, but I will myself not to cry.
He looks at me sharply. Is he surprised? Or not surprised at all? I can’t tell.
“That’s right. It seemed the most humane thing for all concerned.”
“Under the circumstances.”
“Yes.”
“What were the specifications?” I ask, though I think I know the answer. “How did you imagine it would be?”
“Well, obviously, I want it to be fast. Other than that, I’d rather not know.”
“That makes sense.”
The waiter arrives with our entrees. We sip some more at the wine and push the food around on our plates.
“I really am very sorry to learn all of this.” I hesitate. Add, “I can’t even tell you how sorry I am.”
“Thanks. And I guess I know.”
“I guess you do.” I hesitate again. And then, “So... now?”
“I don’t want to know. Don’t want to see it coming.”
“But now is too soon,” I protest, keeping my voice calm. And my heart.
“I don’t want to be one of those who goes out flailing.” He says this calmly. Matter-of-fact. “I can’t be.”
“But you’re so far from that. Look at you! It could be years.”