Page 33 of Lessons in Lemonade

She shrugs one shoulder. “I remember the moment when I got the first tiny hint that my taste was coming back. Shelby and I were in Stocks, Soups, and Sauces, a first-semester class where they were teaching classical and contemporary methods. It was a béchamel, one of the five mother sauces. In it is whole milk, flour, butter, onion, and spices. We were tasting it, and I could very distinctly detect the flavor of whole cloves and salt. Salt! My heart started racing with the realization and I started crying, which alone was embarrassing enough, but I was so excited I burst out to the entire class that I could taste it and everyone cheered.” She smiles to herself and looks back up at me tenderly. “That was a good day.”

“Sounds like it. Since I’ve known you, you haven’t talked much about what it was like having cancer.”

She glances down at her hands then brings her head up to look me straight in the eyes. “What’s there to really talk about? Bad things happen to people all the time. Divorces, illness, a lost job, a sudden death of a family member, car accidents—you name it, but once it’s done, it’s done. Time to learn from it and move on.”

“Have you moved on? It hasn’t been all that long.”

“Most days, yes, but I’d be lying if I said the fear doesn’t linger. Even though the cancer is gone and I’ve been told I’m cancer-free, I’m not free. My wounds have healed, that last cycle of chemo is completed, there’s no more radiation and I’ve rung the bell . . . one would think I’m free, but I’m not. It’s on my mind constantly with every ache, every common cold, every scan, every poke. It’s been over seven years since the words ‘full remission’ were said to me, but I’m still dealing and I’m still healing. Despite what people think, it continues long after you’ve been told you’re cancer-free.”

“You still go for scans?” My heart rate picks up a little at knowing she still has to get checked out, at knowing there’s a need for it and there’s an actual possibility the cancer could come back.

“I do. Blood work, too. They’ve slowed down over time, and I only go in once a year now.”

“Is it scary?”

Her lips press into a flat line, and then she answers, “Yes.” She doesn’t elaborate; she doesn’t need to.

“I’m sorry you went through that.” I truly am. She’s here with me, and more than anything I wish I could go back in time and be there for her.

“It is what it is. Things turned out all right in the end. Could’ve been worse.” She gives me a small smile, only I can’t smile back. I don’t want to smile back.

Suddenly my anger is back, only this time it’s twofold. I’m mad for the situation I’m in, and I’m rip-roaring mad for what she went through.

Why? Why her?

I know this is a question loved ones always ask, but it’s truly how I feel. What was the point of it? Why did she have to experience that? I know I’m being completely irrational as this happened a long time ago, it’s over, and she’s fine, but to me it feels like it’s happening now.

Reaching up with her thumb, she gently rubs the wrinkles that have taken up residence between my eyes. I know my face is frozen in a permanent scowl, but I can’t help it; I’m not happy. As much as I loved her story, loved her sharing that with me, it may as well have been another log tossed onto the fire of my already outraged mood.

“You need to rest. You know the more you sleep, the faster you’ll heal.” Her pale gray eyes trail over my face as she takes in each point of tension, and her thumb slides to the outside of my eye and down over the rough stubble of my cheek.

It feels so good, but I don’t answer her. There’s nothing for me to say. She sees the storm brewing inside me, only now it’s grown in response to what life has tossed at us both.

I hate this. I hate how things have turned out for me, and I hate how life has treated her. It’s not fair; none of it is. Yes, I know she’s fine now, but the rational side of me can’t catch up to the irrational side, and my emotions are strung so tight I feel like I’m going to burst from the inside out.

And then at her words, I do.

“Lie down,” she says tenderly, patting her lap.

She is the needle to my balloon, and just like that, I pop.

Letting out the deepest breath known to man, I shift my hips on the couch to scooch down and lie backward, placing my head in her lap. At this point I would crawl into her lap if I could, even though she’s half the size of me.

From above, she leans over, presses her lips gently but firmly to my forehead, and kisses me.

My eyes burn with the telltale sign of tears, and I curse the unwanted emotion. I feel like I’ve hit a new level of rock bottom, and I can’t find it in me to give a fuck. Instead of fighting the tears, I close my eyes and let them leak out.

She softly runs her fingers over the lines of my face and through my hair. It’s soothing and apparently the key needed to unlock my insides. I know she’s doing her best to understand, but can anybody really? I’m fucking brokenhearted, and I don’t know where to go from here.

Church Supper Spaghetti

IT’S BEEN TWO weeks since I left him, two weeks where I’ve felt like the worst human ever because he is there and I am here. He needs me—well, he needs someone, and from snooping around and talking to Camille and Lexi, I know he isn’t getting it. He’s holed himself up in his condo, he’s refusing to see his friends, and he’s all alone. I’m surprised by how much this is bothering me, but I just can’t seem to help it. I know he will pull through this, know his knee will heal, but I’m still worried about him.

I’m also bothered by how different from the Jack I knew he quickly became. There’s definitely something to be said for seeing a person at their worst, and he was at his. I don’t mind his worst, though. In many ways, he resembled a broken bird, perhaps a very large bird but nonetheless one who’d had its wings clipped and its very essence somehow stripped away. The guy I’ve come to know, the one who laughs, jokes, and is always up to no good—he is gone, and in his place is anger, melancholy, and silence. It was eerie to be near him and for him to be so quiet.

Of course I’ve called to check on him, but conversations are short, his voice flat and dull. He doesn’t say much, but then again I guess there really isn’t much to say. He’s stuck in his condo and having to wait to sort through what happens next.

Feeling the need to take care of him from afar, using the same packaging Lexi does to ship pies, I overnighted him a few dishes last week. I know he’s perfectly capable of ordering his own food, but I want him to know I’m thinking of him, too. Of course he sent me a text to thank me for the food, but not much beyond that.