Page 107 of A Lifetime of Afters
“I’m coming.”
“You don’t need…”
“I’m coming, babe,” I cut him off, “Whatever it is, we’ll deal together. And we’ll start now.”
He locked the house behind us and folded his long, lean body into the driver’s seat. I climbed in on my side, not nearly so elegantly. My shorter stature did not allow for graceful folding into any seat.
The summer sun hit the windscreen, and we opted for windows rolled down. Between the many cold months and working inside, we got more than our share of recycled air.
It was a good drive. The air smelled sweet and warm, Daughtry on the radio telling us it’s not over, good beats, my baby beside me, my hand tucked under his against his long, hard thigh, plans for dinner later with my best girl, Mara, and her husband, Zale, and Jack’s busy season was finally coming to an end.
“What do you think about going to New York in a few weeks?” he asked.
We preferred to take holidays in the fall. That time of year was still warm enough to walk around comfortably, but cool enough to get dressed up in the evenings without the added accessory of pit stains.
Jack loved cities. Every year he’d pick a new one for us to explore. We’d done Paris, Athens, Fort Worth, Fort Lauderdale, Portland, Washington, and Miami. Living only an hour outside of Toronto, we spent many Saturdays exploring our city, too. He wanted New York, next, and I never cared where we went so long as we went together, so New York it would be.
I had no premonition while waiting for the doctor in the exam room. In fact, I refused to think anything could seriously be wrong, and when those thoughts popped up, I bashed them down like whack-a-mole.
We heard a brief knock and the door opened.
“Ah, good, glad you brought your wife with you.”
“Hey, Dr. Sanders.”
“Rebecca.” He smiled faintly taking his seat. Something in his manner alarmed me and I began to feel faint. My face suffused with heat, and I heard the roar of my blood pumping in my ears.
He did not delay.
“Folks, it’s not good.”
He met Jack’s eyes, those black eyes that never failed to smile at me, and Jack nodded for him to continue.
“It’s cancer, it’s aggressive, it’s stage 4.” He paused and his eyes flicked down to the floor before he again met Jack’s eyes. “I’m so sorry. It’s untreatable.”
Jack swallowed hard, closed his beautiful black eyes, and nodded.
The world stopped.
I sat frozen, staring at the floor. I don’t know how I got into position to be facing the floor. I heard this awful keening sound but couldn’t figure out where it was coming from. I felt Jack’s hands on my back, turning me, gathering me close to his chest. I tried to speak and realized the terrible moaning came from me.
“Oh God... oh God... oh God, no. Please, no…” My voice, stripped raw, abraded my ears. My hands clutched at Jack’s shirt, and my fingers dug into his shoulders.
“Baby, baby, baby…. Bex…. Calm, baby…” Jack’s deep voice whispered in my ear.
I gulped hard and arched my neck back trying to swallow some air. My tears streamed down my face, down my throat.
His face hit my neck, and his tears mingled with mine.
We went to New York.
Two and a half months later he slipped away even as I held him.
Which brought me to this fresh hell, trapped in a small room with recycled air that was recycling enough pity to choke me.
He was popular. People wanted to pay their respects. I understood this and part of me agreed he deserved it.
However, most of my spirit was in denial. This whole production, which suggested I could actually say goodbye to Jack-Jack, forced me to acknowledge that I’d have to go home and sleep without him a-fucking-gain and that I’d only ever see his sweet smile in photographs.
