Page 48 of Love Conquers All

What will it do to us this time? What will it do to me?

May 5, 1983

James Bruckson came by this afternoon to say hello to Wally and drink a few beers. His eyes were red, as though he’d been crying. They sat on the back porch and looked at the water, murmuring God knew what, and I watched them through the window, suddenly terrified.

What were they talking about?

Wally has told me he doesn’t want to do another round of treatment. He says it’s too hard on his body and mind that if he’s going to “die,” he’d rather die standing up. I told him that’s ridiculous. But now, I’m terrified that James has been rationalizing Wally’s thoughts. After all, they’ve known one another for even longer than I’ve known Wally. They’re men. They want to think like men.

What if James has told Wally that “being a man” means doing exactly what feels right?

I know that chemo doesn’t feel “right.” But Wally can’t just give up after one failed attempt. He has to keep fighting. I’ll fight for him if I have to.

May 7, 1983

Wally and I are fighting like wild animals these days. He’s told me he won’t do chemo, and I’ve told him I’ll leave him if he doesn’t. It’s a wild attempt at keeping him that I never thought I’d try, but it wounds him. The last time I said it, he slunk away and sat on the porch, his rocking chair creaking.

I drove to my mother’s this afternoon to take care of things over there. She’s been in such a decline, so much so that I can’t help but feel that death is all around me. I’m only twenty-two years old.

Sylvie’s heart ached for her mother. No young woman should have had to go through something like this. But the strangestthing of all was the inclusion of James Bruckson in these stories. James: the best friend of Wally, the man Sarah Bruckson had hated. Sylvie dug deeper, knowing that whatever had happened next had not been nice.

May 22, 1983

Wally agreed to begin chemotherapy today. It feels like a battle I fought hard to win, but I don’t know if I’m terribly proud of it. Wally’s already incredibly ill, throwing up in the bathroom and sweating in bed. I’m doing my best to keep him comfortable.

James Bruckson came by this afternoon. He wanted to see Wally, but Wally had finally fallen asleep, so James and I sat on the back porch and drank beers. I realized I’d taken Wally’s place, at least for now. James told me he was afraid that Wally would die, and I told him that was ridiculous. Wally isn’t going to die.

I remembered what James’s fiancée told me in January, that James was in love with me. For the first time, I thought maybe I caught a glimmer of that love in James’s eyes. But just as soon as I saw it, I looked away.

James and his fiancée are going to get married in August. Wally is supposed to be James’s best man. I told James that Wally would be ready for that. We’ll dance the night away.

But according to Sylvie’s mother’s diary, Wally was far too sick to attend James’s wedding that August, far too sick to even get out of bed. Sarah became a sort of servant to Wally’s illness, hardly leaving the house, puffing up pillows, and putting creams on his chapped lips. She called that summer the hardest of her entire life. And there was a sourness to her language now, an achingdepression that seemed to swallow them up. Bit by bit, Sarah seemed different. A changed woman of twenty-two.

August 11, 1983

James Bruckson is getting married today. I can hear the wedding bells from where I sit in old pajamas in the front room of the house. The doctor came by to check on Wally and “monitor his pain.” The look in the doctor’s eyes told me everything I needed to know about the future.

Why did God give me this pain to bear?

August 12, 1983

James Bruckson and his brand-new wife swung by on their way to their honeymoon. The wife was telling me how the wedding was the best day of her life, and she was flashing her hand around, showing off her ring. James looked pleased as anything until he went out to the porch to say hello to Wally. He left me and the silly wife in the kitchen to make tea and sandwiches and talk about stupid things. The wife asked me when Wally would get better, and I had to fight to keep from asking her to get out. When we sat together outside, Wally was in so much pain that he couldn’t speak, and we sat there like idiots, listening to James Bruckson and his wife talk about how perfect their special day had been. I’d never seen James Bruckson so happy. Apparently, his wife was going to boss him around forever, and he was going to be thrilled.

When they left, I helped Wally to bed and stayed up all night watching television.

A beautiful life was never for me.

September 30, 1983

Wally died today.

October 3, 1983

We buried Wally today.

October 4, 1983

Maybe I should follow in Wally’s footsteps. Perhaps I don’t belong on this earth anymore.

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