Page 118 of Goodbye Again
I sniff, words are scarce on my tongue.
“I love you,” he whispers.
Simple words we say all the time but they make me come undone. I turn around with wet hands and hold him close, letting the suds fall to the floor. I’m crying because I hate it when we fight. I hate when I’m insensitive. I hate hearing this piece of knowledge that he doesn’t fully respect what I do. But I hate most of all, that he’s a little bit right.
I can’t save Audrey. But dammit, I’m going to try. If not for Audrey, for JP.
thirty-three
TWO MORE MONTHS GOby and Mondays have become our standing date. I’m done seeing patients at one, so I typically hop on the train to their neighborhood and spend the late afternoon and evening with Audrey. I bring a taco every time, but she is yet to be able to eat it. In fact, now she can’t even stomach the smell. We used to go for walks depending on how gracious springtime in Chicago was. But in the last three weeks she hasn’t wanted to. Sometimes she said it was because it was too warm or muggy outside. One week she said her joints were hurting from the chemo.
Then finally she said, “I just don’t want to.”
When I arrive today—sans taco—JP leads me to their bedroom. Her bedroom, really. JP stays in the one across the hall. I ignore the invisible weight pulling down his shoulders or the exhaustion in his face that has aged him more than I care to admit. I have found that a lot of caring for someone who is terminally ill is ignoring the small stuff caused by the big stuff. No one is pretending it doesn’t exist, but no one wants to acknowledge it either.
When I step into the bedroom, I note how much more it smells like a hospital this week, and a cry forms in my throat. Audrey’s weak smile and gaunt eyes clue me into how she feels, so I don’t ask.
“Hey,” I say, and my phone buzzes in my pocket. I ignore it but she nods at my pocket, giving me the go ahead to check the message. It’s from her.
Audrey Cline:the sores in my mouth from the chemo hurt too bad to talk today.
I look up from the message, but she’s still typing into her phone.
Audrey Cline:Will you read to me?
“Sure,” I say out loud.
She holds out the book on the nightstand, and I take it. She’s already a third of the way through. I sit on the edge of the bed and place my phone face up in case she wants to message me anything, and crack open the book.
“I loved this one,” I say, realizing it’s the book about the boss’s brother.
My phone buzzes.
Audrey Cline:JP read some last night but he sucks at reading out loud.
“And he’s a teacher!” I exclaim, laughter in my voice. She smiles a little.
Audrey Cline:There’s a reason he teaches kindergarten.
I snort out a laugh and don’t miss Audrey’s sly smile.
Audrey Cline:But he has a heart of gold.
I swallow hard. “He does.”
As I read, my mind flashes through the last two months. How much I’ve learned about her treatment and her prognosis. But more than that, I’ve learned how abandoned she’s felt. Her friendships faded unintentionally. She told me, verbatim, that the invitations disappear when you can no longer attend the wine nights and dancing at the piano bar until one a.m. and the obligatory check-in text messages become futile. I wonder if she clung to me because I offered. I wonder too, if I offered because I feel guilty for loving her husband.
My phone buzzes halfway through the chapter.
Audrey Cline:This is why people get religious toward the end.
I stare at the text then back at the page. My mind was wandering, even as I read aloud so I try to quickly regroup and find my place. My phone vibrates again before I can make the connection.
Audrey Cline:Churches are really good at organizing meal trains and visits with the almost dead.
“Audrey...” I say, my tone coaxing, though I don’t disagree. Church will always know how to rally for the sick, the widows, and the orphans.
She’s typing furiously. Tears soaking her cheeks.
