Page 25 of That's Not a Thing

“But you can live a long time with that now, right?”

I see a fondness creep into Wesley’s features for the first time since before we broke up. The hard green shell is cracked, and there’s a warmth in the lines beside his eyes.

“You’re thinking of the Stephen Hawking movie.”

And now I remember that I wanted to see that movie when it first came out, just a month or two before Wesley and I fell apart. We never actually made it, and I watched it on my own months later. I don’t answer as I continue trying to process what he’s telling me.

“It’s started progressing for me already. I am not the next Stephen Hawking,” he tells me gently, as though it’s going to be roughest for me. And maybe he’s right. Maybe it is. Maybe, even though I’ve been planning to marry Aaron, I always thought the future might hold something for Wesley and me at some point. And even after this blow, here I am, wondering if somehow it still can.

“So, what are you saying?” I ask, not caring that I’m starting to sound a little angry, accusatory. “Are you telling me that you’re dying?”

“Yeah, pretty much.” He says it so matter-of-factly that I feel like I’ve been slapped.

“I don’t understand,” I argue. “How? Aren’t you too young?”

He shrugs and puts the knife down on the counter, clenching his fist again.

“Is that what’s going on with your hand?” I ask as I watch him. “It hurts?”

“No.” He shakes his head. “No pain. Just weak.”

“So, what is the prognosis? How long do you have?” I ask, trying to speak more gently as I think about his restaurant, which is still brand-new, and his whole life, which he’s only just brought back to New York.

“No one knows. Average is two to five years. Maybe longer since I’m young to be diagnosed. Maybe shorter because I’ve been ignoring symptoms for years.”

Years. My brain is working overtime. Did I see signs? I have a flash, a memory from the morning of his parents’ funeral, how he fumbled over and over again while buttoning his shirt. I thought it was grief at the time. Maybe it was.

I step forward to hug him but stop myself when I remember we are basically strangers now. I wonder if he is still the man I knew at all.

“I’m so sorry, Wes,” I say, nearly whispering, as a harsh pressure builds behind my eyes.

“I know,” he says, his words buttery, like he still cares about me. “Looks like you dodged a bullet, though, huh?” He laughs lightly.

“Hard to say.” I shrug, trying to match his tone. “How’s your life insurance policy?”

The corner of his lip ticks up, and I’m suddenly struck by a grief so fierce it’s as though I’ve been buried by the emotion, by my yearning for him and for what I thought we were going to have. I want to throw myself at him, to attach myself to him like a leech and suck up every last moment he has before this awful disease takes him. I have a vision of myself as his Florence Nightingale, sacrificing everything to care for him in his final days.

His shoulders dip, as though he, too, is sorry, and I know in that moment that he wishes things had been different. For both of us.

The kitchen door swings open, and Garth and Aaron enter behind us, laughing, joking about coffee rinds, for some reason. I step back from Wesley and grab my coat from where I left it, lying on a pile of boxes in the corner.

“I guess we should get going,” I say to the room, my eyes darting to Wesley. I pick up Aaron’s coat, too.

“Thanks,” Aaron says as he walks over and takes his coat from my hands. He looks over at Wesley. “Nice to see you, man,” he says affably, never the type to be petty.

“You, too,” Wesley answers, looking at me, and I have the sense that he’s the only one in the room who can see me at all.

Chapter Twelve

January 2013

The day after the funeral, I walked cautiously through the front door of Wesley’s parents’ house. Obviously, his outburst the day before had been the result of his grief, and I understood that I needed to be strong for him, to forgive any awful accusations or unwarranted vitriol that he threw my way. Daphne had tried to talk me down as I’d cried the previous night about the loathing that had swelled over the edge of Wesley’s every harsh word. With her support and a few choice words from my mother about the importance of showing up for people, I’d eventually convinced myself that my presence would be a comfort to him. So I went back, even though he had asked me to stay away.

When I arrived just after lunchtime, the stately colonial home was still brimming with company. This was only day two of the seven-day shiva. I wandered inside, noticing the exorbitant amount of food displayed on the dining room table—cookies and bagels, large combinations of fruit speared on kebabs, stabbed into foam bases to look like floral bouquets—as if mass quantities of artfully arranged comestibles could somehow alleviate heartache. People were speaking in hushed voices, picking at linzer cookies and wiping teary eyes. Most of these people were unfamiliar to me, work associates of Wesley’s parents, neighborhood friends and acquaintances from long ago who had come by to pay their respects. There were a few distant relatives whom I vaguely recognized. An older woman whom I couldn’t place stopped me and went in for a hug.

“Oh, dear,” she said as she squeezed me, enveloping me in the thick, flowery scent she wore. “I’m so sorry, sweetie. They would have been excellent in-laws.”

“Thank you,” I responded in a hushed voice, feeling my own sorrow surfacing, my disappointment at the loss of two people I had thought would become my family. Wesley had always been quick to point out their flaws, but I had found a comfort in the idea of two extra parents for myself, both of them predictable, reliable people. Until now.