Page 57 of That's Not a Thing

“Sweetie,” she starts slowly, fiddling with one of the tassels on the end of her cover-up, “I appreciate your coming out here, especially when I know you have my son’s interests at heart, but I disagree with your position. Wholeheartedly.” She lifts the glass of iced tea Suzette left for her, sips thoughtfully, and then places the glass back on the end table before returning to a supine position, as if to say the discussion is closed.

“Gladys.”

She doesn’t move.

“Gladys.”

She turns her head toward me without raising it off the cushion, and I can see her eyebrows rise beneath the glasses. “I understand not wanting to put a damper on the wedding or whatever, but that might all be moot now anyway. What was your plan, just delay chemo all these months until after the wedding? Your condition could get so much worse in that time.”

I shudder at the sudden realization that I could have been held responsible for yet another groom’s mother dying as some consequence of my wedding plans.

“I’m still deciding whether it’s worth having chemo-therapy.” She says it without looking at me, her eyes closed as she rests her head against the back of the chaise.

“Wait, what? Why?” I shoot out of my seat.

“The cancer is pretty advanced. The odds aren’t good, honey.” She opens her eyes briefly before closing them again, and I wonder how she can be so calm. I stand there above her chaise, gaping at her. “As soon as Aaron finds out,” she continues, her voice lazy, as if she is contemplating sleep, “he will drive himself crazy, run himself ragged doing everything he can to save me. And when he realizes that he cannot dictate the outcome here, he will feel like a failure. The longer I wait to tell him, the more blame he can put on me, the less on himself.”

“No, Gladys. That’s wrong. I had a parent who had cancer. I know what it’s like.” My voice is rising, but I can’t keep my emotions in check as I continue. “You can’t shut him out. How would you feel if the tables were turned, if he kept something like this from you?”

She opens her eyes, blinks hard at that question, and brings a manicured hand slowly to her chest.

We stare silently at each other for a moment.

“Okay, Meredith,” she says gently. “I hear you. But I’m not ready yet. I’m struggling enough with my own concerns. I just don’t have it in me to navigate his vigilance, too—not now. Can I say I’ll think on it? And in the meantime, let’s figure out what you’re going to do to convince my son to forgive your indiscretion.”

She pats the chair beside her, and I sit down again.

Chapter Twenty-Two

June 2017

On the train back to Penn Station, I tap out a text to Wesley.

Me: Will you be home tonight? Would like to discuss some stuff.

Hardly an eloquent message, but equal parts direct and vague, just what I was going for. I wait for his response, but after a few seconds pass with nothing, not even the little dots on the screen to indicate he is typing, I open the Internet browser on my phone and start searching public-interest law jobs in New York. Just before we enter the tunnel to Penn Station, where I always lose reception, I get a new text.

Wesley: Just got to the restaurant. Don’t anticipate staying too long. Meet at Rome for dessert.

A second text immediately follows:

Wesley: Home. Not Rome. Voice texting sucks balls.

I text back a thumbs-up emoji to tell him we’re on, and then I wonder if I should ask Lana to come, too. It might help to have a buffer, to make sure he understands that any romantic anything is over, but it might also make an already awkward situation that much more uncomfortable. The train enters the tunnel, and the lights go out. I sit in the darkness, my seat jiggling aggressively from side to side as the train races toward Manhattan, and all I can think of is how much I wish Aaron were sitting beside me.

After the remainder of the train trip, plus two subway rides, when I finally emerge from the subway station back into the late-afternoon sunshine on Seventy-seventh and Lexington, I pull out my phone to call Lana. I pace on the street corner while the phone rings, walking halfway up the block and eyeing the enticing floral arrangements that sit outside the gourmet Butterfield Market. She doesn’t pick up, so I leave a quick message, apologizing again for bailing on the lunch plans we made for today and then explaining what I want from her.

I retrace my steps toward the corner, look up at the awning of Lenox Hill Hospital, swallow hard, and walk inside. I make it all of three or four feet when I see the guard stationed at a podium just inside the door. I completely forgot about needing clearance to get upstairs, and I have no viable excuse as to why I am here.

The elderly guard is deep in a heated discussion with a young couple at the moment. They’re holding a large bouquet of balloons and arguing over what time visiting hours begin. I take advantage of the guard’s distraction and walk right past him with purpose, as though I absolutely belong in the building. Maybe he recognizes me from the many times I’ve walked upstairs with Aaron and figures I belong, or maybe he simply doesn’t notice me.

There is an open elevator door straight in front of me, and I just keep walking until I’m in the elevator. I turn around and gaze into space, avoiding eye contact with the two women in scrubs who stepped onto the elevator behind me. They are too busy complaining about politicians posting on Twitter to be interested in me. Once the elevators doors slide closed, I let out a sigh of relief and press the button for the sixth floor, where I know I will find Aaron at this time of day.

I quickly readjust my clothing, straightening the vertical row of buttons on my sleeveless blouse, tugging on my shorts to make them sit lower and hopefully cover another inch of each thigh. I didn’t realize I would be coming to the hospital when I got dressed this morning, and I might have chosen something more conservative if I’d known I’d be bringing my pleas to Aaron’s workplace. I rub my hands up and down my arms, trying to stave off goose bumps from the hospital’s aggressive air-conditioning.

When the doors open, I hear Aaron’s voice before I see him. “Going down?” he asks, as he approaches the doors from the side.

“Up,” one of the women in scrubs answers before Aaron’s eyes shift and he catches sight of me.