Page 60 of That's Not a Thing

She’s trying to make herself invisible now so that I can say whatever needs saying to Wesley. I wish she could do all the talking, that I didn’t have to be the one to turn him away.

I turn my eyes reluctantly back to Wesley, knowing I can’t procrastinate any longer, but he angles his chair so that he’s facing me head-on and starts the conversation for me.

“So, how are we going to convince Aaron that I’m a loser, like Lana said, and that he’s your first choice?”

“You’re not a loser.” I roll my eyes, exasperated.

“What, I can’t make jokes now?” He’s speaking differently than I’m used to, a little more slowly. The change is subtle, but it seems like it’s becoming an effort to form his words.

“Look, Aaron’s mom has cancer, and she doesn’t want him to know, and I can’t tell him, and I can’t not tell him. I just feel like in a blink, everything has started going to shit. Shit, shit, shit!”

“Cancer?” Wesley and Lana ask at the same time.

“Lymphoma,” I answer. “And she won’t let me tell him. I told her she can’t keep it from him, but she doesn’t want him feeling guilty when she dies, so she thinks if she keeps it from him, he can blame her instead.”

“That’s rough,” Wesley says.

“Yeah,” I answer.

“Well, do you know where she’s getting treatment?” Lana asks.

“She hasn’t even decided yet whether she wants to get chemo. She said she would think about telling Aaron, but what if she doesn’t tell him?”

“It’s not your place, especially now,” Lana says. “You can’t tell.”

“I agree.” Wesley nods, and I notice that even little movements now look kind of floppy. I wonder if he has suddenly gotten noticeably worse or if I’ve been so caught up in my own drama that I haven’t noticed him deteriorating right in front of my eyes.

“Well, if she asked you not to tell,” Lana says, pushing her phone back into her purse, “you can’t tell. The best you can do is try to take care of Gladys yourself. Convince her to get the chemo, or radiation, or whatever she needs, and then go with her when she does.”

“You know, Lana”—I tilt my head toward her—“for someone who tries to act all shallow and bitchy, you’re really pretty insightful.”

“I know. You say that all the time.”

“I’m going to rest,” Wesley says, his words less sharp than they were even a few minutes ago, his energy apparently further depleted from our conversation. I wonder how long it will be before he completely loses the ability to speak. A year? A month? I really still have such a limited understanding of ALS that I have no idea what’s coming next for him. He starts wheeling himself toward his room.

“Wait, Wes!” I don’t know why I sound panicked—maybe because of dwindling time. He looks in my direction but doesn’t turn the chair. “I think it’s a good idea,” I say, standing. “The facility. It sounds like the best way for you to maintain your quality of life for the longest time. But lonely, no?”

“I’m used to lonely.” He says it without rancor, without snark, and shrugs lightly. “Now I just want easy.”

My heart aches for what he’s losing, for opportunities he’s never even had. But I realize, with relief, that it is absolutely not aching for whatweonce had. I know without a doubt that I am over him, that my heart is fixed on Aaron. I push his chair down the hallway and help him into his room. He shoos me away and says he can take care of the rest on his own.

Suddenly, I find myself thinking about Moe and what he said about his sister, that she wouldn’t want him to give up his future for her. It occurs to me now that Wesley also wouldn’t want me to give up my own future for him, that there are different ways to care about people. I’m only sorry that I wasn’t as astute as Moe, that it took me so long to figure out my best path forward. I wonder what else I could have learned from Moe if I’d had the opportunity to spend more time with him. I pull my phone from my pocket and make sure that his hearing date still appears on my calendar. It does, and I add a reminder to the entry so that I will get a notification as the day approaches. Even if I can’t be there as his representative, I can still show up and cheer him on from the back of the courtroom.

AFTER WESLEY GOESto bed and Lana heads out to meet Spencer, I hop on my computer and start googling lymphoma treatment facilities in New York. Lana is right —if I can’t tell Aaron about Gladys, at least I can do everything in my power to help her. I click on the link for NYU’s Langone hospital and start reading about all its cancer specialists.

After another hour online, I’ve narrowed down the best options to either NYU or Sloan Kettering. As much as I hate the idea of ever setting foot back inside Sloan, the hospital where my mother was treated, if it’s what’s best for Gladys, I’m going to have to cross the Rubicon and head back into that glass-covered, memory-filled high-rise. I print out several pages from the computer and turn off the arched desk lamp, resolving to call Gladys in the morning so that I can magically persuade her to start treatment.

Inside the bedroom that was Aaron’s, then ours, then mine, but is really still his, I strip off my clothes and leave them in a jumbled mess on the floor. I open the dresser and pull out one of Aaron’s old Dartmouth T-shirts. It’s gray heather, with a growing tear beneath the neckline. He has staunchly refused my entreaties to convert the shirt into a rag, and as I slip the soft cotton over my head, its fibers barely registering against my skin, I understand his attachment to this heavenly, worn fabric. I lift the front part of the shirt up to my nose, hoping it will smell like him, but all I detect is fresh laundry detergent.

I pick up my phone to text him, thinking to show him that I’m not easily giving up. But then I remember the Rules and second-guess myself. Rules girls do not beg, not even after they’ve fucked up. My best course of action is to let him miss me.

As I climb into bed and plug the phone into the charger on the sleek bedside table, it vibrates with a text, and my heart flips when I see Aaron’s name. But I’m brought down just as quickly when I read his words.

Aaron: I’m coming by at 11 tomorrow morning for clothes etc. Please don’t be home.

For reasons I can’t delineate, this text stuns me more than anything he has said so far. He means it. He truly intends for us to be over. As though a curtain has been lifted from my eyes, I suddenly see my new reality with startling, scalding clarity. The weight of understanding is instantly more than I can bear, a pressure on my chest like nothing I’ve felt before.

This is the second engagement that I have failed at. And this was the one I was meant to keep. I start tallying up the actions that I’ll have to complete. I will need to call the venue tomorrow and tell them we’re canceling, see if we can get any of our deposit back. I picture the catering woman, Mary, answering my call amidst a calla lily haze in her office, her small, dark eyes judging me, seeing through me even over the phone. And my poor parents ... As the enormity of what I’ve done and what I’ve lost settles over me, the tears start flowing again. I finally type a hasty response to Aaron, surrendering.