She didn’t remember leaving the building or getting into the car, but she must have, because Josh was driving, and they were gripping each other’s hands, hard. Lauren stared out the window, vaguely registering the familiar sites—the Big Blue Bug, Rhode Island’s most famous resident. The capitol dome, the Superman building—so called because in the old television show, Superman had jumped over it, making Providence famous. There was Kennedy Plaza, the old Brown and Sharpe building. They pulled onto their street, into the parking lot, got out and walked into the building in silence, still clutching hands. She started toward the stairs, then walked through the lobby instead and pushed the button for the elevator.
The stairs would leave her breathless.
Tears gathered in her throat, and she swallowed hard.
The second they walked into the apartment, they both went to the couch and opened their laptops, almost exactly in sync, the only sounds their fingers on the keyboard.
Yeah, so Googling wasn’t a great idea. She had to give Dr. Bennett credit for that.
The prognosis for a person with idiopathic pulmonary fibrosis was three to five years. Life post–lung transplant, so long as there were no complications, could last as long as five years. But lung transplants were tricky.
So, best-case scenario, Lauren might live to see forty.
But probably not.
She felt dizzy. Was this a dream? Was this whole life a dream, with her wonderful husband and all their happiness, their beautiful apartment, the honeymoon, the trip to Paris? Would she wake up in her childhood bed, groggy and confused, Dad still alive?
She squeezed her hands together, because pinching herself felt too cliché. If she was thinking about things like clichés, then it couldn’t really be happening, right? Also, the pillow on the chair across from her needed plumping. And she was hungry. Grilled cheese, maybe? So she probably wasn’t stuck with a fatal disease. She probably wasn’t dying.
Words from the computer floated in her brain. Final treatment. Terminal. No cure. Breathing becomes impossible. Three to five years. Quality of life.
Three to five years.
Last week, they’d gone sledding with Sebastian. Jen told her they were trying for another baby, and they got so silly, talking about celebrity baby names. And sure, Lauren had gotten out of breath laughing. But so had . . . yeah, no. She was the only one.
For a second, that moment came back to her, the warmth of her sister’s house, the cocoa, the laughter . . . the way she couldn’t seem to fill up her lungs with enough air.
Because her lungs were filling with fibers.
Oh, Jesus. Oh, God.
“Let’s go to bed,” Joshua said, and she jumped at the sound of his voice. It was two o’clock in the afternoon, but he was right. Bed was the only option. They stripped down to their underwear and got in under the puffy duvet, then wrapped their arms around each other so tight it hurt.
They were both shaking.
No words. Not then. Neither one of them was crying. Not then. Not yet.
The truth sat in the room with them, dark and heavy, waiting to be let into their lives, their bed.
She would die young. Josh would be widowed.
She was not going to get better.
She had a terminal disease.
She had really wanted a baby instead.
23
Joshua
Month eight, letter number eight
October
Dear Josh,
I hope you’re doing well, sweetheart. Eight months is a long time. I hope you’re feeling happier and more energized these days.
So this month’s task is pretty straightforward. Do something for your professional career, and try something you’ve been scared of doing.
You’ve got this. I believe in you.
Love, Lauren
Well. That was a pretty crappy letter, if he was being honest. He’d gotten changed and poured a half glass of wine for this? He stalked around, his bare feet silent. Pebbles lay asleep on the couch, oblivious to his mood.
“A shitty letter, Lauren,” he said out loud. “Sorry, was I taking too much of your time?” Was she too busy to write more than a few sentences? Was he getting to be too much of a responsibility, and she only had a few Chicken Soup for the Soul platitudes to toss his way?
Rage swept through him, red and tarry, blotting out everything else, and before he could switch gears, before he could call his mom or Ben, before he could get to the gym and hit the heavy bag, before the quick brown fox could jump over anything, the red tar was everywhere and he was drowning in it. A far-off, still-calm part of his brain guided him to the cabinets. He heard a smashing noise and more yelling, and there was pain in his foot, a distant pain, and then he slipped and his head thunked against the floor and he was out.
* * *
HE WOKE UP to Pebbles licking his face. Her breath was awful. “Hi, puppy,” he said, and his throat was sore and scratchy. Also, something was sticking into his back.
He was lying on the kitchen floor.
He sat up, wincing, and felt the back of his head. A good-sized lump was there. And there were shards of porcelain everywhere.
Polka-dotted porcelain.
He picked up a piece and looked at it. Lauren’s coffee cup. She’d used it every morning. Actually, she’d bought four of them, because, she’d said, they’d be everyone’s favorite. And they had been. Even his mother had liked them, and she wasn’t a person who cared a whole lot about mugs. He remembered a weekend morning when Lauren had had her “three moms” over for coffee cake, and they’d all drunk from these mugs.
From the look of the mess on the floor, he’d broken each one. Yep. Four little handles scattered amid the ironically cheerful destruction.
There was a knock on his door. He went to it, limping slightly, and opened it. Creepy Charlotte.
“Hey, I heard some noise. You okay?” She looked him up and down. “You’re bleeding, you know.”
“Stop stalking me, Charlotte.”
For a second, he wondered if Gertie the Medium had meant Charlotte, but if so, he would take that $500 back, thank you very much. He closed the door in her face, went back to the kitchen and surveyed the mess.
Nice job, asshole.
If Pebbles stepped on the broken mugs, she might cut her paw. He put her in the guest room to keep her safe, though she gave him a disappointed look. “Sorry, honey. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
The cut on the bottom of his foot was fairly deep. He cleaned it out with hydrogen peroxide, welcoming the burn as punishment, and wrapped it in gauze. Then he cleaned up the kitchen and bloody footprints.