Prologue
Let Me Hold You
Roth
Present
June 15, 11:15 a.m.
“Are you sure?” she asks.
Her words wobble. Her body shivers uncontrollably. I squeeze her hand tighter, unable to look at her when her whimpers resemble that of an injured animal. It makes me feel like shit.
“I am sorry, Laurel.”
That’s it? I’m sorry? Never was a more worthless apology spoken.
Dr. Nuess gauges us both. He looks sorry. He sounds sorry. His body language even screams sympathy.
None of it matters, though. I am in another place entirely. It’s dark and dank and stinks of mortality. I fly through a dozen emotions in a blink, watching the prize wheel spin.
Click.
Click.
Click.
The wheel slows.
Click.
Cliick.
Cliiiiick.
The metal needle bounces between two rubber stoppers until it finally comes to a complete halt, my spoil chosen.
White. Hot. Fury.
Seems appropriate, because I am hemorrhaging rage at the unfairness of it all.
Why her? Why me? Why us? Why now? Why ever?
Why? Why? Why?
I force myself to look at Laurel now. Her lips tremble. The color of them always reminds me of cotton candy. I fell in love with those lips the first time I laid eyes on them. I watch them when she talks and smiles and yells at me. Those lips. I still dream of them, ever grateful that they’re awaiting me when I wake.
My breath catches. Frozen.
I can’t wrap my head around this. I refuse to. This cannot be it.
Looks like my prize wheel has slipped straight to the next square: denial.
With my free hand, I cup my wife’s cheek, round and rosy. Her long, inky lashes are dampened with droplets of grief. Her brown eyes, the shade of mud puddles I used to play in as a boy, are glassy and wild with unspoken apologies. She has nothing to be sorry for. Nothing at all.
Even blotchy-faced and snot-nosed, she is so beautiful, so pure. I love her with all that I am, all that I will ever be. I attempt to wipe the moisture away with my thumb, but it’s futile, immediately replaced by an overflowing river of anguish. She tries to stifle a sob, but she fails and, “It’s okay,” I tell her softly, reverently. “It will be okay.”
We both know I lie, but in this moment the lie serves to fend off the reality we’re now forced to face, even if for the briefest of time.
Time. Something we are severely short on.
Click.
Cliick.
Cliiiiick.
My rage burns out of control, as if fueled directly from the center of the Earth.
I turn my attention back to the Harvard-trained oncologist, best in his field, who was unable to save our future. “How long?” I demand.
My throat feels as if it’s been lit by a backdraft of fiery blue flames. An inch of ash now coats my vocal cords.
“I don’t—”
“No I don’t bullshit,” I grit out through the muck. You don’t get life-shattering news and say welp that’s that, dust your hands off, and walk away. You cry foul. You demand answers. “You do. Ballpark it.”
I know. I already know. I can Google as well as the next guy.
“Mr. Keswick, I don’t have a crystal ball.”
I snort. It’s filled with vile derision and acrid bitterness.
“Roth, it’s okay,” Laurel whispers, sensing I’m about to break. I should be the one comforting her, not the other way around.
“No.” I need to get out of here. The walls are closing in. “No. It’s not fucking okay.” I pin Dr. Nuess with a demanding glare. “We came in today thinking we’d discuss the next treatment plan and instead we’re told all bets are off. That there is nothing more you can do for the person who is my entire…” Universe. Life. Existence. You name it. She’s that. “So…” I begin to stand, my six-foot-four, 202-pound muscled frame rather intimidating to most, and ask him again, “How. Long. Do. We. Have?”
But my petite, fragile Laurel is strong in so many ways. So much stronger than I am. One quick pull on my arm and I’m back in my seat and Dr. Nuess can breathe again. He swallows, his oversized Adam’s apple bobbing up and down, up and down. I want to punch it in until it’s sunken deep in his neck. I want to unleash this pent-up, all-consuming, violent tempest and destroy everything in this frosted-glass office until it’s shredded and lies in pieces. Like me.
“You’d better start talking,” I tell him evenly.
I fully realize I shouldn’t act like a spoiled, whiny toddler demanding a candy bar at checkout, threatening a meltdown if I’m not rewarded. Dr. Newcomb Nuess is a smart, caring man who has done all he can for us. Logically, I know this, but when you’re facing the end of life as you know it, when all of your hopes and dreams shatter on a single exhale, you become a different person. One you don’t like much.
“The mean survival rate is…” He stops and shifts uncomfortably. Then his forked tongue spits out my worst nightmare. Its metal tines embed the writhing entity deep into the floor, holding it firmly in place as it bleeds in front of me. “Less than a year.”
“Fuck,” I mutter.
Three-hundred and sixty-five days? Less than? How many hours is that? Minutes? Seconds?
I feel sick.
Two weeks ago, we were sitting in this very room, having our first consultation with the top hematology oncologist in the country. The best of the best. Test after test, he assured us we’d get answers.
He never assured us we’d like them.
The best of the best has failed.
A sharp bite nips the backs of both eyes. Laurel is now perfectly still beside me. She’s not shaking. She’s not wailing. She’s not breaking apart. She’s probably thinking the same thing I am. In fact, I know she is. We’ve talked about it late at night when the lights are off, and we don’t have to bear witness to each other’s pain. We don’t need to. We can feel it coursing through our entwined hands.
“What’s next, then?” I hear Laurel ask in a voice so calm she may as well be ordering a burger and a Coke.
I don’t know who she’s talking to. If it’s me, I have no answers. I don’t know what’s next. Dr. Nuess was our last chance. We’ve had second opinion upon third opinion upon fourth opinion. Dr. Nuess speaks, but I can’t pay attention because I am lost. So very lost and in so much pain I don’t know if I can survive it. Every muscle, every organ, every bone is constricted, like my entire body is folding in on itself. Turtles do that…hide in their shells for protection. Why are humans left so exposed and vulnerable?
“Thank you, Dr. Nuess.” Laurel stands. I don’t how, but I stand too. We exit his office. I’m on autopilot as we start our trek to the lobby. We’re both silent as the elevator doors open, then close, and in those ten seconds we have alone while we descend, we wrap ourselves around each other, unable to get close enough.
When I look back on this day, I won’t remember much, but I will remember the shaky cadence of her breath, which seeps through my shirt, and the faint flowery smell of her shampoo lingering in my nostrils. I will remember how tightly her fingers grip my sides in fear and grief. I will remember how perfectly she molds her body to mine and the sound of her whispering “I love you” and “I’m sorry” over and over.