Like a hoarder, I start stuffing memories and tidbits away in every shadowed corner of my mind, terrified I’ll forget a single one of them. How many have I already forgotten? They are all important and meaningful, now more than ever. And there will never be enough of them. Never.
Some people want to know which day marks their last. At least that’s what they say, anyway. They claim they will live differently if they know, but I’ve always wondered, why wouldn’t they have lived that way in the first place? Why not tell the people important to you that you love them every single day? Why stay at a job that makes you miserable? Why put off traveling to the places you want to see until you can afford it? Why go to bed angry? Why wake with regret? Why not forgive those who have wronged you? Why not appreciate that sunrise or thunderstorm for the slices of wonder they are?
Now I know.
One’s mortality lifts the veil of uncertainty. And under that veil is a whole new world. Colors pop. Passions intensify. Indignation wanes. Priorities shift.
Finality is embraced.
The automatic doors of MD Anderson Cancer Center open with a soft whoosh, and as we walk from the sterility and stench of death coursing through its veins into the sticky-sweet hum of energy on the outside, I think to my myself…
This is it.
The countdown has begun.
And there is not a damn thing we can do to stop the omnipotent hands of Time from moving forward, click after motherfucking click, inching us closer to the end of forever.
1
Haven’t Met You Yet
Laurel
Ten Years Earlier
February 9, 6:21 p.m.
“Yo, chica. Vamos a darle.”
The door slams behind the lilt of Carmen’s voice. I hear the refrigerator jingle open and close and the distinct hiss of a bottle top being opened.
Help yourself. I roll my eyes. I’d bet last week’s meager paycheck she’s drinking my lone wild berry wine cooler—the one I meant to grab and chug as I primp for a girl’s night out I’d give anything to ditch. A nice serial killer novel sounds far more appealing.
“You ready yet?”
I pause midmascara application, noting Carmen’s reflection in my dresser mirror.
Yep. There it is.
Standing in my bedroom doorway, shoulder wedged against the jam, my fortification is nestled loosely between my best friend’s perfectly manicured fingernails that are so long and sharp they should be registered weapons.
“I was going to drink that,” I tell her. I let my gaze fall to her hand, the bottle already half-empty.
“This?” she replies with more than a hint of disgust. “I don’t know how you can drink this crap.” She takes another deep swallow.
I chortle and shake my head, not bothering to state the obvious. Stuffing the black goo-covered wand back into its container, I give myself a once-over. Even with a moderate dusting of makeup and a few well-placed curls in my hair, I still look plain. Boring. Someone whom you wouldn’t give a second glance. I grab my can of Aqua Net and spray until a cloud of chemicals settles into my hair and pores.
Eh. Good enough.
“It’s suffrage, is what it is,” Carmen prattles on between gulps.
“You didn’t use that word in the right context.” I toss the tube of mascara down and turn toward her, gripping the worn wood behind me.
“What?”
“Suffrage is the right to vote.”
I want nothing more than to crawl into bed with a cup of tea in one hand and a book in the other until I fall asleep. Boring. Both in looks and charisma. That’s me.
“Weeell…” Her eyes widen in challenge. “I think I used it perfectly, then. My vote is that this tastes like ant piss.”
“And yet you finished the entire contents in under two minutes.”
“I am forced to drink what’s available.”
“You weren’t forced to do anything of the sort,” I counter, cocking my head.
Carmen mirrors my stance. Her brown skin shimmers as if dusted with gold flecks. She looks far sexier than I ever could in pale pink skintight pants and a white V-neck tee that showcases her expensive black boutique push-up. Eyelash extensions to fuchsia-painted toenails, every inch of her is toned and appealing.
“We need to go.” Tick. Tick. Tick. She taps her watch with one nail, impatient.
“Ready.”
She runs her eyes quickly over me. “Whaaat?” she cries so loud that Meringue, my Russian Blue-Persian mix, scrambles from the edge of my bed and dives underneath it in search of safety, “in God’s green Earth do you have on?”
The disgust she displayed at my choice of alcoholic beverages pales in comparison to that of her favorite subject: scrutinizing my wardrobe. I hate to admit I may possibly give her cause to. My fashion sense is a little…well, some call it dated, but eclectic is the word I prefer. Everything comes back into style eventually, right?
“You’re not wearing that.” She’s so matter-of-fact that almost anyone else wouldn’t dare argue. I am not anyone else.
Throwing a hand on one hip, I kick it up in challenge, not bothering to glance down at the loose plaid baby-doll dress I paired with neon-green capri leggings. “I am.” I was half hoping it would get me out of tonight.
“Girl, you look like you were spit out of a nineties time warp. All that’s missing are the bangs and oversized gold hoop earrings.”
“Hey…” I like bangs. “Now that is uncalled for.” I scoop up earrings that brush the tops of my shoulders and slip them through the holes in each ear. They happen to be gold. I smile. I wasn’t going to wear them, but…
“I’m gonna let you in on a little secret, chica.” Carmen stops talking for the half second it takes her to walk to my standard-sized closet that’s not much bigger than a bread box. “That”—she looks over her shoulder and gestures up and down my body, lingering on my ears—“wasn’t a fashion statement in the nineties. And it ain’t one now, either.”
“Carmen, it’s fine.”
“It’s hideous.” She snorts. “Are you trying to scare men away?”
Like men give me a second glance.
“No.”
Besides, I don’t need to do that with Carmen around. I envy the sultry, 1-800 voice of my best friend. One hello and men fall at her feet, not because she’s drop-dead gorgeous. Don’t get me wrong, she is beautiful, but it’s something else. She has the “it” factor. I don’t know exactly what “it” is, but she’s got it in spades. When I’m with her, it’s a given I’ll be invisible. And truth be told, I am perfectly okay with that. I excel at floating under the radar. It’s freeing to go unnoticed. So much less pressure.
“Here.” She thrusts a gawdy short-sleeve wrap dress the color of dried mustard my way. I snag the edge of it before it falls to the ground, holding it with my index finger and thumb as if it will stain me.
“This is awful,” I lament, studying the little white misshapen flowers that are scattered on it. “Where did I even get this?”
My mother. It has to be from my mother. Christmas. Three years ago. Ah yes, it’s all coming back to me now.