My stomach lurched at the thought.
I picked up my phone and checked my voicemail.
"Hey, man, it's Phoenix."
I rolled my eyes.
"Answer your damn phone. I can't get hold of your wife."
I deleted the message. Asshole. She was my wife, not his.
The next message was the same thing.
Finally, around the fourth message, I started to get a bit concerned.
"Dude, if you don't answer I'm going to break down your freaking door! Andi's not answering and she missed her doctor's appointment."
Wait, what?
Doctor's appointment. /?
I pulled out the list that she'd made earlier that day. Sure enough, on the corner it said,
And don't forget to take me to the doctor like a good husband!
She'd drawn a heart next to it.
The appointment had been three hours ago.
I told myself not to worry. She'd probably fallen asleep or left her phone in the house or something.
I quickly ran out of the office and started calling her name.
"Andi?"
No answer.
I went into the kitchen.
Nothing.
Panic swelled in my chest as I took the stairs two at a time. I burst into her bedroom. It was empty.
Shit!
I moved down the hall. "Andi?"
A soft whimper sounded. I called out her name again.
The bathroom door closest to her bedroom was shut.
I tried the handle.
It was locked.
With a curse, I slammed my body into it. The door broke free, revealing a crumpled Andi near the toilet.
She was pale.
Her eyes were closed.
And a part of me died inside.
How long had she been here?
"Andi?" I got on my knees and pulled her into my lap. "Andi, can you hear me?"
I lifted her head, but it only fell back, lifeless. Her skin was so pale it was almost translucent. "Andi?"
Her eyes fluttered open.
"Thatta girl," I encouraged.
"Not dog," she whispered, the fight so completely out of her words that the panic worsened until I felt like I was going to be sick.
"Do we need to go to the hospital?"
She frowned. "Aren't we at the hospital?"
"No—" Frantic, I felt her forehead. "Shit, you're burning up. We need to go to the ER."
"Hate doctors. Hospital smells." She scrunched up her nose then pressed her face against my chest. "You don't though. You smell like dirty sex."
My voice felt shaky. "Oh yeah?" I pushed to my feet and heaved her into my arms. "Pretty sure you're going to regret that compliment when you're lucid."
"Lucid?" she repeated. "Like ice cream? I think I want vanilla. What are you going to have, Sergio?"
I took one look at her pretty face and answered honestly — maybe the most honest answer I'd had since being with her. "Chocolate."
Her smile was weak. "I love chocolate."
"Me too, Andi."
"You were mean."
I carried her down the stairs. "I'm sorry."
"I'm sick." Andi tucked her head underneath my chin. "I think… fever."
"We'll get you better." I was saying it for both of us, because I wasn't sure I could handle her getting sicker. It did something to me. I felt powerless — I hated that feeling. I opened the door to my Escalade with one hand and gently put her down, pulled the seatbelt tight, and buckled it.
"Don't make me go." A big fat tear slid down her cheek. "Please."
I swallowed the tightness in my throat. "Tell you what… after we visit the hospital, how about I take you to get some chocolate ice cream?"
She closed her eyes; another tear slid, then another. "Promise?"
"Yeah, Andi." I wiped her tears away. "I promise, but right now we need to get you to the hospital, okay?"
She gave a weak nod.
The minute I got into the SUV, I gripped the steering wheel and cursed. It was too close to home.
She didn't know that.
I wasn't even sure anyone else knew — other than Ax and Nixon.
I didn't push her away because I hated her.
I was terrified of her.
The fear choked me the entire way to the hospital. I didn't need to MapQuest it, didn't even need to check my phone for the closest one.
I knew this hospital by heart.
Just like I knew the cancer wing by heart.
Because my mom had died of the very same thing.
I'd lived through it once.
I wasn't sure I'd actually survive it twice.
Every move was mechanical. I tried to detach myself emotionally as I lifted Andi out of the car and walked into the ER.
But memories assaulted me.
The smell was the same.
"Let her go, she wants to go," the nurse said. "Say goodbye."
"No!" I yelled. "If I say goodbye, she'll leave!"
"Son," my father said in a gruff voice. "Don't make a scene."
My mom reached for me, her hand outstretched. I tasted blood in my mouth. Maybe I'd bitten my tongue. Maybe my heart had broken, and that was what happened when hearts broke inside the body. They bled from the inside out.
Our fingertips touched, just briefly before my father ripped me from the room and told me to stop crying.
Ax was in the corner, his face haunted.
And it was Nixon who finally held me before I collapsed onto the floor. "She's gone, she's gone, Nixon she's—"
"She's in heaven," Nixon said simply.
"No," my father said behind me. "People like us don't go to heaven… we go to hell."
I jerked away from Nixon and lunged for my father. I pulled the gun from his own holster and pointed it at his face.
He laughed. The bastard laughed. "What? Are you going to shoot me in the hospital? When you're the guilty one?"
The gun shook in my hand. "Guilty one?"
"Remember this." My dad sneered. "You killed her. You killed your mother — not the cancer. You did this. And you know why. Such a disappointment."
"Don't listen to him, Sergio," Nixon said behind me. "He's a bastard."
"He may be a bastard, but he's right." I was fifteen but not stupid. I knew the truth.
It was my fault my mom had died. I had no one to blame but myself.
Andi
MY MOUTH WAS DRY AS A DESERT
. I'd always hated that expression — what was worse? Actually being able to use it and know that it seriously didn't do my situation any justice.
Water.
I opened my mouth to ask for it.
And suddenly, like magic, a cup appeared, and the cool liquid trickled down my throat.
I opened my eyes.
Sergio was sitting on my bed.
Not next to it, but on it.
I blinked. "What are you doing?"
His expression wasn't readable. Damn him. He truly kept his emotions on lockdown. "Giving you water."
"No, I mean on my bed."
He held the water to my lips.
I sipped deeply then pushed the cup back. "Th-thanks."
"I went to med school." The information was offered freely.
And since he didn't tend to share anything about himself, I chose not to speak, hoping my silence would help the moment.
Sergio's jaw flexed as he clenched his teeth together. "I never finished. My involvement with the feds and the family… well, it made things difficult. But that's not the point. The point is this." He reached for something in the chair. When he pulled back, I felt myself get sick to my stomach. He had my chart in his hands. I tried to reach for it, so I could jerk it away and throw it across the room, but he held it out of my reach.
"So…" I licked my lips and looked down at the scratchy hospital blanket. "…you really can read. Good for you."
"I can read." His voice was calm. "Why didn't you tell me?"
I rolled my eyes. "Look, I told you I was sick. I told you I had cancer. I told you I was dying in six months. What more was there to tell?"
"You're a coward."
I gasped.
"And no I won't apologize for telling you the damn truth. You're a coward, and you know it."
"Get out!" I yelled.
"No." He bared his teeth. "Why the hell didn't you tell me you could get a bone marrow transplant?"
I sighed and leaned back against the pillows. "Because I can't."
"You've tried everything but the transplant."
"I know."
"Why?"
"Just because you're my husband doesn't mean you have the right to demand answers out of me."
"Like hell it doesn't!" He slammed the chart onto the chair and faced me, his hands bracing the side of my bed. "Tell me why."
I felt my body hunch, almost like I was trying to crawl into myself. I hated feeling small, and in that moment with that large Italian man hovering over me, his face menacing, I felt small, not afraid, but small. Like maybe I did deserve his anger.
"Because it won't work," I whispered.
"And you know that how?"
"Because nothing else has!" I yelled. "Alright? Nothing has helped. I've had leukemia for years, Sergio, years! Doctors appointments, chemotherapy, radiation, pills, pills, and more pills. Nothing has worked. Nothing. Besides, I'm too far gone, the odds of a bone marrow transplant, the odds of someone else's blood working in my body? Slim to none."
"But there's still a chance."
"There's always a chance."
"So take it."
"You don't get it.
"Try me," he growled. "This isn't you, this scared little girl. It's not you."
"Oh, and you know me so well." I rolled my eyes. "Besides, this isn't your style, Sergio, you don't worry about people in hospitals. You freaking put them there!"
"You don't know shit!" His voice rose.
"I know you don't care!" I fired back. "So why start now?"
His eyes filled with tears. What the hell was wrong with him? "It's stupid, not to take a chance, regardless of how slim that chance, at life."
"What? So now you're preaching to me about living when a few days ago you wanted to put a bullet in my head?"
His eyes were shuttered again, no emotion showing through. "Not everyone gets the chance you're getting."
"Why can't you let me die happy?"
"So that's it? You're going to selfishly let yourself die when you could live, because you're afraid of something not working? So what? It doesn't work, then you still die, Andi. At least you tried. Not everyone who has cancer has options. You do."
"I've made my choice."
"Like I said…" He rose from the bed. "Coward."
"Get out!" I yelled, my voice hoarse.
"Like I would stay!" He basically stomped out of my room.
It wasn't more than three seconds before Nixon was in my doorway.
I glanced at him guiltily. "You heard?"
"Pretty sure the whole floor heard." He winced. "Kinda harsh, Andi."
"Not you too." I was too weak to argue more than I already had. "He doesn't get it."
"I think you'd be surprised what he does and doesn't get, especially when it comes to cancer."
My eyes narrowed. "What do you mean?"
"Look…" Nixon sat on the edge of my bed. "…I'm only telling you this so you don't hate him more than you already do, or more than he already hates himself. His mom died of cancer. In this hospital. On this floor."
My stomach sunk.
"It was aggressive, so aggressive she literally had no options. It was like, one day she was fine and the next the doctors were telling the family she had weeks to live."
Tears welled in my eyes.
"So…" Nixon stood, his movements jerky. I could tell he wasn't used to talking about himself or about anything personal. Nixon was a lot like Sergio in that way; he kept pieces of himself hidden. "…Sergio was here every damn day. And in the end, when his mom died, he took the blame."
"But…" I shivered and pulled up the blankets. "..It's not his fault she got cancer."
Nixon let out a bitter chuckle. "His father thought otherwise… had Sergio been a better son, his mom wouldn't have been stressed, and the cancer wouldn't have been able to spread so quickly. Had Sergio watched his mother more carefully while his father was away doing business, they would have caught it in time. Really, take your pick. It was all Sergio's fault. What's worse? I think a part of Sergio believed him—Hell, I think he still believes him. His dad was a real piece of work. My father despised him, and that's really saying something, since my father considered torturing me an extracurricular activity."
"Nixon…" I blinked back tears. "…get my husband and send him back in here?"
"No." Nixon shook his head. "He doesn't deserve your pity, just like you don't deserve his. He hates it. He'll know I told you. And I didn't tell you so that you'd feel sorry for him. I told you so you'd understand why he's so pissed at you."
"It's my choice."
"Right." Nixon nodded. "And I get that, believe me, but sometimes our choices aren't just about us — but the people that love us, the people that have to stand by and watch us suffer."
"He doesn't love me."
Nixon said nothing.
I squinted, waiting for him to agree with me.
Instead he shrugged and walked out.
Well, that was helpful.
****
Two hours went by.
And then three.
Around eight that night, Sergio finally returned. He held two small cups in his hand.
No words were exchanged. Instead, he put both cups on the tray and moved it to where I could reach then sat in the chair.
He handed me a spoon.
And dug into his own cup.
Ice cream.
I vaguely remembered him promising me ice cream.
Guilt slammed into me as I grabbed my spoon and then my cup and started eating.
The hum of the TV and the beeping heart monitor were the only sounds emitting from the room. It may as well have been nails on a chalk board.
"So," I said finishing my ice cream. "You were gone a while."
"Yup." He eyed the TV.
"Thanks for the ice cream."
"I keep my promises." His gaze still didn't leave the TV.