Ill Will (19 page)

“Okay, I don’t have any solutions, even Band-Aid. Except I care for both of you and don’t want either of you hurt. More than you’ve already been hurt. I don’t know what to do, but I’ll do anything to help.”

“That’s where I am, I’ll do anything, but nothing I do seems to make a difference. Right now I don’t know where she is or even if she’s okay.”

“Have you tried calling her?” I gave her a look.

She returned my stare. “Yeah, three times. My last message was she didn’t need to talk to me, just to let me know she was okay.” She glanced at her watch to let me know that the message had long gone unanswered.

I got out my phone. “I’ll call her.”

“No, don’t. She’ll know I asked you to. And…”

“So what if she knows?” I started to scroll through my contacts.

“And…if she doesn’t love me enough to let me know she’s okay, maybe she doesn’t love me enough for us to be together.”

I looked away from my phone, then put it down.

I didn’t know what to say to that. I’d call Alex later, without telling Joanne. “I’m not disagreeing with you that Alex is stuck. Hard as what you went through was, I think it was harder for her. You were here, true, but at least you had the chance to do something to make it better. Get in a rowboat and pull people off roofs. She was cooped up with her asshole relatives in Baton Rouge, listening to them blaming New Orleans for what happened, and when they were done with that, going on diatribes about homosexual child molesters. A great place to be lesbian and pregnant.”

“I think she blames herself for the miscarriage,” Joanne said softly. They had been trying to have a child; this was the one that had looked like it might go to term. Alex had miscarried shortly after Katrina. “And maybe she blames me, too, for not being there with her.”

“And maybe you blame yourself as well. You weren’t there. You couldn’t be there.”

“Thanks for the therapy.”

“Hey, you want sympathy, you talk to Cordelia. You want a bitch slap into reality, you talk to me.”

She didn’t let go of my hand as the waiter came by to refill our tea.

“Sometimes I think…maybe Alex would do better with Cordelia and you and…”

“What, put the macho lesbian turds together and pair up the nice girls? I like you, Joanne—no, I love you. But we both carry guns and that could be a dangerous combination.” I didn’t let go of her hand. I couldn’t give her what she wanted, but I could at least give her that.

“Yeah, you’re probably right. I was also thinking that…maybe Cordelia could talk to her. They’ve known each other forever. Maybe…I don’t know…maybe the two nice girls can work it out.”

Maybe it was my face, or maybe my hand jerked.

Joanne looked at me. “What is it?” she asked.

I didn’t want to say the words; that made them too real. “Cordelia is—they have to do more tests. It might be just a scare. But she’s been not doing well lately. Her blood work was off. It might be cancer. But we have to have more tests. She has to have more tests,” I corrected.

“Oh, shit, Micky. If there is anything I can do…”

I wanted to say,
Work it out with Alex. I can’t lose anything more either.
But the day was out of miracles. “I’ll let you know. Right now, it’s wait and worry. I’ll ask her about talking to Alex. I think she’d like to focus on something other than waiting for test results and trying to go through the usual routine of the day.”

“Yeah, thanks. I’ll leave it up to your judgment. If it’s not the right time, don’t mention anything. We’ll get through this. I’ll work on being perfect again.” She let go of my hand.

We paid our bill. Joanne let me take the leftover pizza.

She didn’t repeat what she said about losing someone.

My car was at the police station. Joanne took me back there, even offered to drive me wherever I needed to go.

But it was time for me to get behind the wheel again and learn to deal with the usual insanity of New Orleans drivers. I debated calling Cordelia to tell her about my exciting day, but prudently decided that should wait until I could do it in person.

“It’s a normal day, no one is chasing you,” I told myself before starting the ignition.

Once my car was started I didn’t immediately pull out. I needed a destination. Part of me suggested going home and flopping in front of the TV to watch cooking shows.

I pulled into traffic still not sure where I would go.

A look in the rearview mirror revealed a big truck behind me. Never mind it was red and hauling a refrigerator, the sight of its grill starting my hands shaking again.

My house—and cooking shows—seemed the only sensible destination. My head would not wrap around anything useful today. I could talk my boss—me—into a sick day.

Home welcomed and calmed me in a way the familiar and safe can. I could put my feet up, there was chocolate to eat, a recent
National Geographic
to read, inane TV in the background to fill the rooms with voices, and a cup of tea beside me.

I spent a couple of hours drinking tea, reading about coral reefs, and watching cupcakes shows, letting the adrenaline drain from my body and the fear from my mind.

Cordelia. I needed to let her know I was safe and no more maniacs might knock on our door.

Just as I picked up my phone to call her and tell her all was well, I heard a familiar car and looked out the window as she parked in front of the house.

To let her know that everything was okay, I opened the door, waiting for her to get out. This is something we usually can’t do because the cats are sure the streets outside are paved with tuna and, if they were here, would be clawing past my legs to get out. I hadn’t even had the energy to go down the block and retrieve them yet.

She moved slowly getting out of the car, as if she was tired.

I smiled at her.

She tried to smile back and I knew something was wrong.

She didn’t say anything as she entered the house. After shutting the door, she dropped her briefcase on the floor. Then she took one of my hands and lifted it to her throat, guiding my fingers to a lump just above her collarbone.

I knew what she was telling me and I didn’t want to know. “But people get swollen lymph nodes from…”

She shook her head. “Not like this. We did the needle aspiration when I saw Jennifer—the biopsy—and it came back…came back…it’s not good news. I’m a patient, not a doctor.” Then she collapsed into my arms as if it had taken all her strength to make it through the day and she hadn’t any left to even stand.

I caught her and held her, trying desperately not to fall apart myself.

It seemed we stood that way forever, her leaning into me, me finally losing my battle not to cry, until she finally lifted her head, roughly wiped her hand across her face and nose, and said, “I can’t breathe.” She pulled away from me and went to the kitchen sink, washing her face with dishwashing liquid.

I followed her and handed her a dish towel, grabbing a tissue for myself and discreetly blowing my nose.

When she finished drying her face, I said, “You should have called me. I would have come.”

“I didn’t want to worry you.” She put her hand on my arm to forestall my reply. “That’s not really it. I couldn’t tell you over the phone. They worked me in as a favor—their office is just across the street. Didn’t think I’d get the biopsy results so quickly—but John, the pathologist, went to med school with me. Sometimes professional courtesy isn’t a good thing.” She smiled weakly. I let her ramble. She rarely does; at times, I think she’s too controlled and keeps things in. Unlike me.

She continued, “I knew it was bad news when Jennifer—the oncologist—called me at the end of the day. We think we’re good at hiding it in our voices, but we’re not. I wanted to say, ‘No, it can wait until tomorrow,’ but I knew that tomorrow wouldn’t change anything.”

“Except I could have been there.”

She took my hand and lifted it to her cheek. Her normally soft skin was rough from crying. “Be here now. That’s what I need from you.”

Given that I had chosen to wait to tell her about almost being killed until I saw her, I could hardly be upset that she’d made essentially the same choice. “I’ll be here,” I told her. “Anything you need, I’m here.”

She turned her face, kissing the palm of my hand. Then she shook herself. “I’m okay. People deal with this all the time. A lot of cancers are curable; this is one of them. I’m much better off than most people since I know many of the people who’ll be treating me. We’ll get through this. Hell, it often causes weight loss, so this could be my chance to take off those pounds that have crept on.”

“What happens now?” I asked.

“More tests to determine the stage and what sub-type it is. Then chemo and maybe radiation therapy.”

I guess my face showed what I was thinking. She said, “It’ll be okay. Not easy, but okay.” She kissed my hand again.

“You’re not just telling me that, are you?”

“No, I’m telling you the truth as best I know it. I’m fairly young, don’t have other complicating factors like diabetes or heart disease. I can handle the kind of treatment needed to eradicate it. Plus I’m part of the medical field, I know the questions to ask and what to expect.”

“Okay, I’ll trust you on this. Just tell me what you need.”

She let go of my hand and was quiet for a moment. “I’ve put you through so much. Maybe…too much. You don’t have to stick around through this, too.”

“If I got sick—cancer—would you dump me?”

“No, of course not, but…you never left me.”

“You didn’t leave me. You had a fling.”

“Whatever it was, I hurt you terribly. And…I don’t think I can ever make that up to you.”

“Whatever it was, it’s over. I know that things change and you can’t un-write the past. If I didn’t want to be with you, I should have left you then. I’m not leaving you now.”

She started to cry again. “I never stopped loving you. That’s what made it so wrong.”

I put my arms around her. “Remember, she was a lying, manipulative bitch. An attractive, charismatic, lying, manipulative bitch who relentlessly pursued you, I might add, so just stop this. I’m not leaving you—unless you’d prefer not to have me around and take up with some nice nurse who has a better bedside manner—and let’s just get out of soap opera–ville.”

“You have a great bedside manner,” she snuffled. “You don’t hover and you make me laugh.” To prove that she was on the way out of soap opera land, she asked, “Where are the cats?”

“Still at Torbin’s.”

Then she looked at me with an expression that said she just remembered I was in danger.

Which meant I had to tell her about my morning with Dudley. A somewhat light-on-the-details version, as I was of the firm opinion that she had enough to worry about without considering how close I’d come to being killed mere hours ago. I’d just have to make sure we didn’t turn on the TV, as it seemed likely that this one would make the local news.

“So we can stay here tonight,” I ended my tale. “Should I go get the cats?”

She went with me to the front door to retrieve her briefcase, stopping me before I put the key in the lock to give me a long kiss.

Maybe she was right
, I thought as I crossed the street,
maybe this will be okay.
It was hard to think that she could be here, working, talking, kissing me, and be truly ill. Maybe scary ill, but not truly, won’t be here tomorrow ill.

Torbin was home and greeted me at the door. “The TV cameras did not get your good side.”

“There were no TV cameras. You are a lying dog.”

“Old footage. I gather you had quite an adventure today,” he said as he led me into the kitchen where both of our cats came to greet me as if I might save them from a world of living with two other cats. Since he’d already seen it on TV, I gave him the less censored version of my morning’s adventure while corralling Rook and Hepplewhite and depositing them in their cat carrier.

“So all’s well that ends well,” he summed up, over the raucous chorus of cats who wanted to express their displeasure at being penned in for five minutes. “My payment is that you and your gorgeous girlfriend have to come out and play on a school night. I’m doing the drag extravaganza next Wednesday, and I expect you both front row center.”

I had debated whether to tell Torbin or wait. This made the decision for me. “I’m sorry, Tor, I don’t think we’re going to be able to make it. Cordelia might have…lymphoma.” I stumbled, couldn’t say the C word. “She’s been tired lately, they did some tests and this is what came back. So, next week…I don’t know, we just can’t plan much right now.”

“Shit, Micky, that sucks.”

“She says it’ll be okay. There aren’t any good cancers to have, but this isn’t one of the worst ones.”

“Well, at least she’s got decent insurance,” Torbin said, a little resentment oozing through his words.

Wrong thing to say. No,
beyond
the wrong thing to say, his worry about his own situation had turned him into a self-absorbed lout. After having almost been killed in the morning and finding out that my partner had cancer in the afternoon, this was not the kind of day when I was willing or even capable of having someone say the wrong thing to me.