Unison

Tony's POV

I wake up at eight thirty, leaving my just enough time to throw on my clothes and brush my teeth before going to get Christine. It's these Wednesday mornings that I always dread; mainly because I have to get up before noon, but in another way they're good because while the first half of the week was spent Christine-less, at least the last half will include her. So I guess in actuality I didn't mind them much at all.

I'm not really ready to get out of bed yet, so I call her to see if she is okay or if she wants me to pick her up anything. She doesn't answer, like usual when I call her this early in the morning, which I guess is a good thing. I would be concerned if she did answer because it would mean she wasn't sleeping. I forgo leaving a voice-mail, but I can't help but to notice the date display across my screen. March 25. Something seems important about today and I spend a few minutes wracking my brain to try and figure out what it is. When I realize I'm loosing time and I'm already late, I push it aside and focus on the things I do know.

The past few days have been good ones. I mean, even if Christine's been excessively tired lately she's been keeping her food down. Not that she can really eat that much, but still. Progress is progress. Either way, she's supposed to come home from the hospital today and I've let the apartment slip into it's natural messy state within the days she's been gone. I originally planned to wake up at some unholy hour to peel around the place to make sure everything was White Glove Test clean; the kitchen floor moped, the carpets vacuumed, no rings on the coffee table from my carelessness.... Things like that. Things that, for some reason, made her less anxious when she came home. Maybe it's a side affect of spending so much time at a place so sterile. If an empty sink and clean counters could make her happy, then I would scrub them until my fingers smelt like detergent and bled.

Unfortunately, but mostly for her, I don't have time anymore because I overslept. After getting dressed and brushing my teeth, I grab whatever I can find and eat in the car during the drive. I can't eat much other than the occasional cracker and a lot of soup when I'm with her. Otherwise I feel like I'm gloating. I can eat this and you wouldn't without throwing up, type of thing. I never feel like making two separate meals, anyway.

As I get into the car, I still feel like I'm forgetting something. I've got my keys, my wallet, sunglasses, a blanket for her in case she wants it during the ride back, the pillow off the bed and breakfast. When I've checked everything off my mental check list, I turn up the radio and head towards the interstate leading to San Diego Cancer Center. I can't listen to music on these post-chemo days because it makes her headaches worse which just makes everything hurt more and the uneasiness she seems to have permanently taken up heighten. So I turn it down when I park, fourty-five minutes later, so it doesn't come on full blast when I start my car up again.

The doctors greet me as Mr. Perry, although I'm not sure why since they've heard Christine call me Tony plenty of times before. I've even introduced myself to them as Tony before just in case they weren't catching on. They still hadn't, and titles like Mr. Perry seem way too formal. Still, I give them a wave as I duck down the hallway with the elevators. I catch one just before the door closes and climb inside. My tardiness doesn't grant me the opportunity to wait for a less packed ride to the seventh floor. Either way, it doesn't take very long and pretty soon I'm walking straight towards the room I've visited once every day since Monday. Dr. Votano, a middle aged man, looks up from his clipboard when she hears me approaching, my sneakers shuffling against the gray carpet that doesn't do much for the plain white walls. This place is so damn depressing.

"Hey, Dr. V," I say in response just before I reach Christine's room.

"Tony?"

I look back and he waves his hand for me to go back over to him.

"She's going to be kind of fragile for the next few days because of treatments." It's the same speech he gives me every Wednesday morning when I come to pick her up. Wednesday is also known as day three post-chemo session. The third day is when all the drugs are officially flushed from her system so I don't have to worry about getting poisoned or something if I use the same bathroom as her. Simple things that have become complicated. "Just remember to let her sleep and try to get her to drink plenty of water so she doesn't become dehydrated. That's very important."

"Okay." I'm about to walk away when he calls me back again. "Yeah?"

"Take hold of today," he reminds me with a smile. He always does.

I go into her room quietly just in case she's sleeping. Mike, Jaime, Vic, Hannah and I were able to all pitch in to get her a private room while most of patients in the hospital shared one with at least one other person around their own age. She turns over when she hears me enter. They are large bags beneath her eyes and she looks like she hasn't slept since I dropped her off her Monday morning. For some reason, it reminds me of whatever it is that I'm forgetting. When Christine smiles at me and gestures for me to go sit on her bed, my mind is replaced with thoughts of her. I sit on top of the hospital blankets.

"Ready to go?"

"Yeah," she says, and then a yawn escapes from between her lips. "I actually slept a bit this morning."

It made sense that she's able to sleep better at home, where there's a bigger mattress and the absences of constant beeping from machinery. I remind her of this and then ask, "How're you feeling?"

"Good," she says in a quiet voice. "Hungry."

"Do you want something to eat?"

She shakes her head as if it's forbidden. "Not now."

I simply nod. "Are you ready to head out?" To be honest, it didn't look it. While her suitcase is packed and resting on the floor, leaning against the end of the bed, the portion of her chest peaking out of the blankets shows that she's wearing her hospital gown.

"The nurse is supposed to help me change," she explains.

"Not a problem. I've got all the time in the world."

She laughs a little. "I'm glad." It's only then do I realize what I said could be interpreted as extremely cruel.

Then the nurse comes in and picks up the clothes Christine had picked out. She stands, slowly, and follows the nurse into the bathroom to change into going-home-clothes, a hoodie and sweatpants. I wait patiently because I know these things take time. I lean back against her stack of pillows and close my eyes as I wait until the bathroom door clicks open and she comes out, changed out of the open back nightgown.

I reach for the suitcase leaning up against the foot of her bed. I take her hand in my free one and we walk back to the elevators and then to the front doors.

"We'll see you next Monday, Christine!" The women at the front desk says as we reach the doors. I wonder if she realizes that Christine is all too aware of this. Reminders of Monday-Wednesday routines are unnecessary. I watch as the corners of her mouth turn downward, but up again when she sees that I've noticed. Christine simply waves to the women and then follows me out into the beautiful early Spring San Diego weather.

"The car is this way," I tell her, and she follows without saying anything. "Are you sure you're not hungry?"

She shakes her head and waits for me to hit the button on my keys to unlock the doors. I look at her for a moment, her tired eyes and thinned hair pulled back and away from her face. Before I go to put her things in the back seat, I give her a gentle hug and kiss her.

"I missed you."

"I missed you, too," she tells me before letting her hands slip from my back. "But I want to get home."

I nod, and hurry to thrown her suitcase into the back, hop in and started the engine. The ride back onto the highway is a silent one. No radio, but a conversation about what my week involved while she was away.

"The same as usual," I tell her, both so she doesn't feel like she missed out on anything and because it's true. "Practice with the guys, I babysat for Vic. Same shit different days."

She nods, leans her head against the back of the seat and closes her eyes. "I'm sorry I'm so tired."

"It's okay. You can fall asleep." Having cancer, I learned, involved a lot of apologizing.

By the time we get back to the house, she's fast asleep in the passenger's seat, leaving me to my own thoughts and the remaining pressing idea that there is something different about today. After a silent drive, I leave her suitcase in the back and go to unlock the door. I've done this plenty of times before, nearly every single week, so I know the steps to take. Once the duplex door is sitting wide open on it's hinges, I go to carefully unbuckle her. Slipping one hand beneath her knees and the other supporting her back, I walk as smoothly as I can to the door so I don't wake her. She deserved to sleep, since it'll ultimately help her fight this just like if she was sleeping off the flu or something. From what she's told me, it hurts less while she's sleeping to the point of sometimes being painless.

Then it hits me, as I look down in Christine's exhausted face in the light of my kitchen, because it reminds me of someone else. The thing I had been forgetting today was her birthday.