Cancer

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Brendon smiles. It's early in the morning and it's dark and he's smiling; I can't quite make out the look on his face (it's early in the morning, dark, you know), but I know that he's smiling, because his big white teeth flash between his lips and I can hear the smile in his voice as he whispers something to me. We're all alone in the tiny apartment and he doesn't need to whisper, but he does anyway, because it's early and it's dark and I've only just now been sleeping.

"What?" My voice is a hoarse murmur, thick with sleep.

"Wake up, sweetheart." His voice is so soft and smooth and sweet, like melting honey. "I have to leave soon."

"I don't want you to leave."

Sunlight glows faintly behind the drawn curtains, unmarred by the streetlights outside; morning is approaching. Somehow his face reflects this as his smile draws inward on itself, and then his teeth aren't flashing anymore and there's no smile in his voice.

"I don't want to leave, either," he admits.

Up until this point, I am completely unaware of my surroundings. I shift a little so I can see him better and feel the cool sheets sliding against my skin--I am lying in his bed. He is kneeling on the floor beside me, his arms folded over the edge of the bed and his face inches from mine. He doesn't look so happy anymore, but the ghost of a smile tugs persistantly at the corners of his mouth. This is a shame, I think, so I lean forward and kiss his lips, and when I pull away, the smile is back.

"So don't leave," I suggest.

His smile widens. "Alright. I won't leave you, then."

I slide backwards in bed and take both of his hands in mine and pull him into bed with me. His chest is warm and I bury my face in it, inhaling his unique scent. There is an odd feeling of loss gnawing at the edges of my consciousness, but I can't remember why it's there, so I ignore it and go back to kissing him.

"Don't leave," I murmur.

"I won't."

"Never?"

"Never ever."

"Promise?"

He kisses the top of my head and then ducks down to press his mouth to my neck again; his lips flutter against my collarbone as he says, "I promise."

That odd aching loss has chewed a gaping hole through me by now and suddenly I understand why--and as soon as I understand, I wish I didn't, I wish I could live in my cruel imagination for the rest of eternity without ever realizing my mistake.

It lasts a moment longer, and he adds, of course, "I love you."

Then I woke up and I was stuck in a nightmare.

-----

Dad had left almost everything to me in his will, and along with his property, I also inherited the responsibilities he had left behind for me to take on. His business partners had simply bought his share of their investments from me, so that was taken care of, but there was still the house to be sold.

Frankly, I wasn't sure how I could stand even seeing that house again, much less walking around inside of it and being told by a complete stranger the monetary value of every last facet and aspect of the estate. I wasn't sure how I could stand watching the place that was full of so many emotional memories for me be coldly picked apart by someone who hadn't the slightest clue what I'd been through in the past few years. I wasn't sure if I could.

No, I knew I wasn't strong enough. But I also knew I had no choice.

After all he'd done for me while he was still alive, it was the least I could do for him now. I had to push away the memories that didn't matter anymore--the memories that would never serve any better purpose than to cloud my vision and my intentions--and focus on the memory of my father now. I had to do his memory justice, and simply forget the rest. That was what was right.

And I had to do what was right. Even if it killed me. I had to do what was right. I hadn't been the daughter I should have been to him in the last few years, and I had to fix that now. I couldn't let the same old hurts I kept holding onto to veer me off course again now.

I had to beat the cancer. I had to set this right.

-----

Still, it took what little guts I had left just to drive out to what used to be my house the next day, and then it took more guts than I had to feign normalcy for the real estate agent. But she could tell I had no intentions of keeping the house, and the smell of a good profit was enough to make up for my obvious eccentrities, I guess. And, as it turned out, the profit to be made on this house was a lot more than just good.

"Well, Ms. Matthews," said the real estate agent briskly, a greedy smile stretching at her thin lips, "I would say, considering the size of the house and its location, you could easily start out with a two-million-dollar asking price. At least."

At first, I could only stand rooted to the spot, paralyzed with the tiny prickling of shock that managed to permeate the careful numbness I had been operating under for the past two years. I blinked at her, my mouth falling open silently.

She didn't seem to understand, or even notice very much, my surprise. "Of course," she went on in the regal, matter-of-fact voice of a true professional, "that's just a starting-point estimate. We may very well be able to ask a lot more than that, if we're careful to choose the right buyers."

"Two million," I whispered, breathlessly. "Two million dollars..."

I examined the real estate agent's face carefully, searching for any hint of a lie or a joke in her expression, but all I found there was grim confusion. She couldn't figure out why I was so shocked. She sold homes for millionaires every day.

And now I was one. Now I was a millionaire.

A millionaire.

"Ms. Matthews?" The real estate agent's voice lost just a bit of it's tight control, inching up an octave with concern as I swayed on the spot a bit. "Are you alright?"

"Yes." I tried to sound reassuring, but my voice faltered and betrayed me. "I'm fine--I just--I need to sit down--"

I stumbled backwards, feeling around behind me until I found a hard surface to support my weight. I sank down gratefully onto the bench for a moment, taking deep breaths and focusing on not passing out as the real estate agent watched me from where she stood awkwardly in the middle of the foyer.

"Ms. Matthews--"

"I'm fine," I repeated, a little too sharply. I leaned forward and let my head hang between my knees for a moment, continuing to take deep breaths. It worked: when I straightened up, the room wasn't spinning anymore, and my head was a little clearer.

But something else happened when I looked up again. I saw the room--truly saw it--from an all-too-familiar angle that brought back a torrent of unwanted memories. This bench, this room, the stern expression of the woman before me, watching me carefully...

I jumped up off of the bench as if it had burnt me, and the real estate agent's concern shifted to full-blown alarm. Before she could say anything, I told her, a little frantically, "I really need to go now, but you can just fax those papers to me later, can't you?" Without waiting for a reply, I fled.

I couldn't be in that house any longer. There were too many memories. Too many ghosts. I had to get away, I had to run--run from my past again.

-----

Dappled sunlight filtered in through the breaks in the leaves of the scraggly trees lining the road, casting oddly-shaped shadows across the hood of my car. I drove slowly and thoughtlessly, caught in a hazy world that felt nothing like reality, through the empty streets of the suburb. Through the suburb that no longer belonged to me.

I don't know when exactly I started crying, or even why I cried. All I know is that at some point, I realized I was in no condition to drive and, more importantly, had no will to drive. I had no will to ever move again.

I parked the car on the shoulder and sunk lower into the seat. Great heaving sobs racked my body, pulling me under, submerging me in an overwhelming sea of misery. I doubted that I would ever surface again.

I had been wrong before--I could see that now. I could not conquer the sea. It was so vast, endless... I was in over my head; I always had been, but I no longer had the strength to keep treading water, as I had for the past two years. I was drowning.

And then, in that moment, as I sat alone in the still solitude of my car, grieving over loss after loss and being sucked down into that deepest sea--then, I saw all at once the beacon of light I had been provided. I found my last life preserver.

Even in the face of so much pain, I was not brave enough to take Brendon's hand again. But I had another choice. Someone else had reached out to save me, too.

It was not the end. Not yet. I could still fight the cancer. There was still a chance. I could fix it, still.

The sobs quieted almost as suddenly as they had began, and my chest ached with a hollowed-out, empty feeling as the last few tears escaped, spilling silently down my cheeks. I felt my jaw set with a resolution as I reached into my pocket, my fingertips sliding against the smooth paper inside and resulting in a warm, welcoming crinkling sound as I pulled it out of my pocket. I smoothed out the already worn and tattered flourescent green Post-It note across the steering wheel and stared at the tiny black digits scrawled across its surface until they were all I could see, until the numbers were etched firmly in my memory.

Then I picked up the phone and carefully dialed the number that had become my lifeline.