Before I Go (9 page)

JACK IS A sound sleeper. I often tease him that if our house were lifted off the ground in a
Wizard of Oz
–esque tornado, he would snore right through it. But tonight as soon as I tap his arm, his eyes pop open.

“Daisy,” he says.

His skin is warm from sleep, and I leave my hand on his shoulder as I whisper, “What if it’s a mistake?” As soon as it’s out of my mouth, I realize how childishly desperate it sounds. And the conviction I felt on the floor of the kitchen leaves me as quickly as the wind leaves a boxer who’s been punched in the gut.

Jack struggles to sit up, and when his back is firmly against our white paneled headboard that I found at a yard sale shortly after we moved in, he reaches for me. “Come here,” he says. I snuggle into his armpit for the second time that night. And because I tell Jack almost everything, I tell him my theory.

The amputated foot.

Switched-at-birth babies.

The other woman, sleeping peacefully.

When I’m done, Jack holds me tighter. “Maybe,” he whispers into my hair, but not because he thinks it could be true. He says it because what else is there to say?

And I realize that even though I didn’t believe it—not really—I
desperately wanted Jack to. I wanted him to jump up and clap his hands together and confirm that
Yes!
Of course!
This is all just one terrible mistake. Not one that we’ll laugh at ten years down the road. God, no. But one that we’d think of when terrible shit happens to us, like getting laid off, or both of our cars breaking down in the same week or our basement flooding (again), and he’d look at me and say, “It could be worse. Remember that time we thought you were
dying
?”

I mask my disappointment and force a chuckle. “It was worth a try.”

And then, even though Jack and I have never been big cuddlers at night, I don’t move from his embrace—even when my arm starts to fall asleep; even when a slick of sweat forms between my neck and his naked shoulder; even when the sun peeks through our window blinds.

I WAKE UP in our bed alone, the digital clock announcing 10:37 in big red figures. Groggy and confused—I never sleep past seven—I call out into the still house for Jack.

I’m surprised when he responds.

“What are you still doing here?” I yell, sitting up and swinging my legs over the edge of the bed. “You’re late!”

He appears at our bedroom door. “I’m not going in today.”

“
What?
What about clinic? What about Rocky?”

“Daisy,” he says, and the ache in his eyes reminds me of Dr. Saunders and everything comes screaming back at me like a freight train.

“Oh. Right.” And suddenly I wish Dr. Saunders had given me a pamphlet like I got from the dentist the time I was diagnosed with gingivitis: “You Have Lots of Cancer: Here’s What to Do Now.”

“Well, what are we supposed to do?” I ask Jack. “We can’t just sit around the house. What about school?” Shit. Gender Studies. “I have
an exam today. And what about you? You’re about to graduate. You can’t miss clinic.”

He comes to sit next to me on the bed and puts his hand on my thigh. It feels heavy. He says I should email my professors. He says he’s already called his vet clinic director, Dr. Ling, and that he understood. He says that he’s going to take the rest of the week off while we sort this out. And I wonder if my cancer is something that’s just been placed in the wrong pile at a garage sale.

THE FIRST THING I see when I walk into the kitchen is the half-empty box of Cheez-Its on the counter. I cringe. I can’t believe I let myself eat those fake, processed crackers. I pick up the box, walk it over to the trash can, and let it drop with a satisfying thud into the plastic liner.

I open the refrigerator and nearly gasp. All of my bad impulse purchases stare back at me. They lay chaotically on the shelves, like a group of children who have had assigned seating all semester and are suddenly given free rein of the classroom. Wrinkling my nose, I reach behind a six-pack of artificially flavored cherry Jell-O and grab the organic cranberry juice. I shut the fridge door. I’ll reorganize it later.

As I pour the red liquid into a glass, my eye is drawn to the errant orange Froot Loop under the cabinet. I should get a broom and sweep it up, but I don’t have the energy. Is it the cancer? Would I start feeling symptoms so quickly? No, that’s ridiculous. And to prove it to myself, I retrieve the broom from the hall closet, take it back into the kitchen, and aggressively stab it under the cabinets, directing the Froot Loop and other debris into a neat pile in the center of the tile floor.

I transfer the mound into the dustpan and deposit it in the trash
and then stand in the middle of the kitchen. See? I’m fine. I used a broom just like someone who doesn’t have Lots of Cancer. And that niggling, hopeful thought sneaks into my mind again. Maybe, just maybe, I don’t.

I look at the counter where I plug my cell phone into the wall every night, but the end of the white cord is empty. I must have left it in my shoulder bag. I walk down the hall to our bedroom and hear the water running. Jack’s in the shower. I move faster. I can probably call Dr. Saunders before he gets out and he’ll never have to know.

I retrieve my phone from its pocket and see that I have three missed calls and two text messages from Kayleigh. One of them says:
Are you alive?

I clear the screen and dial the main office line at the cancer center. My heart thumps in my chest as it rings.
Dah-dump, dump dump. Dah-dump, dump dump.

“Athens Regional Cancer Center,” a woman’s voice says. I ask to speak to Dr. Saunders.

“May I tell him who’s calling?”

“Daisy Richmond.”

“Hold, please.”

The line clicks and flowery music fills my ear.

After a few minutes, Dr. Saunders’ voice breaks in. “Daisy,” he says. “I’m glad you called.”

I’m a little surprised that it’s him. I didn’t really expect that I would get to speak with him simply by asking for him. Doctors have an elusiveness about them; almost celebrity-like. You can talk to their handlers and they’ll set up an allotted time for you to be in their presence, but you can’t call them directly whenever you want. They’re much too important for that. But then, Dr. Saunders has always been a bit different. More accessible.

“Yes, well, I had a quest—”

“Can you come in this afternoon?” He cuts me off. “I’d like to talk with you about something.”

My grip on the phone tightens. Oh my God. Maybe the diagnosis really is a mistake and he already caught it. Maybe he wants to tell me about it in person; make sure I don’t intend to sue the hospital for mental distress. My heartbeat speeds up.
Dah-dump-dump-dump-dah-dump-dump-dump.

“Daisy?”

“Yeah, yes. Of course. But, um . . . Can’t you just tell me over the phone?”

You screwed up. Say it.
Say it.

“I’m sorry, I have to run. I have patients. Stay on the line. Martha will set up a time.”

Martha? Martha doesn’t even work for you anymore, I want to shout, when the classical music starts up again. Then my flare of irritation settles into self-satisfaction. I am downright smug. Because if Dr. Saunders can’t even remember that his receptionist retired, then it’s all too conceivable that he could confuse a couple of test results.

The receptionist suggests 2:30 and I agree, because my day is inconceivably devoid of activity. As I hang up, Jack walks into the room, a towel around his waist, his hair still wet. He shivers.

“Who was that?”

“Dr. Saunders,” I say. “He wants me to come in this afternoon.”

“Did he say what for?”

I shake my head no. And then, instead of telling Jack about my successful handling of the broom, or Dr. Saunders’ inability to remember that Martha no longer works for him, I leave the room, because all at once I’ve turned into a seven-year-old who doesn’t want Jack to tell me there’s no Santa Claus.

THE LAST TIME Jack and I stood in the Athens Regional parking lot together was right after my final radiation treatment more than four years ago. He surprised me with an obnoxious number of balloons—so many that I thought he might get whisked into the sky if a strong wind blew. “Did you miss the turn for the circus?” I asked him.

“I don’t think so,” he said, nodding at my bald head. “Aren’t you the strongman?”

“Very funny,” I said. We stood there grinning at each other. I had known Jack for only two years then, but he had stuck by me through all the cancer stuff, and we had made it to the other side. “You’re done,” he said. “I’m done,” I agreed. He uncurled his fist that was holding the balloons and they started floating upward. Then he held out his hands to me. “Let’s go.”

Today we head toward the entrance in silence. I slip my hand into his and we walk through the parting glass and down the corridor to the heavy wooden door of the cancer center. Not-Martha looks up as I sign in. “Dr. Saunders is running a few minutes behind today,” she says. I nod and go sit down next to Jack.

He picks up a
Sports Illustrated
and I start to rifle through a
Highlights for Children
, but it’s clear that neither of us is actually reading the words on the pages in front of us. I’m mentally practicing what I’m going to say to Dr. Saunders when he admits to the mistake. I try angry: “How
dare
you? Do you know how freaked out I’ve been?” Or I could be happily surprised: “Really? Are you sure? Oh thank
God
!” And then, of course, there’s kind understanding: “These things happen.” I’d nod. “I just feel so sorry for the other woman. That poor thing.”

Lativia finally calls my name and we both stand up and follow her through the waiting-room door and down the hall to Dr. Saunders’ office. Before we walk in, I decide to go with kind understanding, because really, I like Dr. Saunders, and it is just a tragic situation for everyone.

He stands up behind his desk when we enter and sticks his hand out to Jack. “Been a few years, huh?” he says.

“Yes, sir,” Jack says, shaking Dr. Saunders’ bear paw.

“I’m glad to see you, though I wish it were under better circumstances,” he says, addressing both of us.

I bob my head in a move that I hope oozes with somber empathy, so he knows that I’m ready to graciously accept his news. Jack and I sit down in the chairs across from him and wait.

Dr. Saunders removes his glasses and sets them down on the desk between us.

“Daisy, I know it’s not even been twenty-four hours since you were here last, and that’s not a lot of time to process the information I gave you, but I’d like to start with any questions you may have.”

I look at him, confused. I feel like Dr. Saunders and I are actors in a play, and he’s embarrassingly forgotten his lines. I need to prompt him.

“I do have a question,” I say, glancing at Jack. “Are you sure those are my test results? I’m thinking they may have been switched with another patient.”

He doesn’t even wait a beat before responding, and I get the feeling I’m not the only person to have ever thought this. “Yeah, I’m sorry Daisy, but no. We have a system. We’re very careful with that sort of thing.”

I open my mouth to ask how he’s certain, but Jack clears his throat and sits forward, cutting off my thought. “So what’s the plan here? Daisy said something about brain surgery?”