Before I Go (15 page)

“Better or worse than you thought?” I had texted him a warning of my new appearance after getting off the phone with Dr. Saunders.

He walks closer and rubs his fingers over my bare shoulder. “Better.” His lips curve up, but the delight doesn’t reach his eyes. They remain serious. Focused. “Sexy, actually. In an
X-Files
kind of way.”

He pulls me to him. “We don’t have to go. You know I hate these things.”

I move out from his embrace. “Of course we’re going. It’s your big night.”

Jack’s getting an award for the research he presented to the Science of Veterinary Symposium, as well as being the first recipient of the Donald J. Hook research grant.

He steps toward the closet while pulling his T-shirt off over his head.

“Is my suit clean?” he asks, rummaging through the hangers.

I don’t answer, as I see that his hand has found the plastic dry-cleaning bag encasing his sport coat and neatly pressed pants. I perch myself on the edge of our bed and smooth my dress over my thighs.

“Have you told people?” I ask. I don’t add “about the cancer” because for the past few weeks Jack and I have abided by an unspoken agreement to not say the word—or discuss what the word is slowly doing to my body, our marriage, our happily ever after.

“A few,” he says, buttoning up a crisp white shirt. I notice slight yellow stains at the pits and make a mental note to order him a new oxford online.

I nod. I don’t want to get pity looks all night long, but I also don’t want to have to explain why my skin is glowing like the sun.

As if reading my thoughts, Jack adds, “We’ll just tell everyone else you spent too long in a tanning booth?” He pulls his pants up each leg, then stuffs his feet into a pair of black loafers with shiny silver buckles.

“Nobody goes to those anymore. Well, unless you live on the Jersey Shore,” I say.

Jack looks at me blankly.

“You know, like JWoww? Pauly D?”

“Who?”

I laugh at his almost nonexistent pop culture knowledge. “C’mon, grab your jacket, we need to go.”

He glances at the clock. “Relax, we have almost an hour.”

“Jack,” I say, rolling my eyes. I should have realized he probably never even glanced at the invitation. “It started thirty minutes ago.”

I LOVE WALKING into a room with Jack. His towering height commands attention, literally turning heads most places we go. I wasn’t blessed with model-good looks, so it’s the closest I’ve come to knowing what that might feel like. With him, I turn heads by proxy, and the exhilaration that comes with it rarely gets old. But Jack hates it. If it were up to him, he would be a chameleon, blending into the walls and carpet everywhere he went. Jack suffers from a moderate case of social anxiety. He finds most conversations with strangers awkward and uncomfortable and often relays to me in bed at night the stupid things he’s said or done in the company of others, which I find deliciously charming.

But tonight, for the first time, I wish he wasn’t quite so noticeable. Heads turn from the speaker when we attempt to sneak in the door at the back of the hotel ballroom, and I feel myself start to burn under the scrutiny. “Where are our seats?” I hiss at Jack, trying to fold my shoulders in on themselves, making my body as small as possible.

He spots them across the room, and we weave in and out of tables, trying not to trip over handbags and chair legs and people’s feet. What feels like hours later, I gratefully slip into my seat and pick up the goblet of water in front of me. Sweat has broken out on my forehead and I wonder why I didn’t just take Jack up on his offer to stay home.

“Am I bright red?” I whisper to Jack, because my face is absolutely on fire. Then I realize what I’ve said, and we both burst out laughing, which garners some irritated glances from the other people sitting at our table.

Jack leans his mouth closer to my ear. “More of a yellow, actually, if that’s possible. Must be the light in here.” I stifle another giggle, as a man in gloves and a white jacket sets a plate with a gravy-covered chicken breast and four limp stalks of asparagus in front of me.

I compose myself and cut small bites of the cold food as the man at the podium talks about the year in veterinary science.

“. . . and who could forget the woman who brought in what she thought was an injured house cat but turned out to be a
bobcat
? Thank god for Dr. Lichstein and his quick reflexes with the Diazepam.”

Polite laughter titters through the audience. I laugh again, too, and sit back in my chair feeling light and airy and happy to be sitting next to Jack.

“Finally, before we move on to the awards, I’d like to congratulate this year’s PhD and DVM candidates, who might just be the hardest-working, most innovative thinkers in the area of veterinary medicine that we’ve ever had.” He pauses, then waves his hand toward the audience. “I know, I know. I say that every year. Congratulations on your achievements and I look forward to handing you your diplomas in May.”

Applause fills the ballroom. I lift my hands to clap but find that they’re frozen in my lap.

May.

It’s as if someone placed an obnoxious alarm clock in the middle of the table and it’s ticking right at me, time hurtling toward the future.

Jack’s graduation.

Summer.

Four to six months.

And then I remember a gag gift I saw once in one of those Sky-Mall magazines or Brookstone catalogues that counted down the days until you die and I was thinking how morbid that was. But now I wonder
how many days mine would say I had. Twenty-five? Sixty? One hundred?

“Jack Richmond.”

Beside me, Jack scoots his chair back, then leans over to kiss me before standing up to walk toward the podium and I realize I’ve missed the entire lead-up to his award. I plaster a smile on my face and watch the back of his lanky body as it strides through the maze of tables, his jacket neatly hanging from his shoulders, his pants perfectly creased from the dry cleaner.

And I know that no number of days is enough.

When Jack gets back to the table, he sets his wood and gold plaque where his plate used to be and reaches out to take my hand. He leans in close and I think he’s going to kiss me again, but instead he whispers in my ear, “Are you OK?”

I nod, even though I feel clammy and shaky and a little sick.

I take a deep breath.

Focus.

I just need to focus.

I squeeze Jack’s hand reassuringly and smile at him, and when he turns his head back toward the speaker, I begin scanning the tables, though I’m not really sure what I’m looking for. Single women, for starters, but it’s harder than I thought it would be to tell who’s with a date and who’s just sitting next to a classmate, professor, or friend.

Some of the faces are familiar—people I’ve run into when taking Jack lunch at the lab or met at other veterinary college events.

My eyes light on a woman with a sensible blond bob. I stroke my own thick brown locks, smoothing the ends around my fingers. Jack likes long hair. Regardless, she looks smart in her square-framed glasses. Responsible. Organized. And better still, she looks to be alone. I take in the top of her blue strapless gown that’s splayed across her bosom like a cloth accordion—she’s a little flat-chested, but not in an unflattering way. When my gaze travels back to her face, I notice
that she’s staring at me. She gives me a small smile before I dart my eyes back to the stage.

Later, people stand in clusters holding sweating beverages, watching a few daring bodies clumsily jerk their limbs on the small square dance floor set up in front of a four-piece band. Jack has left my side to get us wine from the bar, but he’s being stopped every couple of feet with congratulatory handshakes and slaps on the back.

I stand with my hands clasped in front of me and then fold them across my chest. Then I put one hand on my hip and let my other arm dangle by my side. Even though I’m standing on the periphery of the party, I’m as self-conscious as if a spotlight is shining directly on me. I urge Jack to move faster through his admirers so I can take comfort in his shadow once again.

“Hey.”

I’d been staring so intently at Jack’s back I didn’t notice the blue-frocked woman with glasses approach me.

“Hi,” I say. Up close I can see that she’s a natural, not bottle, blonde. Her hair is thin, wispy, and her skin is so pale it’s translucent. Veins shine through like a roadmap of highways and rivers on her chest and cheeks. She looks fragile and I frown. I need Jack’s new wife to be sturdy. Durable. She opens her mouth to speak and I notice she has a piece of asparagus wedged in her upper teeth.

“You’re Jack’s wife.”

I nod.

“I’m Charlene,” she says.

Charlene. The name clicks.

“You took care of Rocky when we were in the mountains,” I say, remembering Jack’s irritation at her seeming ineptitude. OK, so Jack’s not terribly impressed by her veterinary skills. But she is responsible. And thoughtful. And she gave up her entire weekend so Jack could spend time with me. That’s a pretty big favor.

“Thanks so much for doing that.”

“Of course,” she says, and then clears her throat. “Jack told me about . . . your situation.”

“He did?” I’m surprised by this. That day in the car is the only time he’s mentioned this woman, yet he knows her well enough to tell her something so personal? Although he did say he had told some of his colleagues, so, then again, why not her? It’s not like he has a lot of close friends at work. People like Jack, but it takes a lot for him to open up. Even his best friend from high school, Thom, who still lives in Indiana, he only sees once a year, and talks to just a handful of times more than that.

“Yeah, it’s kind of my research field,” she says. “Cancer in dogs. Golden retrievers. I’m trying to find out why they have a higher incidence of it than other breeds.”

Ah. Now it makes sense. Jack would want to collect data from all available resources—even if said source is dealing with canines.

“They do?” I ask.

“Yeah. About one in three dogs gets cancer, but in golden retrievers it’s 60 percent.” She brightens when she says this, and I know it’s not because she’s happy that dogs are riddled with tumors, it’s because she’s like Jack—invigorated by her work.

Like Jack. My heart trips over itself, quickening. So what if her skin is see-through? It’s what’s inside that counts.

“Do you cook?” It just tumbles out of my mouth and I wish I could reach up and grab the words with my fist and stuff them back in.

She tilts her head and narrows her eyes behind her glasses. “Huh?”

Great. Now I’m the
crazy
cancer patient. Maybe I can mumble something about the brain tumor and slip off into the crowd. But before I can formulate an explanation for my unexpected turn in conversation, a woman comes up behind her.

“Hey, Char.”

She turns. “Hey!”

“Melissa, meet Daisy. Daisy, this is Melissa, my roommate.”

I find it a little strange that a nearly-thirty-year-old woman getting her PhD would have a roommate, but maybe times are tight. Or maybe she doesn’t like living alone.

I smile at Melissa and as she returns the expression, I notice a slight widening of her eyes as she takes in my sallow complexion. She quickly masks it, and turns back to Charlene. “Can we get out of here soon? I’m beat.”

“Yeah, that’s fine. Let me grab my coat.” She looks at me. “It was good seeing you. Please tell Jack I said congratulations.”

“I will.”

She begins to walk off, and then hesitates and leans in closer to me and touches my arm. “Yun zhi mushrooms,” she says in a quiet voice.

Now it’s my turn to be confused. I wonder if it’s a bizarre response to my equally bizarre cooking question, as in, “I do cook. Mushrooms.”

Then she adds: “U Penn just found that they increased survival rates for dogs with hemangiosarcoma. Look it up.”

I nod, struck by the kindness in her eyes. Even though I search for it, pity is nowhere to be found, and it makes me like her even more.

ON THE DRIVE home, Jack drones on about a professor that he spent most of the night talking to and his ideas regarding Jack’s research on treating hip dysplasia with a blue-green algae derivative.