Can't Always Get What You Want (25 page)

“You’re acting weird,” she says.

“I have no idea what you mean.”

I know exactly what she means.

The whole birthday-surprise issue is gnawing at me. On the one hand, I’m completely excited that Brett is planning something. But it has me reminiscing about past birthday surprises a bit more than I should be.

Ugh. I just need to get over it.

How can you ever get over it?

“How are the wedding plans coming?” I ask. Earlier today, I realized that I don’t even know where the wedding will be, or if they’re having a bridal shower, or anything. I’m such a horrible friend.

She sits up a bit straighter in her chair. “Great. Everything’s all taken care of.”

“Where’s it going to be?”

“The AGA.”

“Seriously?”

Sam and I went to the Art Gallery of Alberta last year to see an exhibit. The space is really cool, with sculptural architecture and entire walls made out of glass. Very airy and modern.

It’ll suit them to a tee.

Although I wonder who’s footing the cost. It’s not like Sam and Narayan come from uber-rich families. Maybe they’ve worked out an arrangement with the gallery. Like, giving them their firstborn son or something.

“How’d you get in so quickly?” I ask. “Doesn’t a venue like that have a ten-year waiting list or something?”

“More like a year or two,” Samira says with a laugh. “They had a cancellation, and we snapped it up.”

“Wow, that’s fantastic. Everything seems to be going smoothly,” I say.

Maybe a bit too smoothly. Remember Murphy’s Law? For some reason, I have this sense of foreboding, as if things are going just a bit too perfectly, and something bad (or hilarious) is going to happen at the wedding.

Call it my “Spidey-sense.”

For my best friend’s sake, if anything does go wrong, I hope it’s a livable level of disaster. You know, something that will seem funny years later, not tragic. Tragic like the groom saying the wrong name (ouch), or witnessing your parents going at it in the coatroom. Burning your eyes out with hot pokers couldn’t erase that image from your mind.

It’s kind of hard to believe. My best friend is getting married to the love of her life in three weeks.

Would I have been married by now? To Aaron?

Without a doubt.

I manage to keep most of my focus on Samira for the afternoon, and it almost feels like old times. But thoughts of Aaron are simmering on the back burner.

January 19, 2009

Aaron and I are sitting together on the lumpy couch he and his buddies found at Goodwill last week. Up until now, they’ve been using boxes as furniture.

The lumpy couch is a million times better.

My legs are draped over his. I sigh in the bliss of our postcoital glow.

We’ve been at it like monkeys since my birthday. Yesterday, we went to the water park at West Edmonton Mall, and snuck a quick one in the cabanas lining the fake beach.

It was fantastic.

Aaron is playing with a loose strand of my hair. “Are you doing anything tomorrow?”

“Nothing exciting. What are you up to?” I ask.

He sighs and looks down at his lap. His shoulders are slumped, and lines are etched deep in his forehead.

“Aaron?”

“I’m going back to the doctor tomorrow. He wants to go over my test results.”

After a week straight of headaches and worsening nausea, I’d marched him to the nearest doctor’s office and made him an appointment.

“Well, that’s good. Then we’ll know what sort of bug you’re battling,” I reply. “It’s probably just a bad flu.”

He nods. “My appointment is at ten tomorrow.”

“Morning?” I ask.

He shoots me a look that says, “
Duh
.”

“I’m sorry, babe. I’d love to go with you, but I’ve got a final exam tomorrow. I can’t blow it off,” I explain.

I’ve been studying like mad, trying to prepare for my first-semester exams. Thankfully, Aaron is an excellent tutor. And despite how our studying sessions usually end (with us naked in various locations: my bed, his bed, the car, the bathroom at Subway), I’ve actually learned a lot.

“Sorry, babe, I forgot. Don’t worry about it, I’ll see you after.”

His expression breaks my heart. He looks so…scared.

“You know what? I’ll say something’s come up. I might be able to get an extension.”

He exhales sharply, as if he’s been holding his breath. He looks so relieved that for a moment I think he might cry.

“Thanks, Red.” He takes my hand in his, and traces circles on my skin.

“I feel like a real dick asking you to blow off an exam for me, but”—he gulps, his voice cracking—“I’m worried.”

Icy fingers creep into my chest, squeezing my lungs.

“Nonsense!” I say, trying to reassure him. “Everything’s going to be fine. You just need some antibiotics or something.”

We’re silent for a moment. I can hear the clock in the kitchen ticking.

What could cause persistent headaches?

I slap Aaron’s knee. Why didn’t I think of this before?

“Have you ever had your eyes tested before?” I ask.

“Not since I was a kid.”

“I bet you just need glasses. See? It’s all going to be fine.”

He raises an eyebrow. “You think you could live with me wearing glasses?”

“Are you kidding? You could totally work the sexy-professor look. I’ll have to beat the girls off with a stick.”

He laughs. “You have such an elevated idea of what women think of me.”

“No I don’t. Have you ever noticed how they fawn over you?” I say.

“I don’t notice anyone anymore.”

My heart starts beating triple time.

“Come here, you sexy nerd,” I breathe, pulling him to my lips. And for a moment, thoughts of headaches, doctors’ offices, and exams are far away.

All that exists are his lips pressing on mine.

—

We arrive half an hour early for his appointment. He’s flipped through every magazine in the waiting room, and his right knee is bouncing. He drums his fingers on the chair handles and cranes his neck to investigate any sound.

“Calm down,” I whisper.

“I just want to get this over with.”

I pat his shoulder. “You be a good little boy, and afterward I’ll take you to Marble Slab for peanut butter ice cream. We’ll even mix strawberries and graham crackers in.”

His knee stops bouncing. “That sounds fantastic.”

“Aaron? Aaron Page?” a nurse calls out. We follow her to a small room, painted the most hideous shade of peach.

Once the nurse leaves, I stand and rub his shoulders.

“You’re making a mountain out of a molehill,” I say. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

Aaron shakes his head, and blows air between his pursed lips.

A few minutes later, a middle-aged man with round wire-rim glasses enters the room. His bald head is so shiny that it almost looks polished.

“Nice to see you again, Mr. Page,” he says.

“Hi, Dr. Squires. Please, call me Aaron.”

“Aaron. And who is this?” he asks, gesturing to me.

I take the seat beside Aaron, and he kisses my hand. “This is my girlfriend, Sophie,” he says with a slightly shaky voice.

Why is he so nerved up?

I squeeze his hand, and he squeezes back.

Dr. Squires nods. “Nice to meet you. Now, Aaron, I called you back here today to discuss the results of your MRI and CT scans.”

I turn toward Aaron so fast, I’m sure I’ll have a mild case of whiplash later. He never mentioned those tests.

Dr. Squires looks pointedly at Aaron. “Before we get to that, I have a few questions for you.”

He pauses. “How long have you been getting headaches?”

“Off and on for the past few months,” Aaron says.

“Are they usually in the morning?”

“Yes.”

“Hmm…” Dr. Squires says, and scribbles something down on a piece of paper.

“Neck pain?”

“Yes. It’s almost constant.”

How is that significant? He could have slept weird, or just needs to see a chiropractor. It doesn’t mean anything.

“What about flu-like symptoms?” he continues. “Nausea, vomiting, feeling grumpy?”

“Yes to nausea and vomiting, maybe a little grumpy.”

Huh. I hadn’t noticed. Maybe going at it like rabbits has something to do with that?

“Any changes in vision? Weakness on one side? Problems speaking?”

“I’ve noticed blurry vision a few times, I guess. But no weakness, no problems talking.”

See?
I say to myself. All he needs is a good pair of glasses, and he’ll be fine.

Dr. Squires nods. “Any seizures?”

“I don’t think so,” Aaron replies.

Dr. Squires shuffles through the papers on his lap, his eyes scanning the words. I fight the urge to yank them from his hands and read them myself.

“Both the MRI and CT scans showed abnormalities in your brain,” he begins.

My world stops turning.

“Abnormali
ties?” I say.

Dr. Squires looks at us with compassion. I instantly hate that look.

“I’m going to refer you to a specialist,” he says, while writing on a piece of paper. He hands it to Aaron, and I read it along with him. At first it’s hard to decipher the messy scrawl, but I eventually make out the letters.

Dr. R. Luscri, Oncology

“Oncology?” I whisper. It feels like my heart is trying to jump into my throat.

“Yes,” Dr. Squires says softly. “Aaron, I’m not a specialist, that’s why I want you to see Dr. Luscri. But, it looks like you may have brain cancer.”

Chapter 21

Doom and Gloom

I still haven’t had the courage to look through the rest of my old green photo album. It, along with the box of junk my parents sent home with me last month, has sat abandoned in the corner of my bedroom for the past month.

I’m sitting in bed, knees tucked up tight against my chest, nervously chewing a thumbnail. Up until now I’ve been very distracted, spending all my free time with Brett and preparing for Sam’s wedding. My world has been so full of noise that I’ve been able to block it out.

But tonight, the house is quiet.

And tonight…to
night, I can’t resist.

I flip past the road trip pictures and peanut butter and jam labels. Past several Christmas photos, ones with Aaron and me snuggled up by a tree, his arms wrapped around my shoulders. I’m beaming at the camera. We look achingly happy.

He had decided against going to his parents in Ontario, and instead joined forces with my mom and dad to surprise me on Christmas morning.

I remember that morning in such crisp detail. He stood on their porch. Fluffy snowflakes stuck to his delicious, floppy mess of hair. He’d tied a red ribbon around his waist.

“What are you doing here?!” I exclaimed when I opened the door.

“Santa told me what you wanted,” he said, gesturing to his body. “So here I am.”

I felt selfish, for keeping him away from his family. But in hindsight, I don’t care. It was the first time I ever got what I really wanted for Christmas.

I wish we had taken more pictures after that. But, who takes pictures of the bad times? Maybe it should be done more. Someday it might be all you have left.

A particular image burns in my mind. I know where I’ll find it. I flip a couple more pages, and there it is. It’s a head shot of Aaron and me that Samira took when she visited him at the hospital.

We are snuggled up in his tiny hospital bed together, the sides of our foreheads touching. Aaron looks tired and sunken, but still beautiful. I look tired too, and well…not so beautiful. Greasy hair and heart-shattering grief don’t look good on me.

And yet, there’s something so striking about this photo, something so poignant, that I can’t help but love it. Maybe it’s because it’s the last picture I have of him? Of us?

The last shred of evidence that he did exist, and that, for a time, he loved me more than I’d thought was possible. Like a firework lighting the night sky, brilliant and inspiring. But, ending all too soon, leaving no clue that it was ever there at all.

I slam the book shut, and clutch it to my chest. I drift into fitful sleep, filled with beeping IV pumps and hospital corridors.