Choose Me (38 page)

“You know Maya dumped me that night. Before we did anything. So I guess we’re in the same boat.”

I opened my eyes, alert.

“Yeah. That night when I went back and told her you had company, she started screaming at me,” Luciano explained, glad he
got my attention. “I didn’t know it was Eva. She got upset when I told her that it wasn’t like you guys were married.”

I couldn’t help smiling. “That was smart.”

“She hasn’t called me in a week and I haven’t called her.”

“Maybe it’s better this way. You go back to Lisa; Maya goes back to her husband.”

“And we’ll all live happily-ever-after,” he said cynically.

When I was first diagnosed with cancer, I reviewed my life and wondered where I had gone wrong. Right away, I began making
deals with God. I saw the disease as punishment for something bad I had done in the past. I stopped drinking, which wasn’t
difficult because I had never acquired the taste for it. Then I gave up smoking, a habit I had attempted to break at least
once a year since I started at eighteen. I thought of all the women I had been with, and I couldn’t think of anything really
bad I had done, except that there was never a commitment—emotional or otherwise—no promises, no intentions for future plans;
it was always about “the now.” But I had respected them, never cheated. I thought of my father and his indiscretions, and
remembered what Mama used to say about generational curses, how if you didn’t watch out, you were bound to repeat them.
The sins of the father …
Then I thought of how I still hadn’t forgiven him, even posthumously, but that didn’t seem like enough to warrant being cursed
with cancer. So I had this conversation with God and I told Him, if He’d let me live, I’d stop having meaningless relationships.
Later, I learned that one thing you don’t do is make deals with God. As Mama says, God isn’t a game show host.
Don’t negotiate with God ’cause you’ll never win,
she’d said when I told her about my proposal.

The results of my blood tests were not good. My tumor markers, which were elevated before the surgery, had not returned to
normal. The CT scan showed one enlarged lymph node, approximately 2.3 centimeters in diameter and another measuring 5 millimeters.
The diagnosis was stage one nonseminoma cancer, which meant the cancer had spread to the lymph nodes. The oncologist offered
me two choices: radical surgery to remove my lymph nodes or chemotherapy to shrink the tumors. Even if I opted for chemo,
there was a chance that I might still need the surgery later. The prognosis was good, 90 percent curable. I decided to take
my chances with chemo, which would start in a couple of weeks. I wanted to avoid major surgery at all costs, but I wasn’t
looking forward to the chemo. Not only because I had been cursed with bad veins, necessitating the re-opening of my central
line, but also because it was going to be longer and more grueling. My life as I knew it would soon cease to be.

During my first chemo session, Mama brought my Bible, which she said she found stuffed in a drawer of summer clothes.

“You should always keep your Bible near you. On the nightstand or under your mattress,” she told me.

I didn’t answer because I knew silence was the only way to keep from arguing with her. I could tell she had been crying even
behind her oversized, polarized, multi-focal glasses. She tried to force a smile.

“Your sister’s coming by after work, after she drops off the babes at their father’s.”

I closed my eyes and kept quiet.

“You doing alright, Love?”

I was beginning to feel the effects of the chemo, the icy-cold feeling traveling down the vein in my chest followed by the
queasiness. Between the initial saline drip inserted in a vein in my hand, followed by another drip with the antinausea medication,
it would take about five to seven hours for the entire treatment. I opened my eyes slightly and patted her hand. “I’m okay,
Mama.”

“You sure? You look like you’re in pain.”

“I’m not, Mama. Just tired.”

“You want me to read to you?” she asked, reaching for the bedside table.

A volunteer had dropped off the
Trib
during the morning rounds, but I knew she was referring to the Bible on top of the newspaper. To refuse the word of God was
tantamount to blasphemy in her book. “If you want.”

She picked up the Bible. “Look at that,” she said, glancing at the paper. “They done shot up another school. Lord, what is
this world coming to.”

As with the first time I had cancer, she started with the book of Job to illustrate that what I was going through was nothing
compared to what he had endured.
Yeah, that’s what I needed, someone who had suffered more than I ever would,
I thought as I closed my eyes.
I felt so much better.

Jade came by during the last hour of my treatment. She showed me some drawings from the kids, which made me smile. Sitting
in a nearby chair, she leaned on the armrest of my chemo chair, interlocking her fingers in mine. Immediately, it reminded
me of Eva. Almost as quickly, I pushed the thought of her from my mind.

“How’re things with ‘
Akeel’?
” I asked, emphasizing his name sarcastically because I knew it would amuse her.

She smiled. “Good, I guess. He’s a nice, sweet guy and everything …”

“But?”

“He’s a little
too
nice.”

“What do you mean?”

“He’s just so
sweet.
”

“I guess it’s true what they say. Women like bad boys.”

“No. Not bad boys; guys with an edge. With a little excitement.”

“Maybe he’s what you need right now. The opposite of Brandon.”

“I don’t know if I can measure up to his standards. He’s a church boy and he claims he’s celibate.”

“That’s a good thing, isn’t it?” In my eyes, not having to imagine my baby sister having sex was a good thing.

“I don’t know, is it? I’ve never had a relationship that didn’t involve sex. Have you?”

I hesitated, then shook my head.
Not anymore,
I thought.

“I don’t know. It might be fun to see how long he lasts,” she said.

“Don’t you go tempting that church boy, Jezebel.”

“Shut up.”

She climbed into the chemo chair next to me, forcing me to move over as she laid her head on my shoulder. “Adam …”

Soon, I heard her sniffling and felt the tears seeping through my hospital-issue gown.

“C’mon, girl. Don’t start. You know I got to deal with your mother and
her
tears. I can’t take the both of you.”

“I’m sorry,” she sobbed quietly. “I don’t want you to …”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“’Cause I still need you.”

“Yeah, to babysit.” I chuckled half-heartedly.

“Promise?”

“I swear.”

After the chemo session, all my body craved was sleep. When I got home, I didn’t even make it to the bedroom, plopping down
on the sofa and sleeping for four hours straight. When I woke up, I dragged myself from the sofa to the bedroom, only to fall
into bed, fatigued. After another half hour, I had to force myself to get up and drink the required eighty ounces of water
needed to flush the drugs out of my system. I was also instructed to exercise despite my weakness. The trips to the bathroom
were about as much exercise as I could muster.

Television is never more mundane than when one is sick and stuck watching it for entertainment, or to kill time. Not even
cable provided stimulation. Just a couple of weeks before I was up on the latest national and world news, but the outside
world had become insignificant as the cancer took precedence. News to me meant negative CT scans and low tumor markers. Half
the time I ended up turning off the set and listening to music, going through my entire CD collection from the late seventies
until the present, eventually dozing off. Sometimes I woke up humming the last song that was playing just before I fell asleep.

At first, the side effects from the chemo were familiar and tolerable: flu-like symptoms, low-grade fever, mild nausea. The
best part was that I had no loss of appetite—in the beginning.

By the end of the first cycle, which included five straight days of chemo, I spent the weekend inside my loft under two comforters
curled up like it was winter, with chills, dizziness, lethargy, and nonstop nausea. The nausea was the worst; I almost prayed
that I would vomit. Food lost its appeal and I was grateful for the Boost shakes I was able to keep down.

Swallowing my pride, I called Eva a couple of times, but her voice mail at home was full. Her assistant at work told me she
had a family emergency, but couldn’t give out any more information. I then called Luciano to see if he knew anything, but
he wasn’t able to reach Maya at work or on her cell phone either. I realized then something was definitely wrong.

Birthdays had never been a big deal for me. December babies always got cheated; the closer to Christmas, the bigger the rip-off.
My family tried to make my thirty-seventh birthday special by throwing a surprise party, not a good idea given my situation.
I was in my second week of chemo and developing more side effects from the drugs: a pimple-like rash on my back and torso,
swelling in my legs called edema, and headaches. The headaches made me think of Eva and I wondered if hers had improved. I
was given more medications for these side effects, which in turn had side effects of their own. Needless to say, I made a
concerted effort to appear appreciative for the sake of Mama and Jade. I had become very adept at hiding my misery and pain
behind false smiles.

After everyone left, just as I was being lulled to sleep by the sibilant sound of the TV, I heard a report about a shooting
on a college campus. As I struggled to stay alert, I remembered my mother mentioning something at the hospital about a school
shooting, and then I vaguely recalled the news report about a shooting the night of the snowstorm, the night Eva spent on
my sofa. A spurned boyfriend had gone on a shooting rampage at ISU, the school Eva’s sons attended, killing eight students.
Half-dazed and lightheaded, I sat up as the photos of the dead students were flashed on the screen, holding my breath, thankful
when her sons weren’t among them. I began to put two and two together and presumed she must have gone downstate to check on
her sons. Exhaling, I waited to hear how many students had been injured, and after learning six still remained hospitalized,
I dialed her cell phone, hoping she had it turned on. I was surprised when it began ringing.

“Hello,” I heard her anxious voice.

“Eva?”

“Adam,” she said, and I thought I caught the slightest hint of disappointment in her voice.

“I just heard about the shooting. Where are you?”

“I’m down in Marion, near Carter. At the hospital.”

“Are your sons okay?”

“They’re in the hospital. Eli was shot twice, and he has a broken leg. He’s conscious, but Tony’s on a respirator. He was
shot … in the head.” Her voice was so deadpan, I figured she must have been numb with grief.

“Eva, I’m so sorry.”

“Thanks. Maya and Simone are here. And my father, the pastor, and some church members. Everyone’s helping out, praying. I
just happened to go outside for some fresh air. They’re supposed to call me if Tony wakes up, so I can’t stay on the phone
too long. I don’t have call-waiting on this thing.” The connection was so clear she seemed close enough to touch, yet her
voice was so distant, distorted.

“Oh, okay, I understand.”

“How have you been?”

“Me?”
It’s my birthday,
I thought.
I have cancer again, but other than that, life’s great.
“I’m fine.”

“Yeah? You sound tired.”

“You do, too.” I wanted to tell her that I wished I was there with her, but I held my tongue. This was not the time. Also,
I didn’t want to put my heart out there to get shot down. I was too weak for rejection.

“I haven’t slept much.”

“Me either.” I paused, then I took a deep breath and plunged in. “I’ve been thinking about you. About us.” Suddenly, there
was static as if she had moved out of range, perhaps deliberately, followed by silence that lasted so long, I thought we were
disconnected. “Hello? Eva?”

“I have to go, Adam. I need to check on Tony.”

“Okay.”

“Thanks for calling. I’ll call you, or call me back, whatever—”

There was more static and then we were disconnected for real. “Yeah, whatever,” I said to the dead air.

As much as I hated to, I took a medical leave from work and a temporary absence from the Big Brothers program. It bothered
me to back out on my obligations to Justin and Ricky, especially with Justin leaving for Midwestern U in the next month and
Ricky improving in his new school. I couldn’t let them witness my decline in health, though, especially Justin, who had watched
his father slowly die from AIDS. At first, I thought about taking them out to dinner at Enchanted Castle, a pizza place with
video games and karaoke, the only restaurant they had ever agreed upon. Somewhere I read that whenever parents had to break
any bad news, like a divorce, they took their children to eat at a favorite restaurant. This seemed like a terrible idea to
me, because the kids would always associate the place with the bad news, like the news of my father’s cancer being synonymous
with Navy Pier. I didn’t want to do it at their house, so I brought them to my place, something I had occasionally done.

Ricky took the news fairly well, perhaps because he was too young to comprehend the complexity of cancer and because his father’s
illness and death was a family memory he had been told rather than experienced.

“Are they going to give you pills like me?” Ricky asked, his thumbs and forefingers moving lightning-fast on the controller
of the PlayStation 2.

Perplexed, I looked at Justin, whose hands were frozen on his controller.

“He’s talking about his Ritalin,” Justin said quietly.

I chuckled. “No, it’s a little more complicated. I have to go to the hospital and get my medicine through an IV. An intravenous
line that goes into here,” I explained, showing them my central line scar.