La Vie en Rose {Life in Pink} (38 page)

Luckily, Riley was the perfect guy for that. Crawling under the covers, he covered her right hand and kissed her cheek. “He always was a trouble maker, but Hutch would never let him take the fall alone. And eventually, there’s a remake.”

She grinned. “Will we call the new guys Starsky and Hutch too?”

He shrugged. “Maybe Stiller and Wilson.”

She laughed, resting her cheek on his chest, staring at the shadows of snow falling by the window. “Stiller and Wilson.”

His arm wrapped around her and squeezed. “Try to get some sleep. Big day tomorrow, cakes.” He kissed her smooth head. “Love you.”

She wasn’t tired. The snow was simply too beautiful not to watch. Too many days had passed resting. She was grateful for this quiet moment. It had been a while since she experienced
this.

Caressing his hand affectionately, she stared at the majestic winter scene outside her window and whispered. “Goodnight, syrup.”

––––––––

R
iley lifted the camera to his eyes, finding Emma’s beautiful face through the lens. “Smile.” His finger pressed the lever and the flash snapped.

As the photo ejected the air tinged with the scent of processing fluid. Removing the picture, he fanned it and handed it to her.

She studied the image and snorted. “Look at my eye,” she laughed. “What is that face I’m making?” A hardier giggle. “This one goes in my favorites.”

Digging in her bag, he unearthed the scrapbook where they put all the pictures. Those photographs told quite a story. Sometimes that story was a nightmare, sometimes it was a gift, but the record was there, proving they made it this far.

Tucking the image onto the page, he uncapped a marker. “Caption?” Minimizing his fear with meaningless tasks was necessary at the moment. It was surgery day and he was petrified.

She thought for a moment, her nose scrunching in that adorable way. “A farewell to Starsky and Hutch?”

He wrote the caption and dated the picture.

Her smile turned a bit dopey as the IV pumped her full of meds. Forcing his hands to remain steady, he returned the book to the bag. “Are you nervous?”

“No, just anxious to be done.”

During the surgery they would take a biopsy of her auxiliary lymph nodes to see if the cancer had spread. In order to do this, they had to inject her with blue radioactive dye. It boggled his mind the toxic line healers toed in order to make people well.

Not once through this entire experience, had he come to terms with this being the best method of treatment. They were literally curing cancer by poisoning her.

His sister remained the resounding voice in their home, supervising everything that went into their bodies and constantly preaching about the healing powers of foods. He was beginning to think she was right, and that their diet could have deterred this as much as it directed it, but he wasn’t a doctor.

Emma trusted the doctors, but most days he wondered if they were as clueless as they were twenty years ago. Where did all those pink dollars go? What exactly were they researching? Stronger poisons? All that awareness didn’t seem to leave women any less amputated in the end.

He didn’t care about the scars or the physical changes. He cared about the enormous decision she had no choice but to rush into. She’d been so positive since making up her mind and he was one hundred percent onboard with her decision, but it still infuriated him that this is what it came down to. This was the best option available.

So long as cancer was playing offense and they were on the defense, there was no cure—it was all a race in avoidance. But without knowing the cause they had no idea what to avoid. Too many pink soldiers fighting this godforsaken war, battle scars worn like badges of honor, as they marched for a cure, but where did all the countless parades lead? The purpose was convoluted with marketing and praise for concern, when so many women needed so much more.

They needed progress, they needed knowledge about the possible causes so they would know what to avoid. It was as though people just accepted this as an unfortunate occurrence and nothing could be done, but he didn’t believe that. He didn’t believe the only option was reaction. There had to be proactive measures, but even now, in the trenches of the chaos, he wasn’t sure what those proactive measures were.

He’d gladly walk in pink for her—with her. But he wanted to actually make a difference. Just because she was removing the source didn’t mean they were out of the woods. Who knew how long this would carry on, how far it would go?

So much research went to stronger chemicals and better procedures. Maybe if they started with fewer chemicals, like the ones being added in their foods, there’d be fewer procedures. The same pharmaceutical companies making her medication also made the pesticides that contaminated their food. Agriculturists and pharmaceutical companies tangled in a steady tug of war, and nothing was natural anymore, everything aside from the small selection of organic goods was treated with toxic chemicals. What if people were getting sick from the food they thought would make them healthy?

He couldn’t be the only person questioning such things, wondering if those hired to administer safe foods and drugs were somehow profiting off the country’s illnesses. If the food was the cause and the drugs were the cure, the cycle was definitely making someone rich.

It infuriated him that someone—
many someones
—were making money off Emma’s suffering, marking up the cost of one pill to more than two weeks of her average salary when she had an illness that prevented her from working. It was an unethical evil that kept him up at night.

There was so much to be angry about. So many lies and betrayals from the names and brands he trusted. He’d gone through the loft and thrown away any products that contained questionable ingredients, many outlawed in other countries, but not the United States. The moment of absolute disgust came when he read the cancer-warning label on one of Emma’s lotion bottles—a bottle that also boasted a pink breast cancer ribbon. What sort of hypocrisy was that?

The weeks following Emma’s diagnosis he’d bought every pink beribboned piece of merchandise he passed, thinking it could somehow save her. So naïve.  Exactly which charity did that street vender donate to after his shirts were made of cotton soaked in cancer causing chemicals? So much of the “activism” was just pink noise and pretty chaos, marketing off of other’s grief and despair. They needed action. The more he realized the lies they’d been told the louder the voice inside of him grew, begging for change.

Her fingers rubbed over his hand. “You’re awfully quiet.” Her eyes were soft from the medicine in her IV.

He kissed her head. “Just thinking.”

“About what?”

“How horrible the cafeteria food probably is,” he lied, shoving away his anger to be present where he was needed most, which in all honesty, was exactly where he wanted to be.

She softly laughed and her beauty grabbed hold of him, squeezing tight. This was exactly where he wanted to be, maybe not under these circumstances, but he, without a doubt, wanted to be by her side. Nothing had ever been clearer. “Emma?”

She glanced at him, her dopey eyes answering his plea.

He drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I wanna marry you.”

Her smile somehow turned more charming as her eyes shimmered and she whispered, “I want to marry you too.”

“I’m serious. I don’t want to wait. I know you probably want a big fancy party with basketball shaped flower things, and eighteen types of linen all in different shades of the same color, and those weird little action figures for the cake—and we can do all that if you want—but I just wanna marry you as soon as possible.”

She bit her lip and smirked. “I don’t care about any of that stuff, Riley. I just want forever with you. That’s all I need.”

Emotion stumbled out of him as he jaggedly exhaled. Propelling forward, his hand slid behind her neck, drawing her in for a kiss to seal the deal. “I love you so much.”

“I love you too. You’re the syrup to my pancakes.”

“I promise I’ll be a good husband.”

She shook her head and whispered, “I have no doubt you’ll be the absolute best.”

“And I promise I’ll take care of everything. I’ll make it nice. If there’s something you want, I’ll get it, just tell me and it’s yours.”

“I’d like my parents there so my dad can give me away and I want Rarity there. As long as we have them and each other, I’ll have everything I need.”

He pressed his bald head to hers, his chest filling with a sense of serenity sweeter than anything he’d ever known. “My beautiful Emma.”

****

S
ix hours lasted a long time. Those hours, waiting for Emma to come out of surgery, were passed in reflection, something he never did three months ago. Three months. It had been three tiny months that translated to the longest era of his life.

Three months ago they lost something they never had—the assumption of control. That imaginary security blanket they hid under when they wanted to pretend they were in charge was gone.

There had been denial, him arrogantly insisting that this couldn’t possibly be life threatening. They were supposed to die like dignified old people, rocking in white wooden chairs, sipping sweet tea against a Georgian colonial backdrop. That Norman Rockwell fantasy must have been commissioned the same day his Santa God was.

Every time they received bad news a wall went up. But those reflexive defense mechanisms had to come tumbling down so they could face the enemy head on. And the slow lesson set in that some things were simply unfixable.

No control. None.

No choice but to surrender her survival to the hands of experts. But they weren’t experts on
her
. They didn’t love all of her the way he did. They didn’t know what her tears tasted like or the scent of her neck first thing in the morning. They only knew the enemy, but maybe that was how wars were won. Maybe.

Ideals like karma and destiny became foul words and misunderstood, cruel tricks. His blame was endless. Someone or something had to be at fault.

He would beg, bargain, and sell his soul to secure her future. The ‘what ifs’ and ‘whys’ became a sickening torture that would not silence, even now, as he waited for her to safely wake. The challenging enigma of life was no more understood today than it was yesterday.

He’d bid farewell to the unnecessary bullshit. So many things he assumed he couldn’t live without were cast away, worthless. It became abundantly clear what he truly needed was her.

Her hugs, her smiles, her laughter, her everlasting faith in him, it all equated to the air he breathed.
She
was what he lived for and if he couldn’t have her, nothing else mattered.

He no longer thought in terms of
‘me’
. It wasn’t about
him
or what was happening
to
him. It wasn’t even about her. It was about
life
. Human life.

They never had control nor would they ever.
This
was what he had, and they needed to make
this
count for all it was worth.

“Riley Lockhart?”

He turned, all thoughts scattering as he stood. “That’s me.” His heart kicked into overdrive as adrenaline raced through his veins and he quickly walked over to the nurse.

“The procedure went well. They’re moving Emma to recovery now. If you follow me I’ll take you to her.”

Overwrought and unprepared, he quickly gathered her bag and personal items. The nurse grinned and held the door as nervous energy hummed inside of him. The never-ending maze of corridors eventually landed him in an inpatient room where Emma slept on an upright bed.

“She’ll be groggy for a while. The doctor has her on pain meds, so she shouldn’t experience much discomfort at this point.”

Relief exploded in his chest as the monitors chirped steadily beside her bed. She did it. “Thank you.”

He placed the bag on the counter and gently lowered himself into a chair. When the nurse left, he gently brushed a finger over her hand. There was a device clasped to her index finger tracking her pulse. “Hey.”

She inhaled and slowly opened her eyes. “Hey.” She smiled groggily. “It’s over?”

I hope.
Brushing a finger against her cheek he nodded. “You did it.”

Her eyes were bleary, but her smile was priceless despite its subtlety. “Poor Starsky and Hutch.” She glanced at her chest, but the motion seemed too difficult just yet.

“Are the expanders in?” The nurse hadn’t told him much, or maybe she did. He’d been so concerned with seeing Emma, he might have missed something.

“I think so,” she mumbled. “The plastic surgeon was here.” Her eyes closed. “My throat hurts.”

“That’s from the anesthesia. Want me to get you something to drink?”

She shook her head. “Just stay with me for a bit.” Her hand tightened around his and there was a moment that seemed to tremble through time, quaking the balance of the world around them.

“Em?”

Shutting her eyes, she sniffled as two tears chased down her cheek.

“Hey. Talk to me.” He scooted closer and kissed her fingers. He didn’t want to crowd her and inadvertently bump her.

“I don’t have any boobs,” she meekly whispered, her face tight as she struggled to hold in whatever was fighting to come out of her.

His heart broke, his own tears falling to her fingers. “Shh...I know, baby. I know, but you’re here and as soon as the doctor comes in we’ll know where we stand with everything else. You’re still you and you’re still beautiful.”

The pressure in his chest, pressure he’d been living with for uncountable weeks seemed to pulse and explode, shaking him to the core. They were here. They made it this far, when even that was never promised. He choked and gasped, his emotions getting the better of him.

Clearing his throat, he rasped, “I’m so proud of you, cakes.” Holding her fingers in his, he used them to wipe his eyes. “You’re so damn strong.”

His lips pressed into her knuckles as he chafed her fingers. Sometimes, there were moments that just required tears, when words weren’t enough, because the emotions were too complex and wide.