People Who Knew Me (35 page)

Paul's hair has completely grown back. It's dark, dark brown—almost black. His eyebrows have filled in, too. I admit, he's handsome with hair.

“You look great.”

“Doesn't she?” Claire says with a scheming smile. Claire, always scheming.

*   *   *

For dinner, he makes some kind of Indian curry dish. He keeps refilling my wineglass. He says, “I figure if I get you drunk, you won't be able to tell that my cooking is terrible.” Claire says, “But I can tell.” We laugh.

We let Chuck lick our plates when we're done. Paul says he doesn't believe in dogs not eating people food.

“What's the point of having one if you can't spoil it?” he says.

“I miss having a dog,” I say. For years, I've been so diligent about avoiding references to the past. It's strange to let down that guard.

“You had a dog?” Claire says.

I nod. “Bruce.”

“Bruce?”

“He just looked like a Bruce,” I say, remembering.

Paul refuses to let us help with dishes. As he scrubs away at the sink, Claire leans over to me and says, “You seem so happy, Mom.”

Cynic that I am, I want to tell her she'll realize when she's older that alcohol can create an illusion of happiness for the short time it circulates through your body. But then I stop to consider that maybe I actually am happy.

“Do I?” I ask.

“Yeah, really happy,” she says.

“I am, I think.”

Paul brings a container of chocolate ice cream and three spoons to the table.

“Classy,” I say.

“I aim to please.”

We take shameless scoops, the three of us. I am happy. Yes. I am.

“You must be getting excited for your road trip,” Paul says to Claire.

She beams. “I am!”

“What's the itinerary?”

I've let Claire plan the whole thing.

“Route 66 all the way to Chicago,” she says.

“Then pass through Ohio to get to D.C.,” I say.

“Then New York to meet my dad for the first time.”

Dad
. She's been calling him that.
Dad
. It's only when talking about this trip and meeting him that she sounds younger than she is, like a five-year-old excited about unicorns.

“I bet he can't wait to see you,” Paul says.

He gives me a look. He knows how nervous I am about the whole thing.

*   *   *

Even though I've sobered up, Paul insists we stay the night. I say, “No, really, that's okay,” but then he promises pancakes in the morning and Claire says, “Mom, let's just stay.” So we do. He has a guest room. Claire and I share a bed. I roll on my side and she curls up right behind me, her breath on the back of my neck.

“Don't snore,” she says.

“You better get used to it. We're sharing beds in some of the hotels on our trip.”

She groans.

“Mom?” she says.

“Yeah?”

“I know you say Paul is your cancer friend,” she says.

“Yeah?”

“But you don't have cancer anymore.”

“No, I don't,” I say, hoping that's true.

“And neither does he.”

“No, he doesn't,” I say.

“So what now?” she presses.

“Claire,” I say. “Go to sleep.”

*   *   *

When I wake up the next morning, I hear voices in the kitchen—Claire's and Paul's. I get out of bed and do my best to straighten out the wrinkled shirt I slept in. I walk quietly down the hallway, wanting to spy on whatever budding friendship Paul has with my daughter. They are laughing. I peek around the wall and he is standing behind her, instructing her on pancake-flipping.

“She's alive!” Paul says when I appear.

Claire flips a pancake flawlessly and gives Paul a high five.

“Just in time,” she says.

We sit at the kitchen table. It's small, but still too big for Paul's cramped kitchen. We pass butter and syrup between us. We comment on the niceness of the day outside. The sun glares through the window above the kitchen sink.

When we're done, I do the dishes while Paul and Claire look at a map of the United States on his iPad, plotting the points of our road trip. She says she'll text him to let him know where we are on our route. Claire welcomes people into her life so easily. I envy and fear that about her.

“Okay, Claire, you ready to go?” I say.

She looks disappointed, but says, “I guess.”

Paul walks us out to our car, Claire still chatting with him the whole way. He opens the passenger door for her to get inside.

“You're cool, Paul,” she says with a confirmatory nod.

“As are you,” he says. He shuts her door and then walks around to my side.

“Thanks for everything,” I say. “You're too nice to me.”

“One of my many flaws.”

He holds our eye contact, challenging me not to look away. I can't help it, though. I shift my gaze to the ground, staring at my unpainted toenails sticking out of my sandals.

“Connie,” he says, “I want to take you out sometime. Like on a date.”

I keep looking at my feet.

“You waited to ask until my hair started growing back, huh?” I say.

“Duh.”

He touches my chin with his index finger, raises it so I'm looking at him.

“What do you say?”

I don't know if the hangover has weakened me or what, but I say, “I guess that would be fine.”

He laughs. “Wow, that kind of enthusiastic response is what every man hopes for.”

“Sorry,” I say. “Let's do it. After the road trip?”

I need some time to prepare myself. It will be my first date since 2001.

“I'll plan something fun.”

If I'm honest, this promise of something fun makes my stomach flutter. If I'm honest, there's a chance I'll back out. If I'm honest, I don't think I will.

“Okay,” I say.

“Okay,” he repeats.

With nothing left to say but good-bye, he pulls me against him and wraps his arms around me. His growing-in stubble rubs against my cheek.

“You two be safe,” he says. “Don't pick up any hitchhikers.”

“Thanks,” I say, daring to look at him, smile.

When I get in the car, he goes to the edge of his lawn to watch us go.

“It's so obvious,” Claire says as we pull away. She waves at him.

“What?” I say, looking in my rearview as he gets smaller and smaller.

“He, like, loves you.”

If you think grown women don't blush, you're wrong.

 

THIRTY-ONE

Less than a week before we leave on our road trip, I meet with Dr. Richter to see how my latest scans look.

“I'm afraid I have some bad news,” she says. I haven't even sat down yet. It's like she can't keep this in, can't let me have one more moment of false hope.

“What now?” I say.

I try to appear blasé, like I'm immune to bad news. I'm not, though.

She exhales. For the first time, Dr. Richter looks weary.

“It looks like the cancer has popped up in your right lung,” she says.

Popped up
. All I can think of is the toaster waffles Claire eats for breakfast.

“This isn't uncommon,” she says. As if that makes it better.

I know all too well what this means. Once the cancer has spread from its original site, it's stage four. Only eleven percent of people survive five years. Eighty-nine percent of people die. There will be more chemo, possibly more surgery, if it's even operable. I'll lose my hair all over again. Claire will be devastated. Paul will be devastated. We'll all wonder why.

“I'm going on a road trip with my daughter,” I say. This is what matters, not the treatment plan that I'm sure Dr. Richter wants to discuss.

“Okay,” she says, though her tone suggests she's not sure it's okay.

“Is that a problem?”

“Well, I mean, I'd advise you to start chemo as soon as possible,” she says, “but I know life sometimes has to come first.”

Yes, life must come first. Life must come before death.

*   *   *

I sit in my car outside Dr. Richter's office building for a good ten minutes. I'm not going to tell Claire about this, not now. I'll tell her after the trip. Same with Paul. I was starting to imagine some kind of future with him. Now it appears foolish that I imagined some kind of future, period.

There's one person I want to see right now. Al. Big, burly Al. When I show up at the bar, JT is there, too, having a whiskey. I get teary-eyed just seeing the two of them.

“Well, look what the cat dragged in,” JT says.

They either don't notice the tears in my eyes, primed right on the ridge and ready to roll down my cheeks, or they don't want to know why I'm sad.

“Hi, guys,” I say.

Al gets me a beer from the tap, sets it in front of me.

“What's up, little lady?” Al says.

They're in good moods, probably both a little buzzed. Al doesn't drink much on the job, but he does when JT is around.

“Just wanted to stop in,” I say.

I dismiss my impulsive plan to tell Al about the cancer coming back. It would be selfish, venting to him because I know he'd keep it together. He doesn't want to know. JT doesn't want to know. Somehow, over the course of this decade and a half, I've acquired people who care about me. Those people are still celebrating that the cancer is gone. I can't ruin that for them.

“You crazy girls are hittin' the road in a few days, right?” JT says.

I nod. JT is going to watch over the house while we're gone—get the mail, water the plants. I haven't told them that we're meeting Claire's father on this trip of ours. I can't bring myself to share that story, with Al especially. He got left, just like Drew. I don't know if he could see me the same again, let alone forgive me. See, I'm still a coward. I'm still withholding truths. Old habits and all.

“You going to be okay without me?” I ask Al.

I mean while we're on the trip, but also when I'm gone for good.

“I'll manage just fine,” he says.

And he will. He managed fine for years before I showed up asking him for a job.

“You give me a ring if you have car troubles,” JT says.

JT is good with cars. One of his many talents.

“I will,” I say.

“We'll miss you,” Al blurts. Maybe he says it because he can see I'm upset about something; maybe he says it because he's buzzed. He's never said anything like it before.

“How much have you guys had to drink?” I say. I can't take it right now, the sentiment.

“Too much,” Al says.

They both laugh. I down my beer quickly and stand.

“You goin' already?” JT says.

“Sure am,” I say. “I still have a couple more shifts before we leave. Try to hold it together, you saps.”

*   *   *

In my car, I let the tears go. That's always a safe place, the car. By the time I get home, I'll be composed. For Claire. Everything is for Claire.

*   *   *

Claire and I rent an SUV because it has enough room for all our stuff, along with the in-a-pinch option to put down the backseats and create a bed. I thought about getting an all-American, made-for-a-road-trip Mustang convertible, pictured the two of us riding with the top down, but Claire said, “Mom, that's not practical.”

We pack a few weeks' worth of clothes and a year's worth of snacks. “Priorities,” Claire says. I check my packing list repeatedly, tote it around like a kid with a security blanket. Misplaced anxiety, that's what the shrinks call it. This trip will be the longest Claire and I have ever been away from our tiny cottage house in the canyon. And this trip will bring me face-to-face with Drew after nearly fifteen years. Anxiety is to be expected.

Claire takes a picture of the packed-up car with her phone. She's documenting the trip, sending updates to Paul and Tyler and her girlfriends.

“Ready?” she says.

No
.

“As ready as I'll ever be.”

And we are off.

*   *   *

Our first stop is the Grand Canyon. We drive in just as the sun is setting and race to park the car so we can run to the rim and get our first view. We both gasp at the same time. Even if you've seen it in pictures, even if you've prepared yourself for it be incredible, even if you've told yourself that you aren't as easily impressed as all those other people, the Grand Canyon still does what everyone says it will—take your breath away.

The next day, we walk down into the canyon, blissfully ignoring the fact that we have to walk back up. I lag behind Claire on the return trip. My body is weaker than I let her know, fatigued from all it's been through. My cells aren't sure if they're coming or going, living or dying. I imagine each individual one debating which side of the fence to jump to. Sometimes it's tempting to just give up.

We camp two nights in the Grand Canyon. The two of us barely fit in our little tent. We turn our sleeping bags so we can open the front of the tent and stick our heads out to look at the speckled sky. Claire sees a shooting star. I don't see it.

“I made a wish,” she says.

“What is it?”

“I can't tell you or it won't come true,” she says. “Duh.”

“I bet it was about Tyler,” I say. I hope it's about Tyler and not about me and my cancer. I hope Claire's not thinking at all about me and my cancer.

“He kissed me,” she says.

“Really?”

My first kiss was when I was her age, exactly. It was during a game of spin the bottle. I don't even remember the boy's name.

“The day before we left. He just did it out of nowhere.”

She seems baffled by the whole thing.

“That's sweet,” I say. “Did you … like it?”