Page 70 of Look on the Bright Side

She turned and looked at him over her shoulder. “Thank you for noticing, sir.”

Yep. Dante Santini was going to be a problem. For one, Lark was supposed to be dating his brother. For two…

For two, she was terrified of ever being in love again.

TWELVE

LARK, MANY AND MANY A YEAR AGO

A few weeks after she’d chosen her wedding dress, Lark left her shift at Mass General and headed to Justin’s for dinner. It was a thirty-minute walk, and she could cut through the Common. She was already mentally rehearsing the story she wanted to tell Justin—she had been bathing a man, rolled him on his side, his back to her, when eleven days’ worth of poop had exploded out of him, onto the bedding, the bed, the floor, the far wall and Lark herself. The other CNA had been more experienced and knew to leap out of the way.

Lark had had to take a shower in which she scrubbed her skin five times with the hospital’s sharp antiseptic soap. She went back to the patient’s room later to see how he was doing, and the poor man had been so apologetic. Lark said it happened all the time (not really, but…). These stories were the gifts of being a CNA, and she knew Justin would appreciate it.

While Boston would inevitably get one more snowstorm, just to test the endurance of New Englanders, today was one of those teaser days in late March that, if you weren’t careful, made you believe winter was over. The temperature was in the midfifties, the sky gently drifting into a darker shade of blue as the day came to a close. Birds sang from the trees, some of which were setting up to bloom in another few weeks, and the air smelled like garlic and, less noticeably, sewage, a hallmark of the fair city. Lark chose to focus on the garlic.

In the Common, early daffodils looked like scattered candy against the dull winter grass. Lark watched a young mother pushing her toddler in a tricked-out stroller. She and Justin wanted kids, after med school, of course. Addie, too, wanted kids and would probably be first. Maybe one of them would have twins. She hoped so. Pulling out her phone, she texted Addie to say she was thinking about her and couldn’t wait to hear how tonight’s “meet the parents” was going. Things between Addie and Nicole were getting serious, and while Nicole was kind of uptight, she had a good heart. Hopefully, Addie’s love would loosen her up a bit.

When she got to Justin’s, she punched in the code to the street entrance of the building and went up the stairs to his apartment. The door was locked, which was unusual, because he usually left it open when she was coming. No worries, she had a key, of course.

It was oddly quiet. She should’ve texted him, but they both agreed they didn’t want to be those people who needed to communicate every hour or texted each other from twelve feet away.

“Honey?” she called. Did she have the right night? Yes, of course she did. They’d talked about what they’d cook when he’d called her on her break this morning.

She turned on a light. The bedroom door was closed. She went in, and there he was, under the covers, curtains drawn.

“Honey?” she said. “Are you okay?”

He stirred, glancing over his shoulder before letting his head drop back to the pillow. “I feel like shit,” he said. “I left work at two.”

“You should’ve texted me.” She sat on the bed next to him and felt his forehead. It was warm, and sudden fear flashed through her. “You have a fever,” she said, keeping her voice calm as she pushed back his thick black hair.

“I know. The flu or something. I have a wicked headache. A rash, too.”

Her muscles gathered, the instinctive response to fear. “What kind of rash?” Her voice sounded almost normal.

“I don’t know. Little red dots.”

“Can I take a look?” she asked.

“I just need to sleep,” he muttered, eyes closed.

“Show me and then I’ll make you some soup.” She turned on the light, and Justin squinted.

“Hi, by the way,” he said with a tired, lopsided grin.

“Hi, babe.” She tried to smile, too.

He tugged off his shirt and held out his arms. Tiny clusters of red dots. She pressed on one red clump, and it stayed red.

And because she’d been studying acute lymphocytic since the age of fourteen, she knew this was not a rash. It was petechiae, a sign of a low platelet count. And low platelets came from abnormal cancer cells in bone marrow.

She felt under his jaw with both hands, but he jerked back. “What are you doing?”

“Checking your lymph nodes.”

“You’re not a doctor yet, Lark.” His tone was accusatory, but she heard the fear underneath.

“I know, honey, I know.” She tried again, and this time, he let her. There was a raised lump, round and hard.

---