Page 16 of The Cabin
“I…” I want to say this is valuable insight, but that would be crass and would open up a conversation I’m not ready to have with anyone. “I guess you’re right when you said I can’t imagine.”
“God damn but I hope you never have to, my friend.”
“Me too,” I whisper, but it’s lost in my tumbler.
I won’t have to. That’s the problem. I know, I know, there’s still a chance I’ll make it through this. The experimental chemo might work. I’ve been loathe to try radiation. Surgery’s out. But in my heart of hearts, deep down, I’m absolutely terrified because I don’t think I am going to make it through this.
And it’ll be Nadia sitting here, having this conversation with someone.
That’s when it hits me.
An idea, or rather the completion of the idea I had earlier.
I can help her.
No one knows Nadia better than me, not even her. I know how she’ll react—and predicting human behavior is what I do. It’s part of the magic trick of inventing people. I can help her, when I’m gone. But in order to do that, I have to start now.
“Tell me about your wife,” he says, apropos of nothing. “Nadine?”
“Nadia.”
We tended to stick to whiskey and westerns, old girlfriends, epic party stories. Macho bro-y stuff.
“Sorry, I knew that. I’m a little drunk.”
“It’s cool.” I sigh. Here’s a topic I can wax poetic about endlessly. “What do you want to know?”
“Whatever.” A pause, ice tinkling as he swirls it in the dregs. “What made you fall in love with her?”
“Oh, man.” I laugh, scrape a hand through my hair—wince when my hand comes away with loose hair stuck to it. Fucking chemo. “Honest answer? Her ass.”
He chortles. “You fell in love with her ass.”
“Yup.” I’m tipsy enough that truth is easy, too easy. “She’s tall, man. Five-nine, almost five-ten. Slender. Not skinny, just slender. Tits are a handful, just barely. I like it that way. But her ass, man.”
He shakes his head. “Lisa was like that. Similar build. Got me every time she turned around. Like damn, would you look at that ass?”
I laugh, nod. “Exactly. Serious, though, that’s what I first noticed about her. I was in the English program, she was in nursing school, taking a creative writing course I was the TA for. Taking it just for kicks, ’cause she likes a challenge.” I let my mind float backward in time. “She wasn’t a great writer. Shit at spelling, like to the point where it was comical. But what caught my attention was her focus. She would be at her desk writing, and her concentration was just total. But…god, how do I put it? It’s different than when you love something and get lost in it. That’s easy, right? For you, when you’re in the workshop building something, you get in the zone, right?”
He nods. “Oh yeah. More so when I’m doing something for fun. Whittling gets me like that, as opposed to, like, building a chair or a bookshelf or a set. That’s work. Whittling an owl or something, that’s when I get what you’re talking about.”
“For her, writing was the other kind of concentration. A skill, you know?”
He nods. “Yep.”
“That’s what got me. Her ability to truly focus. It’s sexy.”
He rubs the back of his head. “Never heard anyone say concentration is sexy, but I get what you mean.”
“Last day of class, last assignment I handed back to her, I put my number on it. Two days later, she called, and we went out. And I discovered that she’s quick-witted, that she was demanding, but always more demanding of herself than anyone else. I discovered that she hates downtime, hates being idle. Hates being bored. Hates waiting. Which is why her ability to focus so totally is sexy, because her nature is the opposite. It’s a sign of a strong mind.”
“Lisa was crazy smart,” Nathan says. “She went to MIT, but she was so ahead, so smart that a tech company here in Atlanta hired her before she even graduated. She could do shit with computers that’s just magical. Like that cello guy, Yo-Yo Ma. She was like that, but with computers.”
“Smart is sexy.”
He nods. “Sure is.”
I eye him. “Nathan, do you think maybe you can’t move on because you don’t really want to, deep down?”
He doesn’t answer for a long, long time. “Fuck.” His glass is long empty, and he’s just twirling it on a bottom edge. “Yeah, you may be right.”
“I just—”
“I’m lonely, dude. Go home alone every night, sleep alone, wake up alone…it sucks. After nine years of going to sleep next to her and waking up next to her, being lonely just fuckin’…sucks. So part of me really does want to move on. Find someone. But…I don’t know how. How do you explain yourself to someone new? There’s so much in here,” he taps his forehead, “and here,” his chest, “and I just…I don’t know how to go about showing it to anyone. She just got me. Lisa, I mean. We had years together to figure it out. We were young. It was easy. Feels different now. I feel…heavy, inside.”
