Page 24 of The Cabin
We lay in the long green lawn under the dizzying height of the Eiffel Tower, listening to the chatter of a dozen languages, watching lovers take selfies.
We made love, endlessly. I required a lot of chemical help, now, but she didn’t need to know that. All she needed to know was that I loved her, that I worshiped her body, that I treasured her.
I barely sleep anymore. It’s like my mind, now that the end grows near, refuses to let miss even a few hours of life.
I watch her sleep.
I write poems to her, about her, for her.
I write vignettes, remembering our life together. That time we tried to adopt a dog from a shelter, and it turned out to be a wild monster of destruction, sweet and hysterical but obsessed with eating couches and shoes and counters and cabinets and even, when locked in the garage, my lawnmower. It ate my fucking lawnmower. The final straw for it was when it ate Nadia’s Michael Kors purse—literally ate it, devoured every last scrap of expensive leather.
There are a thousand stories, and I lie awake and try to remember them all, write them all. What I’ll do with the collection, I don’t know. Maybe nothing. Maybe it’s just for me.
She wakes up, sees me in the bed next to her, my laptop on my thighs, the screen glow lighting my face. Snuggles closer. Kisses my shoulder.It’s taking more and more drugs to act normal.
We have a week left. I feel my body shutting down. I feel things beginning to fail.
I’m not ready, goddammit.
I mean, in terms of “wrapping up my affairs” I’m as ready as I can be. It’s all arranged, everything is taken care of. She won’t have to do a thing, after I’m gone.
Sometimes, when I do manage to catch a little sleep, I wake up and see that she’s watching me.
Once, after a long night of sex and wine and French TV, I fell asleep on the couch and I woke up curled on her lap like a cat, and she was stroking my hair, what’s left of it, and she was crying.
She knows.
But when we’re awake, we pretend this is just a vacation.
It’s what I need, and she knows it. She needs it too, but I’m not sure she realizes the depth of that, just yet.
I had to convince her to splurge on the shopping trips. She’s a naturally thrifty person, doesn’t let herself spend a lot very often. One time I wanted her to buy a Porsche, but she settled for an A5. I wanted her to get a Chanel bag, and she bought a Louis Vuitton.
This time, I insisted. It’s taken care of, I told her. So she did. Reluctantly at first, but when she saw the way it made me smile, she let herself get into it and enjoy the splurge.We wake up to our last morning in our Parisian flat.
We pack up, and I tell her to leave everything but her carry-on and purse, it’ll all be taken care of.
We haul our carry-ons down to the cafe a half block from our flat, where we’ve become regulars this past month. We get espresso and pain au chocolat, sit one last time watching the passersby, gazing lovingly at each other.
“Thank you for this,” she says, finally, after a long thoughtful silence between us.
I’ve been getting emotional, lately. I have to fight it so she doesn’t misinterpret it. “No, Nadia. Thank you. You’ve made this best month of my life.” I have to clear my throat, look away.
She reaches across the small round table, through the wreckage of espresso cups and pastry platters and crumbs. Takes my hand. I have to look back, at her, meet her eyes.
“Best month ever,” she agrees.
It’s there, unspoken.
Not yet. I silently plead with her to not ask, not yet.
She doesn’t.Touch down, Atlanta.
Home.
Unpacking.
I’d arranged for the house to be cleaned in our absence, the fridge emptied and restocked, bed linens refreshed, fresh flowers everywhere. So it’d be a welcoming homecoming.It’s impossible to ignore reality, now.
Finally, I know it’s time to tell her. I loathe this. She’ll be angry I’ve waited so long. There’s so little time left.
It’s hard to get out of bed the next morning. So, for once, I don’t.
Nadia comes in with coffee, a mug for each of us. I take mine, sip at it.
“We need to talk,” I whisper.
She nods, but is already blinking hard.
A brief, hard pause.
“What is it, and how long?” she asks.
“Pancreatic. End-stage…” I have to pause for courage. “Probably another month or two.” Getting those words out is the hardest thing I’ve ever done in my entire life.
“Adrian.” Her hand trembles. She comes perilously close to spilling scalding coffee on her hands, so I take the mug from her and set it on the bedside table.
