Page 25 of The Cabin
She stands up. Paces away.
I give her space.
She turns around, and I see that anger I know I deserve in her eyes. “A month or two?”
I nod, shrug. “There’s no way to know for sure.” I try to swallow, but can’t. “This isn’t exactly scientific here, but…I can feel…it. The end. It’s not far off.”
“No…” she hisses. “No, Adrian, no.”
I don’t know what to say, now that this moment is here. “I’m sorry I kept it from you.”
She laughs bitterly. “You thought you were. But I’ve known all along.”
“Then you know why.”
“Yes.” She sits, takes her mug back, and curls both hands around it.
Her thick black hair is loose, wild as thunderclouds. She’s wearing my UNC T-shirt, and little boy-style briefs with flowers and hearts on them. They’re so fucking adorable on her it makes my chest hurt. Sunlight shines early morning yellow-gold through our bedroom window; it’s open, that window, letting in a breeze that wafts her hair playfully. A robin sings on a branch just outside. I can see it, the robin, redbreast puffing and fluffing, fluttering its wings, lifting its head and calling to the sky.
She tucks her bare thigh under the other, all but sits on me. She’s battling more emotions than any human should experience all at once.
“Yes,” she finally repeats. “I understand why. Doesn’t mean I’m not mad at you for it, though.”
“I’m sorry, Nadia. I just…I couldn’t let it be your burden.”
“You fought it?”
“For a year and a half. Mostly chemo. Surgery was never an option—didn’t find it till it was too late for that.”
“A year—” Her voice breaks. “A year and a half? Fuck you, Adrian. A year and a half?” She ducks her head, and a tear slips down her nose. “I’m your wife. It was my duty and burden to help you bear this.”
I touch her chin, but she pulls away. “No, Nadia, it wasn’t. You couldn’t have healed me, not even with your force of will.”
“I’m so angry with you for this, Adrian. So angry.”
“I know.”
“But you did it anyway. You knew I’d feel this way.”
“I couldn’t tell you. I tried. Right at the beginning. I almost told you. But then I…I thought about you wanting to push my wheelchair to and from chemo, and holding trash cans for me to puke into, and…I just couldn’t. You couldn’t have changed anything, Nadia. Chemo is boring. It gave me a little extra time, but that’s it.”
“I should have been there with you.”
“I don’t know how to say this without it sounding harsh or mean, but…I didn’t want you there. It’s dark and brutal and cruel and evil, Nadia. I needed you to be you—to be innocent and beautiful and good. I needed you to come home to, to be my brightness when I felt dark. I’d feel sorry for myself and then I’d come home and you’d kiss me and you’d look at me like I’m the best thing since red wine.”
She sniffles a laugh, wet around tears. “You’re not that great,” she teases.
Silence.
“So, how does this work?” she asks, finally.
I shrug. “Hell if I know. My first time dying of cancer,” I quip, but it’s bitter and falls flat, and she flinches. “Sorry. I’m not flippant about this, I swear. But sometimes humor is the only way I can face it.”
She takes my hand. “Since you kept it from me for so long, I think it’s only fair we do this my way.”
“‘Oh good, my way… What’s my way?’” I quote.
“‘The moment his head is in view, smash it with the rock!’” She continues the Princess Bride quote, mostly correctly.
“‘My way’s not very sportsmanlike,’” I finish.
She laughs, but again it’s more of a wet sniffle than a laugh. “We should watch that.”
“Nadia.”
She shakes her head. “My way is I quit my job, or take an indefinite leave. You let me take care of you. We spend this time together. Like in Paris, but at home, and—and all the way to…to the—the end.”
“All right.” What else is there to say?
She’s blinking hard, head tipped back. “You’re sure there’s nothing…they can—they can do?”
“I’m sure.” I wave a hand. “I could do more chemo, but at this point even the most aggressive chemo is just going to make my last few weeks or months a misery. Chemo fucking sucks…it sucks, it really, really, really sucks.”
She nods. “I’ve done shifts in the oncology ward.”
“I guess, if it can’t be cured, and there’s nothing else that can really extend my life in any meaningful way, then…I’d just rather go as peacefully as I can.”
She’s chewing on something. “What…god, I don’t even know how to ask it. What will it be like? Do you know?”
I shake my head. “No, not really. I’ve wondered more than a few times myself, especially recently, but it feels sort of—I don’t know, defeatist? Morbid?—to Google or ask the doctor what dying of pancreatic cancer will be like. Not fun, I can tell you that. But I’ve got…” I tug open my bedside drawer and pull out my little leather satchel of pills. “This. A veritable pharmacy of shit that’s supposed to take the edge off. So I guess I’ll just get all strung out and…we’ll be together through it.”
