a love letter to Lily. It’s not about her at all, but the novel wouldn’t exist without her prodding.
God, our history went on and on. She couldn’t give up, because we were each too much a part of the other. We even weathered Spawn. She married David, which was a huge mistake, though I tried to like him despite his smug college-professor smirk. I introduced them—not to have them date or anything, but just casually at an English department function. He left soon after for greener pastures at NYU—a more prestigious university. In the adage of “publish or perish,” he was kicking ass with several pieces in literary journals and a piece in the New Yorker.
Theirs was an intense, fast courtship—and sex was a big part of it. There was a combustible attraction between them.
Then Lily had Tara. A kid changes a marriage and changes a friendship—but we still talked as if nothing had changed, because for us, everything had changed but the friendship at our core. When she got pregnant with Noah, she had to be on bed rest for a few weeks. And then of course Spawn left her. Because, for him, not being the center of her universe was unacceptable. When he left, it almost killed her.
Funny to hear that expression now. Cancer puts a lot of things in perspective.
Anyway, I was convinced nothing could kill her if she could survive Spawn’s abandonment.
But this was different, and by the third chemo treatment, even the way she talked about it had gotten more resolved to the fact that she would not be there to watch Noah grow up.
“Will you make sure he doesn’t forget me?” she asked one night. We were lying in her king-size bed. She had a big soup pot next to her in case she needed to throw up in a hurry. She had an ice pack on the back of her neck and one on her forehead.
“Shut up! Because if you think I won’t bitch-slap you now that you have cancer, you’re wrong. Stop talking like that.”
“Michael, I need you to be the one person on this earth I can be entirely honest with. It’s truly exhausting for me to have to keep up this pretense that I am definitely going to live. I am buying time. Borrowed time. I lie here every night and try to figure out what I am going to do to get these kids ready for life without me. And every time you deny me the chance to be honest, I just—” She didn’t finish her sentence but took a tissue I offered her.
“I believe in miracles.”
“I don’t, damn you.”
“Miracles aren’t about kneeling in a church, or weeping statues, Lily. Miracles just happen. They’re part of the plan.”
“Whose plan?”
“The Big Man’s.”
She turned her head to face me. Pillow talk without the sex. I was sleeping over so I could take Noah to my mother’s for brunch the next day. The ice pack slid off to the side. Her nose was running. Her face was blotchy.
“See, that’s where I have a problem. Because if miracles are part of the Big Man’s plan, then me being sick is also a part of it. I mean, okay, into each life a little rain must fall. People get cancer, so why not me? But damn it, why me? When I’m a single mother? Where’s the goddamn plan in that?”
“I ask the Big Man that every night, Lil. But you still have to believe. What happened to Pac-Man and visualization?”
“I’m still doing my internal video game.”
“But you’re doing it thinking you’re going to lose. What if you did it thinking you could win? That you could get the high score on the Pac-Man machine of life.”
“Michael, that’s the worst pep talk I have ever heard in my life.”
“I’ve heard worse.”
“No you haven’t.”
“Yes, I have. I played baseball in college, remember. I had coaches who majored in cliché. One for the Gipper and all that.”
“You still didn’t answer me. Will you make sure he doesn’t forget me?”
“Lily, stop it. Noah is not going to forget you.” My voice rose. I stopped looking at her and stared up at the ceiling. “You’re his mother.
God, our history went on and on. She couldn’t give up, because we were each too much a part of the other. We even weathered Spawn. She married David, which was a huge mistake, though I tried to like him despite his smug college-professor smirk. I introduced them—not to have them date or anything, but just casually at an English department function. He left soon after for greener pastures at NYU—a more prestigious university. In the adage of “publish or perish,” he was kicking ass with several pieces in literary journals and a piece in the New Yorker.
Theirs was an intense, fast courtship—and sex was a big part of it. There was a combustible attraction between them.
Then Lily had Tara. A kid changes a marriage and changes a friendship—but we still talked as if nothing had changed, because for us, everything had changed but the friendship at our core. When she got pregnant with Noah, she had to be on bed rest for a few weeks. And then of course Spawn left her. Because, for him, not being the center of her universe was unacceptable. When he left, it almost killed her.
Funny to hear that expression now. Cancer puts a lot of things in perspective.
Anyway, I was convinced nothing could kill her if she could survive Spawn’s abandonment.
But this was different, and by the third chemo treatment, even the way she talked about it had gotten more resolved to the fact that she would not be there to watch Noah grow up.
“Will you make sure he doesn’t forget me?” she asked one night. We were lying in her king-size bed. She had a big soup pot next to her in case she needed to throw up in a hurry. She had an ice pack on the back of her neck and one on her forehead.
“Shut up! Because if you think I won’t bitch-slap you now that you have cancer, you’re wrong. Stop talking like that.”
“Michael, I need you to be the one person on this earth I can be entirely honest with. It’s truly exhausting for me to have to keep up this pretense that I am definitely going to live. I am buying time. Borrowed time. I lie here every night and try to figure out what I am going to do to get these kids ready for life without me. And every time you deny me the chance to be honest, I just—” She didn’t finish her sentence but took a tissue I offered her.
“I believe in miracles.”
“I don’t, damn you.”
“Miracles aren’t about kneeling in a church, or weeping statues, Lily. Miracles just happen. They’re part of the plan.”
“Whose plan?”
“The Big Man’s.”
She turned her head to face me. Pillow talk without the sex. I was sleeping over so I could take Noah to my mother’s for brunch the next day. The ice pack slid off to the side. Her nose was running. Her face was blotchy.
“See, that’s where I have a problem. Because if miracles are part of the Big Man’s plan, then me being sick is also a part of it. I mean, okay, into each life a little rain must fall. People get cancer, so why not me? But damn it, why me? When I’m a single mother? Where’s the goddamn plan in that?”
“I ask the Big Man that every night, Lil. But you still have to believe. What happened to Pac-Man and visualization?”
“I’m still doing my internal video game.”
“But you’re doing it thinking you’re going to lose. What if you did it thinking you could win? That you could get the high score on the Pac-Man machine of life.”
“Michael, that’s the worst pep talk I have ever heard in my life.”
“I’ve heard worse.”
“No you haven’t.”
“Yes, I have. I played baseball in college, remember. I had coaches who majored in cliché. One for the Gipper and all that.”
“You still didn’t answer me. Will you make sure he doesn’t forget me?”
“Lily, stop it. Noah is not going to forget you.” My voice rose. I stopped looking at her and stared up at the ceiling. “You’re his mother.
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