Before I Go Read online

  Applause fills the ballroom. I lift my hands to clap but find that they’re frozen in my lap.

  May.

  It’s as if someone placed an obnoxious alarm clock in the middle of the table and it’s ticking right at me, time hurtling toward the future.

  Jack’s graduation.

  Summer.

  Four to six months.

  And then I remember a gag gift I saw once in one of those Sky-Mall magazines or Brookstone catalogues that counted down the days until you die and I was thinking how morbid that was. But now I wonder how many days mine would say I had. Twenty-five? Sixty? One hundred?

  “Jack Richmond.”

  Beside me, Jack scoots his chair back, then leans over to kiss me before standing up to walk toward the podium and I realize I’ve missed the entire lead-up to his award. I plaster a smile on my face and watch the back of his lanky body as it strides through the maze of tables, his jacket neatly hanging from his shoulders, his pants perfectly creased from the dry cleaner.

  And I know that no number of days is enough.

  When Jack gets back to the table, he sets his wood and gold plaque where his plate used to be and reaches out to take my hand. He leans in close and I think he’s going to kiss me again, but instead he whispers in my ear, “Are you OK?”

  I nod, even though I feel clammy and shaky and a little sick.

  I take a deep breath.

  Focus.

  I just need to focus.

  I squeeze Jack’s hand reassuringly and smile at him, and when he turns his head back toward the speaker, I begin scanning the tables, though I’m not really sure what I’m looking for. Single women, for starters, but it’s harder than I thought it would be to tell who’s with a date and who’s just sitting next to a classmate, professor, or friend.

  Some of the faces are familiar—people I’ve run into when taking Jack lunch at the lab or met at other veterinary college events.

  My eyes light on a woman with a sensible blond bob. I stroke my own thick brown locks, smoothing the ends around my fingers. Jack likes long hair. Regardless, she looks smart in her square-framed glasses. Responsible. Organized. And better still, she looks to be alone. I take in the top of her blue strapless gown that’s splayed across her bosom like a cloth accordion—she’s a little flat-chested, but not in an unflattering way. When my gaze travels back to her face, I notice that she’s staring at me. She gives me a small smile before I dart my eyes back to the stage.

  Later, people stand in clusters holding sweating beverages, watching a few daring bodies clumsily jerk their limbs on the small square dance floor set up in front of a four-piece band. Jack has left my side to get us wine from the bar, but he’s being stopped every couple of feet with congratulatory handshakes and slaps on the back.

  I stand with my hands clasped in front of me and then fold them across my chest. Then I put one hand on my hip and let my other arm dangle by my side. Even though I’m standing on the periphery of the party, I’m as self-conscious as if a spotlight is shining directly on me. I urge Jack to move faster through his admirers so I can take comfort in his shadow once again.

  “Hey.”

  I’d been staring so intently at Jack’s back I didn’t notice the blue-frocked woman with glasses approach me.

  “Hi,” I say. Up close I can see that she’s a natural, not bottle, blonde. Her hair is thin, wispy, and her skin is so pale it’s translucent. Veins shine through like a roadmap of highways and rivers on her chest and cheeks. She looks fragile and I frown. I need Jack’s new wife to be sturdy. Durable. She opens her mouth to speak and I notice she has a piece of asparagus wedged in her upper teeth.

  “You’re Jack’s wife.”

  I nod.

  “I’m Charlene,” she says.

  Charlene. The name clicks.

  “You took care of Rocky when we were in the mountains,” I say, remembering Jack’s irritation at her seeming ineptitude. OK, so Jack’s not terribly impressed by her veterinary skills. But she is responsible. And thoughtful. And she gave up her entire weekend so Jack could spend time with me. That’s a pretty big favor.

  “Thanks so much for doing that.”

  “Of course,” she says, and then clears her throat. “Jack told me about . . . your situation.”

  “He did?” I’m surprised by this. That day in the car is the only time he’s mentioned this woman, yet he knows her well enough to tell her something so personal? Although he did say he had told some of his colleagues, so, then again, why not her? It’s not like he has a lot of close friends at work. People like Jack, but it takes a lot for him to open up. Even his best friend from high school, Thom, who still lives in Indiana, he only sees once a year, and talks to just a handful of times more than that.

  “Yeah, it’s kind of my research field,” she says. “Cancer in dogs. Golden retrievers. I’m trying to find out why they have a higher incidence of it than other breeds.”

  Ah. Now it makes sense. Jack would want to collect data from all available resources—even if said source is dealing with canines.

  “They do?” I ask.

  “Yeah. About one in three dogs gets cancer, but in golden retrievers it’s 60 percent.” She brightens when she says this, and I know it’s not because she’s happy that dogs are riddled with tumors, it’s because she’s like Jack—invigorated by her work.

  Like Jack. My heart trips over itself, quickening. So what if her skin is see-through? It’s what’s inside that counts.

  “Do you cook?” It just tumbles out of my mouth and I wish I could reach up and grab the words with my fist and stuff them back in.

  She tilts her head and narrows her eyes behind her glasses. “Huh?”

  Great. Now I’m the crazy cancer patient. Maybe I can mumble something about the brain tumor and slip off into the crowd. But before I can formulate an explanation for my unexpected turn in conversation, a woman comes up behind her.

  “Hey, Char.”

  She turns. “Hey!”

  “Melissa, meet Daisy. Daisy, this is Melissa, my roommate.”

  I find it a little strange that a nearly-thirty-year-old woman getting her PhD would have a roommate, but maybe times are tight. Or maybe she doesn’t like living alone.

  I smile at Melissa and as she returns the expression, I notice a slight widening of her eyes as she takes in my sallow complexion. She quickly masks it, and turns back to Charlene. “Can we get out of here soon? I’m beat.”

  “Yeah, that’s fine. Let me grab my coat.” She looks at me. “It was good seeing you. Please tell Jack I said congratulations.”

  “I will.”

  She begins to walk off, and then hesitates and leans in closer to me and touches my arm. “Yun zhi mushrooms,” she says in a quiet voice.

  Now it’s my turn to be confused. I wonder if it’s a bizarre response to my equally bizarre cooking question, as in, “I do cook. Mushrooms.”

  Then she adds: “U Penn just found that they increased survival rates for dogs with hemangiosarcoma. Look it up.”

  I nod, struck by the kindness in her eyes. Even though I search for it, pity is nowhere to be found, and it makes me like her even more.

  ON THE DRIVE home, Jack drones on about a professor that he spent most of the night talking to and his ideas regarding Jack’s research on treating hip dysplasia with a blue-green algae derivative.

  “The spirulina is effective, obviously, but Kramer thinks we could combine it with other compounds—make a supersupplement of sorts . . .”

  I know he’s speaking more to himself than to me—it’s how he organizes his thoughts, because God forbid he would actually write anything down—so I tune him out and think more about Charlene. She has a lot in common with Jack, but is it too much? Is she scatterbrained like him, or organized? Maybe she wouldn’t even notice an unruly pile of dirty socks because she’d be too busy thinking about mushrooms or sarcomas or her latest golden retriever patient. I wonder how she is to live with—maybe I could track down her ro
ommate and try to get some information out of her. Melissa, was it? And then the thought that tugged on me when Charlene introduced us fully formulates itself in my brain.

  “Is she a lesbian?” I say out loud, not even realizing I’m talking over Jack, until the words are out of my mouth.

  He stops midsentence and looks at me, taking his eyes off the dark road leading up to our street for longer than I think is safe. His eyebrows furrow, and his mouth forms an O: “Who?”

  “Charlene,” I say, and then point to the windshield. “Watch the road!”

  He resets his gaze forward and shrugs. “Um . . . I don’t know? I’ve never really thought about it.”

  I nod. “Do you think she’s pretty?”

  The crease in his forehead deepens. “Daisy,” he says. My name is a statement. “Are you OK?”

  Great. My husband thinks I’m a crazy cancer patient, too. “I’m fine,” I say, waving off his scrutiny. “Tell me more about Kramer.”

  But he doesn’t. After a few beats of silence he asks me how class is going. “You haven’t said much about it recently.”

  Which I could tell him is because after I got a D on my makeup Gender Studies exam, I decided to stop taking tests altogether. I don’t do the reading assignments, I haven’t written any papers, and my professors and I seem to have an unspoken agreement that I can just drop in on class like a socialite choosing which fancy parties she feels like going to.

  But instead, I say, “It’s good.”

  He waits for me to elaborate.

  I don’t.

  As he sets the parking brake, he turns to me. “Hey, do you want to go to Waffle House in the morning?”

  I unbuckle my seat belt and look at him. “Don’t you have PetSmart tomorrow?” Jack volunteers the first Saturday of every month with the Athens Small Dog Rescue during their adoption day at the local pet store.

  “Yeah, but I can skip it.”

  “You’ve never skipped,” I say. “Besides, you know I don’t eat that stuff.” I open the door, bracing myself for the cool night air that’s sure to bite my bare legs.

  He mumbles something and doesn’t move from the front seat.

  “What?” I fold at the waist and stick my head back in the car to better hear him.

  “You used to.” The side of his mouth turns up and his crooked tooth peeks through his lips. “Remember the morning after the first time you spent the night with me?”

  I cock my head at Jack’s nostalgia. He’s not the sentimental type.

  And then I let out a tiny sigh as I think of that morning. Of course I remember. His bed-tousled hair. The chewy bacon. But that was before the Lots of Cancer. That was even before the Little Cancer the first time. And I am not the same girl who could throw caution to the wind and eat whatever she wanted. And Jack knows that. Or he should.

  We stare at each other. Seven years of memories swim between us, and lighting on the same one strengthens the current. I swear I can feel it tugging on my heart. “Come on,” I say more gently while straightening my bent spine. “Let’s go inside.”

  nine

  THE TEMPERATURE OF the hot yoga class at Open Chakra studio is a stifling and humid 105 degrees. For the past two years, I’ve suffered through the 8 A.M. Saturday morning sessions with Bendy Mindy and her weird southern Buddhist hybrid way of speaking (“Namaste, y’all!”), after reading a study that the practice helps rid your body of toxins and can possibly reverse the cancer process, effectively preventing tumors from growing in the body.

  Now, even though I know it effectively does not, I still find myself perched on my organic jute mat, conqueror breathing in unison with eight other women—one of whom could be Jack’s wife.

  “Now, again,” Bendy Mindy instructs. “Inhale deeply. From your beer guts, guys and gals!”

  The hissing sound of our collective exhale fills the room like a band of angry cobras in a wicker basket and I glance around, wondering if Bendy Mindy has noticed that there are no men in her class. A woman with a Jamie Lee Curtis pixie cut in the back of the room locks eyes with me and quickly looks away, and that’s when I notice a few other classmates boring holes into my skin.

  Yep, I’m orange. Get over it, I silently tell them and then close my eyes to try and forget about their curious stares and find my Zen.

  Except I’ve never really been good at finding my Zen. While everyone else is silently repeating mantras, I’m the one silently repeating items on a grocery list or psychological theories for an upcoming exam.

  We move into downward dog and a bead of sweat runs from my forehead down the length of my nose and drips onto the floor. My hands slide a little on the slick mat and I concentrate on keeping my balance. I’m struck by how this simple pose seems more difficult than usual. Maybe because I haven’t been in a few weeks?

  My head goes light and I squeeze my eyes shut to combat the wave of dizziness that threatens to overtake me.

  I breathe in.

  Exhale.

  Better.

  “Knees down. Now slide back to ooh-tan-uh shee-sho-san-uh,” Bendy Mindy directs in her soft twang. “And just let go of your week. Whatever you’re holding on to—anger, stress, you’re irritated that your favorite singer got kicked off The Voice—” She waits for a response and receives a titter of polite chuckles from two women. Satisfied, she continues: “Breathe it out. Let go of the anger.”

  It feels like that word-association game where someone says “door” and you say the first word that pops into your mind and it surprises you, because at the word “anger” the first thing I think of is . . . Kayleigh.

  And as soon as I think it, I know it’s true.

  I’m mad at Kayleigh.

  It’s been almost three weeks since I told her about the Lots of Cancer on the phone, and though we’ve texted, she hasn’t come over. She hasn’t just shown up at the back door and let herself in and put her shoes up on my coffee table without being invited. And even though that’s what used to irritate me, now I’m irritated that she hasn’t done it. And until this moment, I’ve been trying to ignore it. The little voice in my head has been making excuses: She’s busy! I’m busy! We’ve gone longer without seeing each other! Quit being so needy!

  But now the little voice in my head is wondering if maybe, even after all these years, I’ve miscalculated her. Maybe she isn’t as strong as I thought. Maybe she’s avoiding me like all my other “friends” who fell away the first time I had cancer because they didn’t know if they should ask how the chemo was going or pretend I wasn’t having chemo and talk about the weather or the latest episode of Revenge instead. So they just didn’t talk to me at all.

  Freud would say I’m displacing. I’m pissed about the cancer and I’m taking it out on Kayleigh. That’s the problem with being a psych major. I can’t just have feelings like normal people. I have to try to understand them. It’s exhausting.

  I sigh and give my head a gentle shake as Bendy Mindy directs us into the bridge.

  God, it’s hot. Is it always this hot?

  “Concentrate on your breath, y’all.”

  I close my eyes again and exhale and try to let go of Kayleigh and my displaced anger or whatever it is. I need to be thinking about Jack anyway.

  And his new wife.

  We stand up for warrior pose and I try to discreetly survey the room again, but turning my head makes me decidedly more dizzy, so I look toward the mirror at the front of the room and try to focus on myself. Is my body aligned correctly? My back toes perfectly perpendicular with my front heel? Sweat drips in my eyes, blurring my vision, and as I lift my hand to try and rub it out, I feel my body swaying.

  “Daisy?”

  I hear my name, but it sounds far away and kind of singsongy, like when my mom used to serenade me with my favorite nursery rhyme over and over when I couldn’t sleep. And then the song is on a loop in my head.

  Dai-sy, Dai-sy, give me your answer, do!

  I’m half crazy, all for the love of you!

&n
bsp; It won’t be a stylish marriage,

  I can’t afford a carriage,

  But you’ll look sweet

  Upon the seat

  Of a bicycle built for two!

  I open my eyes, smiling a kind of dumb, childish smile as if the song has transformed me into my three-year-old self, and I’m a little confused because all of these faces are staring at me and it takes me a minute to realize I’m on my back.

  “Are you OK?” says the mouth of a woman who has hard, sinewy arms but a soft, dewy face and I feel like the duckling in that book: “Could you be Jack’s wife?”

  And then I notice that my head is pounding and I roll to the side just in time to throw up what’s left of my kale smoothie on the sinewy/soft lady’s bare feet.

  And that’s when I decide that I’m done with yoga.

  JACK’S NOT ROMANTIC. At least not in the conventional way. At least that’s what I tell people when they ask What did Jack get you for Valentine’s Day/Christmas/your birthday? and they expect me to say a bouquet of tulips or a sapphire bracelet or a box of truffles. But instead I say, “Oh, Jack’s not romantic in the conventional way,” which leads them to believe that he is romantic in some other supersecret way. But he’s not.

  Jack’s logical. Which isn’t to say he isn’t sweet and thoughtful, because he can be, but he can also be royally clueless, as if he’s never seen a Meg Ryan movie in his life. I learned early in our relationship that if I wanted to be wined and dined, I was going to have to make the reservations—or specifically tell him that I want to go out to eat, which night I want to go and that he should wear a sports jacket and tie.

  Which is why I’m shocked when Jack comes home early on Monday night and asks me to go out to dinner.

  “A new restaurant just opened up downtown,” he says. “Wildberry Café. It’s one of those farm-to-table deals. Thought we could check it out.”