CHAPTER ONE - DENIAL

Denying the truth doesn’t change the facts.

(c) 2019

      I stare at the reflection in the windowpane. Photos of Dr. Billings, a woman, and three look-alike teenagers fade in and out on the computer screen. They’re all in bathing suits and swim trunks at a beach somewhere wearing matching straw hats.

      “Do you have any questions?” Dr. Billings takes off his glasses and lays them on top of my file.

      I blink.

      “Ms. Kernigan?” He leans his head to make eye contact. “I know this is a lot to take in…Questions? Thoughts going through your mind? We can take as long as you need.”

      A consultation a couple of months ago and three visits following some tests; I’m surprised he even knows my name.

      I’m numb and fumble for my purse on the back of the chair. “Nope. I’m good, thanks.”

      “You might be experiencing shock – denial even – ”

      “I don’t think so, Doc. I’m dying…can’t deny that.” A chill shoots down my spine. I zip up my running jacket and reach across his desk for a handshake.

      “Do you have someone in the waiting room – family, partner?” He ignores my extended hand. “I’m happy to answer – ”

      “No. I’d rather tell them myself.” When I’m ready. I give up on shaking his hand and head for the door. For such a big office, the walls seem to be closing in. I stop with my hand on the knob. “One question…”

      He stands and rounds his desk. “Don’t make me give a timeline…it’s so subjective –”

      “Please?” I whisper. If roles were reversed, wouldn’t he want to know? “Otherwise I’ll just Google it…”

      He sighs. “Six months maybe – a year if you’re lucky. Researchers are studying different types of immunotherapy for pancreatic cancer and there are medications – ”

      I don’t wait for him to finish. I open the door and sprint down the hall and through the waiting room.

      Everyone dies.

      Every body. Every thing.

      I clench my teeth. Not me though…and definitely not today.

--

      “Dana?” Mark calls from the kitchen. “That you?”

      A bead of sweat drips from my brow. “Yeah!” Does he know?

      Silence.

      I kick off my running shoes by the front door and jog up the stairs. “I’m hitting the showers. Be down shortly.”

       When I reach the top, my muscles tense up. How would he know? I’ve scheduled the doctor appointments during the same times as my CrossFit classes and personal trainer sessions. Good thing I’m the one paying the bills and we have great insurance.

      I peel off my sweat-free workout gear in front of the mirror and scowl at my reflection. I look good…healthy even. I check another angle. I look better than most forty-year-old women.

      I’m not dying – I’m living. I don’t feel any different. I’ve worked so hard taking care of myself – eating the right foods, making exercise a priority. Shit, I’ve even taken up yoga and meditation. And for what? A term limit. A death notice.

      I step into the shower and turn on the water. The rain-like drops pitter-patter against my back as the steam fogs the glass doors. My muscles relax. I love this shower. It’s big enough to fit Mark, the kids, and me. Not to mention the dual rain showerheads on the ceiling. This shower was one of the main reasons we bought the house.

      Five years. I gag and dry heave, then slide into the seat for two in the corner. Assuming I make it another eight or nine months, I’ll have gotten five years out of this house. I’ve been married longer – celebrated our twelve-year anniversary two weeks ago.

      A new sickness hovers over and I squirt body wash onto my loofa.

      When Mark and I met, we were fresh out of college. My co-worker was celebrating her birthday at a pub down the street, and it being my first real job, I felt obligated to go. I hated bars. Never liked the ambiance or the crowds. While most of my colleagues were getting sloshed, I stuck to what I knew: darts.

      The only female shooting, and likely the only person still sober in the joint, I sparked up a lively conversation with the two men in the corner. After I beat them the fourth game in a row, I threw one. Mark, one of the two guys playing, caught me. I don’t know how or what I did to give myself away, but when they won and his roommate went to the bar to get a beer, he called me on it.

      “Why’d you do that?”

      I played dumb. “What?”

      “Let us win…you’ve hit bull’s-eye twice in a row and now you barely stayed within the target…I don’t buy it.”

      I shrugged. “It’s just a game…”

      “Maybe…but I’d rather lose fairly than win out of pity.”

      I smiled. It was refreshing to meet a man who was willing to lick his wounds instead of whine about them.

      We played a couple more games before I decided to call it a night. After I said my goodbyes and headed for the door, he met me outside and asked for my number.

      “If you’re available,” he said.

      It just so happened I was – broke up with a boyfriend of two years the month prior. Mark and I went out the following weekend and became practically inseparable.

      I glance at my ring and my heart flutters. He damn near emptied his savings to buy it. ‘Til death do us part…my eyes burn. I want to scream – cry – something. Anything. I can’t leave him – if the doctor’s finding is even real. But I can’t tell him either. Not yet, that’d solidify my fate.

      I shut off the water and wrap myself in a fresh towel.

      “Hey, sexy.” The steam blurs his silhouette, but his voice is soft enough to know he’s near.

      “Hey, yourself.” I drop the towel and wrap my arms around his waist.

      A wave of heat warms my abdomen. All these years and just his voice can turn me on faster than any foreplay ever could.

      I taste the beer and salt on his lips, the same flavor as our first date nearly fifteen years ago. Tears fill my eyes and I bury my face in his chest. I unbuckle his belt and pull off his shirt. I can’t tell him now. I’m not dead yet. Maybe the tests were wrong. I feel so alive…

--

      “Mommy! Daddy!” Bree comes barreling into our room just as I tie my robe.

      “I thought you were watching a movie.” Mark races back to the bed and under the covers.

      I stifle a giggle.

      “We were,” Bree whines, “but Spencer’s being a meanie – he won’t share the blanket or pillow.”

      Bree has a sharing problem. Yet, when someone gives her a taste of her own medicine, she becomes the rule enforcer and tattletale.

      “Tell you what,” I say, brushing my hair, “why don’t you go downstairs and grab your blanket and pillow, and I’ll bring you each a cookie before dinner, deal?”

      Her eyes grow big and she runs out the door, hopping down the steps; each thud drives another stake into my heart.

      How can I explain death to a five year old? Spencer’s old enough – we’ve buried two goldfish, a hamster, and my dog in his ten years. But Bree? She still thinks the hamster’s on vacation and occasionally asks when Murdoch – the mastiff that died the year before she was born – is coming back.

      Mark puts on his flannel pajama bottoms. “Dinner’s almost ready.” He slaps my butt just hard enough to get me to crack a smile, then disappears down the hall.

      When we moved in together, I did most of the cooking – tried to anyway. He’d eat anything I’d put in front of him: burnt, dry – he drew the line when the chicken breast was raw in the middle. But he didn’t complain or make me feel like a total failure. One day though, he asked if I’d be offended if he took the kitchen duties off my plate. I was relieved. I never liked cooking, but felt like it was my job. I was happy to be fired.

      I go downstairs and grab a couple of Oreos. My hands tremble. They’re not even teenagers yet – haven’t even experienced life’s big problems. They can’t grow up without me – can they?

      In a daze I wander into the living room where they’re snuggled side by side under their blankets. They fight so much, yet on a dime, they’re best friends again. My brother and I were like that. I was older, but if anybody picked on him, I’d be the first to have his back.

      I don’t know what Bryce’d say if I told him. He’s had so many personal problems over the years – DUI, rehab, divorce, rehab again. No telling what this news would do to him.

      I go to the kitchen to help set the table.

      “Red or white?” Mark waves his choice.

      I could drink the whole bottle if I’m not careful. “Red.”

      “Your mom called. Wanted to know when we’d be coming back to visit.”

      Mom. I moved to Colorado to get away from the Midwest: Illinois and everything about it reminds me of flatlands and Jell-O salads.

      Mark’s only been subjected to my hometown and family a handful of times. No one approved of my stay-at-home husband, and neither of us appreciated their opinion. Another visit might be his last. Mine too.

      I don’t have the energy tonight. “I’ll call her tomorrow.” She’ll ask how I’m doing, and when I say I’m great or everything’s fine, her sixth sense will kick in and she’ll keep hounding until I give.

      Telling Mom would kill her. That or she’d want to know who I’m leaving the kids with – she wouldn’t consider Mark or any other male capable – even though his career as a food critic has bought us more meals than my salary could afford.

      I collapse into the dining room chair and prop my head up.

      “Wanna eat before the kids are finished?” he asks.

      It’s Friday. Gearing up for a weekend of soccer games, day trips to the museum, and certain meltdowns, we usually prime ourselves with some wine and downtime before it all starts piling up.

      I’m not really hungry, but since he went through all this trouble…“Sure. What’re we having?”

      “Your favorite.” He winks and walks into the kitchen.

      My favorite…I have so many, but I suspect he’s making steak. The backdoor’s open and the aroma from the grill teases my nostrils. For a moment, I ignore my stomach and pretend the entire meal won’t wind up in the toilet later.

      He returns with our carefully plated dinners: filet mignon, green beans tossed in balsamic vinaigrette and topped with toasted almonds, and a smear of garlic mash. He could’ve been a chef – but I guess in his field he’s learned a thing or two from the pros.

      The morsel of perfectly cooked medium rare melts in my mouth. With just the right amount of salt and pepper and a dollop of butter on top, a good steak needs nothing more.

      We eat in silence, enjoying the quiet we rarely get.

      I chew my third bite of steak and pick at the mash as Spencer and Bree interrupt our peace.

      “What’s for dinner?” Spencer asks, ignoring their plates on the counter.

      Mark points. Smaller portions of what we’re having with some mac ‘n cheese because God forbid we forget a pasta side.

      They take their plates to the table. Bree’s unusually quiet.

      I push my plate aside and nudge her. “Something on your mind?”

      She shrugs.

      “Come on…what is it?”

      Spencer’s known for choosing movies that are too old or scary for her. I should’ve checked when I delivered the cookies.

      She looks at me with tears in her eyes, then drops her fork, and lunges into my arms.

      “I don’t want you to die, Mommy!”

      My jaw drops.

      “B, what’re you talking about?” Mark stands and collects our plates. “Spence, what were you watching?”

      She sobs, holding me with a death grip. My heart races and I hold my breath. Does she know? Did I forget to close something on the computer? Did the doctor leave a message or call the house?

      Spencer rolls his eyes. “I just told her ‘everybody dies.’ We were watching Matilda, Mom. Jesus.”

      I exhale. It’s just the movie. “Not today, baby girl. I’m not dying today.”

      I give her an extra squeeze and kiss her cheek. She wipes her eyes and gives me a weepy smile before going back to her seat.

      That’s all I can promise: not today.