No Longer Between Worlds

It had been precisely 637 days since Norah Dunlap had set foot in a hospital. She had never intended to return to any hospital, especially not this one, for the rest of her life - however short that life was meant to be.

And yet here she was, shivering from the slicing autumn breeze, the anxiety coursing through her blood like the distant echoes of chemo or a combination of the two. 

“Can I help you with something?” A voice thrummed somewhere in the ether, landing Norah back into her body. Norah inhaled, said a quick prayer to whatever God was closest, and lifted her chin in the direction of the voice. 

A kind face, albeit clearly in a hurry, wore both the furrowed brows of concern and the twitching lips of concealed annoyance.

“Ma’am, are you alright? You’ve been standing here for over an hour. Is there someone I can call for you?”

“Yes, yes. I’m fine. That won’t be necessary,” Norah insisted, surprised by the key of authority her voice had chosen. This was her home, after all. She knew its every crack and crevice, every peeling paint and broken tv. She had memorised it like one would a lover or an executioner. 

“I just need a few more minutes. Thank you.”

The uniformed woman skirted away, unconvinced but seemingly satisfied enough to check Norah off her lengthy list. 

Norah watched as dozens of patients entered and exited the double glass doors. Some smiled, some cried, many did both. She considered the building, allowing it to take on a life-force of its own. She could feel its breathing. She watched as it binged on the helpless bodies who entered willingly into its ever open jowls. 

Norah grimaced. The bitter smell of antiseptic stung her nostrils and lingered in her empty stomach. Memories rushed in like guests of an uninvited welcome home party. 

She looked down at her body- the curves it had gained in the years since she narrowly escaped this building. Each rise and fall of skin proof that she had survived, that she had lived. The building salivated at the thought of sinking its teeth into her juicy muscles—a welcome reprieve from the typical skeleton which walked its halls. She heard a grumble, unsure if it was her own stomach or the beast’s before her. 

She raked her fingers through her now shoulder-length auburn hair, considering the cost of surviving. If she stepped forward, she would be consumed. There would be no telling if she ever exited those doors again. Regardless of the outcome, she would be ravished.

Prodding, herding, poking, beeping. 

And yet, if she did not enter, her fate was undisputed. It had been explained to her at length. She had memorised it like the monologue she performed in high school theatre. She could still recite it now if she needed to: Stage four metastatic liver cancer. Not the best prognosis, but the research is ever-moving and there are options available. 

She would give this speech a hundred times to loved ones, friends, strangers, anyone who needed to hear. They were empty words now— a solitary confinement for her to be still within. No one saw how she sat in those empty words, how they were a cage that was both open and closed at the same time. 

Norah thought back to the day her world collapsed in on itself. She no longer stood outside the hospital, but inside one of its many unassuming torture chambers. Three years ago, she is a lifetime younger and fidgets with the custom engagement ring on her finger in a beige office. The chair she sits on is a deep yellow.. not mustard yellow and not lemon yellow. Something in between that Norah can’t quite put her finger on.

“Norah, you have stage four metastatic liver cancer,” Her doctor put down the papers in his hand, along with any pretences.

Norah rotates the ring round her finger over and over, mirroring the earth orbiting the sun. She twists her legs around in the chair. Maybe it’s more of a watered-down lemonade kind of yellow? 

“I understand this news is incredibly shocking and difficult to process. You can take all the time you—“

“Pineapple!” 

The doctor is expecting a number of responses. Pineapple not being one.

“I’m.. I’m sorry?” He graciously offers up in response.

Norah stares at the chair beneath her with painstakingly blank eyes and continues, “Did you know that it takes two years for a pineapple to grow?” 

The ring continues its orbit around her cold finger. 

“Norah, we are not giving up. We have options to—“

“Two whole years. Just to grow one freaking pineapple! I just threw mine out this morning.”

She looks the doctor in the eyes, momentarily taking him off guard.

“It went bad, rotted from the inside. It took two years to grow, and I killed it within a week.”

The doctor allows space for silence. The orbit quickens. They can both hear the clock’s second hand awkwardly witnessing their conversation. 

Norah sighs the kind of sigh that only those who have broken in half can recognise the sound of.

“I came in for shoulder pain and some cramps. I figured it was my period and a shoulder injury from climbing. And I let that stupid pineapple sit in my fridge the whole time.”

The orbit ceases. Norah looks up once more to meet the doctors concerned eyes. There’s a concern which makes you feel ashamed and there’s a concern which makes you feel safe. Despite everything, in that moment, she felt safe within the confines of his concern. 

“Norah, the cancer you have began in your liver. It has now metastasized. It has begun to enter your lungs and some of your bones. This means we cannot operate. We have to begin chemo immediately to give you the best chance.”

“The best chance for what, exactly?” Norah asked.

His concern made an effort to hold her closely once more before speaking the words which would change Norah forever: “The best chance to enjoy what life you have left, Norah.” 

The rest of the conversation included statistics, survival rates and words she would look up the definition to when she got home. 

Back in front of the hospital, Norah wiggles her toes. She scans her body— the body which has betrayed her. The body which is quickly and painfully slowly killing her. For a moment, she wonders why cancer isn’t classified as suicide. 

A mother and her young daughter walk out of the beast’s mouth. The daughter proudly swings her new orange cast in a dramatic kind of walk. 

At most, without treatment, Norah would have three to six months left. Which would slowly or quickly cascade into days of pain— each blending into the next, marked only by the hours of insomnia. Her life, whatever that meant anymore, had been researched, debated and ultimately agreed upon by a group of people who, together, spent more time in school than Norah had spent alive. She was going to die; the question was no longer when, but how and where. 

 ___________

“Can I get you anything, Tom?” 

Tom had grown accustomed to this question over the past few months. Usually two drinks would do the trick. Today was different. Today was her birthday.

“Another whisky,” He replied cooly, without averting his gaze from the ring he rotated in his fingers. 

He could feel the stare from the waitress, and had developed a keen ability to discern even the slightest variations in a stare. More often than not, the eyes of those around him were warm and wrapped in a certain pity. Without fail, each person who offered condolences or put their hand on his shoulder, had a fear of catching what Tom had— to lose the love of your life before you lives truly begin. They acted as if his fate were contagious. 

Tom knew they would go home and hug their daughter, son, mother or lover tighter and longer after seeing him. He considered the fact that this could be a beautiful side-effect of his tragedy. He downed the remainder of the amber liquid instead, willing it to numb whatever was left. 

“Get up,” A burly voice came from behind him, as his jacket was ripped off the chair. 

“Come on, Tom. You’re not doing this anymore.” 

The source of the voice was Patricia, a force of nature, also known as ‘Momma Pat’ to most everyone. The tenor of her voice made Tom think about the feeling of slowly crunching sand beneath your feet. 

“Leave me alone,” Tom more groaned than spoke.

“I’m not kidding around. Get. Up.” What Momma Pat lacked in height she made up in the wisdom earned from enduring years of an unkind life and about 65 pounds. She pushed his chair, forcing Tom to stumble off. 

She led him to the door, throwing a twenty dollar bill on the bar on their way out. They walked in silence, Tom half a foot behind Momma Pat, for what felt like an hour to Tom but was in fact seven minutes. 

Tom stared at the ground the entire time, listening to the lullaby of Momma Pat’s raspy breaths. They came to a willow tree, which had been Norah’s favorite spot to read. Norah was infamous for her reading; she could read an entire book in one night and begin the next before falling asleep. 

“I just can’t wait in between worlds for too long,” she would say, her reading glasses hanging onto the edge of her nose for dear life. “I feel lost somehow. I’ll only be ten more minutes, babe.”

She would in fact be at least thirty more. Tom didn’t mind. He would put a designated reading sock over his eyes, shielding out the light, and fall asleep to the sound of the pages of worlds turning. 

Tom looked at the willow tree, recalling the hundreds of times he would meet Norah here. Beneath the tree was a bench, newly installed. 

Momma Pat coughed and signalled for Tom to sit. 

“Why are we here?” He asked, to Momma Pat, himself, the ghost of Norah or maybe the universe itself. 

“You know, I heard a story once,” Momma Pat began. “A man is stuck in a prison. He loses count of the days he spends there sometime after a few hundred. He knows the cell inside and out. He spends each day and night lying in the corner, never venturing towards the door. 

One day, he walks up to the door to see there is no lock. In fact, there isn’t even a door. He falls to the ground and sobs. Then, after some time, he gets up, goes back to his corner and falls sleep.”

They sit in a comfortable silence, watching the vines of the willow dance in the wind like hair. Tom imagines Norah’s hair. His trance is interrupted by Momma Pat’s cough. 

“When I met Norah, I was in a bad way. I’d just been diagnosed. She was finishing her third round of chemo. We both knew what was coming for us both. We never pretended, and that’s what gave us room to laugh and gossip and yell and cry.” 

Momma Pat stares into the sky, convening with an old friend. 

“She told me that story the week before she died. At first, I thought she was talking about herself or me or the bitch of cancer herself.” 

Momma Pat turns to look Tom square in the eyes, holding his gaze intensely. 

“You can leave the prison you’re in or you can go back to bed. You get to choose, and that— that is the freedom.” 

Momma Pat stood up and turned to take in the view. She motioned her hands towards the entire scenery and said, “She would have fucking loved this, huh?” She lit up a cigarette, winked at Tom and walked away. 

Tom looked on the ground surrounding the bench to see a strange looking plant growing. A small wooden plank identified it as Ananas Comosus — Pineapple. 

He closed his eyes to feel the wind, inhaling the smell of freshly planted flowers and earth. He remained on that bench, playing through memories of his and Norah’s brief and wonderful life together, for what may have been an hour, but was in fact two. Then he stood, approached the door of his cell and walked out into the sunlight. 

Behind him, the plaque of the bench read:

Please do not sit here and weep for me--

I am no longer between worlds; I'm free!

Norah Dunlap 

June 15th 1988- December 3rd 2023