An Unescapable Fate

      “I have cancer.”  The weight of the words sent a painful shiver through his body.  Saying it out loud somehow made it real.  He had spent months bargaining with himself, telling himself that if he kept quiet that the cancer would go away.

         But it didn’t.

         His mother wore her broken heart on her face.  With a low voice, she croaked, “How long have you known?”  Her tears were just under the surface.  He could tell that she was using all her strength to stay calm.  After all, this wasn’t about her.

         He hesitated to answer.  He felt as though he had been transported through time to when he was a child, cowering behind his hands to avoid a punch to the face her screams always delivered.  His head still hung over the toilet bowl; vomit pooled around the corner of his mouth.  “Three months.”  He kept his head down and stared at the floating motley chunks in the water.

         “THREE -,” she stopped herself, covering her mouth with her right palm.  She paused.

         Henry turned his head to the left to look at her.  She was crying.  Silent streams trickled down her cheeks.  He had never made her cry before.  Yell?  Sure.  But never cry.  Pondering it further, he realized that he had only seen her shed a tear once before and that was when his father left.  Still, that had mostly been anger.

         This was different.

         “Mom…?” Henry uttered, his throat burning at the sensation of sound passing through.

         She removed her palm from her mouth and slid to the floor.  Her back was pressed against the doorway.  “Three months?”  Her voice was barely above a whisper.

         He slowly grabbed a few pieces of toilet paper, wiped his mouth, and discarded them into the puke infested water.  He then shut the lid, sparing both himself and his mother of the stench.

         “Henry…” She looked at him, as if pleading for him to admit it was only a joke.  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

         “I’m already stage four.”  The fire in his throat lingered, causing his voice to sound significantly weaker than it usually was.  “It started as stomach cancer, but it’s pretty much spread throughout my body by now,” he sighed, “I don’t have a fighting chance.”

         “Are you sure?” her voice was accompanied by a hint of rage.

         “Yes, Mom, I’m sure.”

         Silence fell between them for several minutes.  Minutes that felt like hours.

         “Well, have you told Abigail?”

         “No… you’re the first to know.”

         “Dammit, Henry!”  With her back still against the doorframe, she managed to kick the cupboards below the sink.  She clenched her fists, staring into nothingness.

         He stared at her, wanting to hide, but he wasn’t a child anymore.  He was thirty-two.

         His mother’s breathing had started to slow, and she turned her eyes to him.  This time, her voice was soft, “You’re too young for this.”

         It was hard to believe he could laugh at a moment like this, yet, he did.  “That’s what my doctor said.”

         She gave him a halfhearted smile.  “How long do you have, sweetheart?” she questioned.

         Henry took a deep breath, letting out a sigh that echoed through the stuffy bathroom of his studio apartment.  “Months.”

         In that moment, Henry’s mother extended her hand toward him.  He stared at it in bafflement as if it were an appendage of an unknown creature.  She shook her hand firmly, still reaching for him.  “I won’t bite,” she pointed out sternly.

         Henry pressed his lips together and raised his eyebrows, extending his hand out to hers.  Even with her snake-like features and bitter personality, her hand provided comfort.  A warmth filled his chest and, for the first time since his diagnosis, he felt at peace.

         That night, Henry sat at the kitchen table.  Two vibrant red placemats sat on the aging oak surface.  The wood had lost its color a long time ago, the paint was chipped and one of the table legs seemed to have gotten shorter than the rest.  Fed up with the wobbling, Henry had placed a towel underneath the maddening, shrinking leg.

         He laughed to himself, realizing what a shithole this apartment was, and it was in that moment that he knew he would never get that million-dollar penthouse he ached for.  He knew he shouldn’t be laughing but he had a habit of cracking up during inappropriate moments.  He would never get another promotion, or dine at the Chef’s Table at Brooklyn Fare, or propose to Abigail.

         Abigail…

         His amusement quickly evolved into anger.  He would never get to marry the love of his life.  He had the ring.  He had purchased it almost a year ago.  His plan was to propose to her at Rockefeller Center in front of the Christmas tree.  Christmas was her favorite time of year and that tree had always been one of her favorite things about living in New York.  However, he wasn’t sure if he would still be here by Christmas.  Plus, he could never ask her to marry him knowing that he would leave her a widow.

         As if she could hear him thinking about her, Abigail opened the front door.  Her nose was a bright pink while the rest of her face was drained of color.  Nonetheless, she wore the biggest smile in Manhattan, “I’ve got big news!”

         Her voice never failed to bring joy to his heart.  “Perfect timing.  Dinner should be ready in a minute,” he replied strongly, overcompensating for the sickness he had dwelling inside.

         While she hung up her coat, Henry pulled the lasagna out of the oven.  “You are amazing!  How did I ever get so lucky?” she beamed.  Abigail sat on one of the rickety chairs, the wood squeaking underneath her.

         Henry forced a smile even though Abigail could only see the back of his head.  The weight of his secret enveloped him.  Every day it got harder and harder to keep it from her.  Still, he couldn’t figure out how to tell the woman he loved that he would be dead in a few months.  “So what’s this big news?”

         “I think you should sit down when I tell you,” she answered, her voice still vivacious as ever.

         Henry scooped slices of lasagna onto two white plates.  “Oh?  Should I be worried?” he asked lightheartedly.

         “Hmm... worried?  No.  BUT, “she shot him an anxious grin, “please remember to keep an open mind.”

         He turned to face her, holding a plate in each hand.  “You know I’m not good at that.”  This was true.  He set the plates on the table, turned around once more, and scurried to the kitchen to grab utensils.

         Abigail’s excitement softened, “Yes, but try.”

         Taking in a deep breath, Henry stuttered, “I - I have news for you too, actually.”

         “You do?!” she inquired eagerly.

         He sat down across from her; her eyes were full of joyous life.  He forced himself to smile again and handed her a fork, “You first.”

         She grabbed the fork, smiling back.  “Well… I was offered a new job opportunity today.”

         “What?!  That’s amazing!”  Henry’s happiness was genuine this time.

         “Hold on.  There’s more…” She inhaled slowly, “They want me to do several articles on French cuisine and culture.  And they want me to do it from Paris.”  Her expression begged for his approval.

         With his mind blank and his mouth full of lasagna, he mumbled, “Wow…”

         “I know.  I know, but, it’s only for a few months.  Sure, I’d miss the holidays, but I’d be back in time for Valentine’s Day.”  Henry remained silent.  If he said yes, then he wouldn’t get to spend the last of his days with her.  If he said no, he would be selfish – forcing her to turn down an opportunity like this.  And all for what?  A few months of watching her boyfriend die?  “Look, Henry.  I can say no.”

         “No,” he boomed.  “I mean, no… you should take it.”

         “Really?”  Abigail’s big blue eyes sparkled the second she grinned.  She tucked her hair behind her ears and took her first bite of the lasagna.

         “Yeah, really.  Plenty of couples do long distance.”  She nodded happily.  “This is going to be great for you, Abby.  You’ve been wanting a gig like this for years now.”

         An angelic glow came over her.  “I get to go to Paris,” she giggled.

         “You get to go to Paris!”  Henry paused, admiring the way Abigail basked in delight.  “You’re incredible.”

         She gently placed her hand over his.  “I couldn’t have done this without you, you know.”

         His eyebrows flickered upwards for a moment.  “Is that so?”

         “You were always the one who told me to keep writing.  So many times, I thought about giving up, but you… Henry, you were always there encouraging me to push past the hard stuff.”  Abigail squeezed his hand.  “Thank you.”

         “Well you made it easy.  I could tell you were meant for something great.”

         They sat together, in love, not daring to take their eyes off one another.  “Come with me,” Abigail suggested.

         He would love to.  However, he didn’t want her memories of Paris to be of him suffering to his incurable disease.  She should be free to explore the city, drink wine, dine at all of France’s finest restaurants, and most importantly, write the most spectacular articles anyone has ever read.  If he joined her, she would insist on staying by his bedridden side.  “I would love to, but I have a real shot at getting that promotion.”

         “Good,” she nodded, “well I hope you get it and, hey, it’s only three months.”

         “Exactly.”

         Abigail stuffed her face with more lasagna.  “God!  I’m so rude!”  She covered her mouth with a napkin and used her free hand to nudge his arm.  “What was your news?”

         Exposing his secret would cause her to decline the job.  Even if he could convince her to go, she would spend the next few months in misery, eventually guilting herself to come back.  Henry skimmed her carefully.  There she sat, chewing as fast as she could and staring at him with glee.  Her auburn hair still frizzy from her winter hat.  Her love for him was unfailingly selfless.  It was his turn.  “Oh,” he chuckled, “I won tickets to a Jets game.”