Delaying the Storm

Lightning cracks across the midnight sky, illuminating Oliver’s profile against the window. “I don’t know what you want me to say,” he says, his voice so low it disappears against the din of the falling rain. 

“I don’t need you to say anything,” Nicola replies, sliding the thick, manila envelope to his side of the glass table. “I just need you to sign the papers.” 

The lights had gone out just a few minutes after the storm had started that afternoon, drowning their quaint, Upper West Side apartment in complete darkness. Once the candles were lit, the cat given its anxiety meds, and the twins had been put to bed, Nicola confronted Oliver about her decision. “This is something I’ve been thinking about for a long time now, I can’t imagine you’re all that surprised,” she says, keeping her voice even. 

“Are you really that heartless?” he asks, his eyes glassy. 

“Oh, come on, Oliver. Cut the dramatics.” 

He turns to face his wife, and Nicola sees the years of their life play out over his soft, familiar face. She sees every argument they’ve had in the divots between his eyebrows. She sees every bad joke he’s ever told in the deep lines that bracket his mouth. She sees the pale white mark in his hairline from where he hit his head fixing the bathroom sink. She sees the twins in his lopsided ears, in his warm brown eyes. 

“I’m serious,” he says, his chin quivering. “I just don’t get how you can be so nonchalant about this whole thing. About basically throwing our whole life away.” 

Nicola feels her face flush, but keeps her own features still. “You act like this is an easy decision.” 

“You’re acting like this is an easy decision,” he snaps back. “And why the hell are you springing this on me now? The girls’ birthdays are next week. Were you planning on announcing your decision to everyone before or after we bring the cake out?” He pushes the envelope away from him. Like it’s infected. Nicola sighs and closes her eyes, focusing on the sounds of the thunderstorm rolling outside. 

“I’m trying to make this as easy for you as I can,” she says. “It’s my life–” 

“And Jessie’s life. And Hannah’s,” Oliver cuts in. “Oh, and mine, too, if you care to remember.” Nicola’s eyes are closed, so she can only imagine his twisted mouth as he tries not to cry, the cartoonish way his eyebrows bow when he’s upset. She’s seen him cry enough times to know which eye usually sheds the first tear (his left) and when his snot will start to dribble down his lip (almost immediately). 

Despite her cool exterior, Nicola’s heart races in her chest, only amplified by the nausea clutching at her stomach and the headache that's been pounding at the back of her skull since her doctor’s appointment that morning. 

She opens her eyes. Oliver looks exactly how she’d expect. “I’m sorry,” she whispers as he wipes his face with his sleeve. 

Oliver falls silent. For a few moments, they sit together. Husband and wife, listening to the storm. Every once in a while, she hears the occasional car honk or siren wail that reminds her she and Oliver aren’t alone, that there are thousands of other New Yorkers listening to the same thunderclaps, seeing the same gusts of wind tear through the same streets. 

When she was a little girl in Mariposa, she and her family experienced thunderstorms in isolation. Their cramped house just east of the Sierra Nevadas was at least a mile away from the closest neighbor on each side, and surrounded by a forest of pines so thick, you could hardly see. So when the sky began to roar, they would all camp out in the living room–Nicola, her mother, her stepfather, and her step siblings Julie and Paul–and sleep in a big dog pile until morning. 

To keep the kids’ minds off the storm, her mother and Roy would take turns telling stories about the magical land of Man-attana, a magical place where kids rode on top of trains and dreams came true. When she got older, Nicola put two and two together: her parents had told them stories about New York City. Or, what they vaguely knew of New York City, seeing as neither of them had ever traveled outside of California. (Most of the details were based off of the 1984 film, Muppets Take Manhattan, a film Nicola played on their VHS at least twice a day from ages six to nine.)

But on the nights when little Nicola still couldn’t fall asleep, when the house would shake and the trees would howl, Nicola would curl into her mother’s side, and listen quietly as she taught her how to count the storms. 

“When you see the lightning flash,” her mother would whisper. “Start counting.” The amount of time between the flash of lightning and the thunder rumbling told you how many miles away the storm was, each second equaling a mile. “You don’t get worried until the storm’s only two or three miles away, then you gotta keep an eye out,” she’d say, referring to the fires that would often start from the lightning. “And we don’t have a whole city out here to watch out for us, Nic. We only got each other.” 

Back in her apartment, in the city that was supposed to watch out for her, Nicola finds herself counting the seconds between the lightning and the thunder outside, the way her mother taught.

A flash of light. One, two seconds pass before thunder booms.

Her mother is long gone now, having succumbed to heart failure after a years-long battle with pancreatic cancer over a decade ago. Nicola remembers how hard life was for Mom towards the end, how Roy had worked himself to the bone to take care of her, committed to her fiercely until her last breath. Her once-lively and boisterous stepfather had withered alongside her mother, pouring every last bit of himself into making sure she got better. And when their worst fears became reality, Roy devoted himself to ensuring she was comfortable until she died. 

By the time her mother passed, Roy was a shell of the man Nicola once knew; skinny, perpetually anxious, with permanent dark circles under his eyes. And whether it was the weight of the loss that got to him, or his time on earth really had come to an end, Roy died of a heart attack barely a week after her death, at only fifty-eight. 

It’s this reality that Nicola wants to avoid. 

“I’m not springing this on you now,” she breaks the silence. “This was the plan from the beginning.” She pauses. “Ever since the diagnosis.” 

Lightning strikes, thunder rumbles. No seconds pass. The storm is here.

“We’re in a different place than my parents were,” she continues, her hands shaking. She tucks them into her lap. “The kids are young. You’re getting promoted at work. And if things go the way I think they’re gonna go–” her voice hitches. Oliver, without hesitation, scoots his chair closer to hers. A sob lodges in Nicola’s throat and her eyes burn. 

Nicola, Paul, and Julie had been out of the house when their mother had been diagnosed. But when Nicola got diagnosed last year–this kind of cancer is genetic, after all–the twins had just turned nine. 

Oliver shushes her, and folds her into his arms. “I know, Nic. I know.” He kisses her on the forehead, and something about that small act, that casual, easy, familiar act, breaks the dam inside her chest. Tears spill down her cheeks and words knot on her tongue as she tries to explain herself. 

“I j-just don’t want you to end u-up like Roy,” she blubbers into Oliver’s shirt. “You can’t–I can’t let you do that to yourself,” she pauses. “I can’t sit by and w-watch you destroy your life just to save mine.” 

They spend the next several hours sitting at that table, Oliver holding a crying Nicola in his arms as she lets her fears bubble to the surface. He removes the silk scarf from her head, the one he picked out for her once her hair started falling out, and runs his warm hands over the bare skin. When her alarm goes off for her medication, he gets her a glass of water to wash the horse pills down, then picks her up and takes her to the couch, where he lays with her until they both fall asleep, Nicola tucked into his side. 

The storm lets up as the sun rises the next morning. The bloated storm clouds from the night before part to allow the gentle pink dawn to peek through. Light streams across the living room, warming their tangled limbs. Oliver wakes first, his ascent from the couch prompting Nicola to wake moments later. She scrubs her face and rubs at the knot that’s formed in her shoulder overnight. 

“When was the last time we spent the night on a couch together?” she asks, her voice weak. Her eyes are swollen and dry. Her breath feels stale on her tongue. But, somehow, she feels rested. For the first time in a long, long time. 

“Has to be college,” Oliver replies with a yawn, “Pre-Obama, at least.” Nicola watches Oliver as he starts the coffee maker, his hair smushed at odd angles, his jeans and button up wrinkled from sleeping in them. Her chest cracks at this image of him, so tangible and whole. 

The scent of fresh coffee fills the apartment, and Oliver slides the manila envelope under his arm as he brings two mugs to the coffee table and sits on the ground at Nicola’s feet. 

“We don’t have to do this now–” she starts. 

“Yes, we do,” he replies, unfastening the metal clasp and removing the stack of papers within. Nicola’s stomach hollows out. 

He holds them out so he can read the title. 

“REQUEST FOR AN AID-IN-DYING DRUG TO END LIFE IN A HUMANE AND DIGNIFIED MANNER”

Assisted suicide. Giving Oliver the chance to take care of their children without the burden of taking care of her, too. Something she wished her mother could have done all those years ago. 

But now, seeing the papers in her husband’s hands, she wonders if this was the right decision at all. 

“So why do I need to sign these?” Oliver asks as he skims through the packet, leaning back between Nicola’s legs. The pressure of his back against her shins, between her thighs comforts her. 

“To prove I’m sane of mind,” she replies, absentmindedly running her hand through his hair, separating some of the curls with her fingers. “That you, my next of kin, are okay with the hospital administering me the drug. Anything else would get handled by the will.” 

He reads through the first couple pages, holding his tongue between his teeth. Would he be as upset as he was yesterday? “You wouldn’t have to be involved any more than you’d want to,” she adds nervously. He’s silent for a moment, and Nicola takes a deep breath, waiting. 

He flips through the final page, and sighs. “Getting your husband’s approval to humanely kill yourself feels so…” he trails off. 

“Wrong?” she offers. 

“Parental.” His mouth quirks in a half smile. 

Nicola rolls her eyes. “Funny.” 

“I’m serious,” he says, flipping through the pages. “You know, for something as simple as suicide, there’s a helluva lot of paperwork. I feel like I’m signing your permission slip to go to bible camp.”

A laugh splits from Nicola’s gut, a lovely surprise. When was the last time she laughed? Between the doctor’s appointments, the kids’ schedules, Oliver’s work, she can’t remember. And by the look on Oliver’s face, the softness in his eyes, she knows it must have surprised him, too. His hand finds hers, and he squeezes her fingers. 

“If you won’t do it, I understand,” Nicola says, the words surging from her. “I know it’d selfish, I know it’s a fucking insane thing to ask of y–” Oliver stops her.

“I’ll sign them,” he says. Calmly. Slowly. “If this is what you want, if this will give you peace of mind, I’ll sign them.” He cups her face in his hands. “I would give you the world, if you wanted it, you know that?” 

Tears pool in the corners of his eyes, in the eyes of the man who would snatch the world off its axis and lay it at her feet if she asked. In the same eyes as those of her beloved children. 

“Thank you,” she whispers. 

He pushes off her legs, and the sudden lack of him leaves her cold. “Let me just get a pen–”

“Oliver, wait,” she interrupts. He sits back, expectant. She takes the manila folder from him and puts it on her lap, shielding them from him. “You don’t have to sign them now.” 

“But don’t you want–” 

“I know what I want. And I know what I want for you,” Nicola emphasizes. Now it’s her turn to cup Oliver’s face in her hands, savoring the roughness of his day-old shadow against her palms. “I know that when the time comes, you’ll make the right call.” 

She kisses him, and as she pulls away, he pulls her in for one more, his cheeks wet with tears, her own tears mixing with his. He releases her, resting his forehead against hers. 

“I don’t know how I’m going to survive without you,” he says, his voice hoarse and timid. 

“Well, I’m here now,” she says, taking the folder and placing it on the coffee table, away from them, out of sight, a problem for another day. “And we survived the storm last night. I think we can weather whatever comes next.”