Both Sides Now

  Both Sides Now

  Barbara Ferrer

  Copyright

  Diversion Books

  A Division of Diversion Publishing Corp.

  443 Park Avenue South, Suite 1008

  New York, NY 10016

  www.DiversionBooks.com

  Copyright © 2015 by Barbara Ferrer

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  For more information, email info@diversionbooks.com

  First Diversion Books edition June 2015

  ISBN: 978-1-62681-700-5

  To Lewis, who never lets me stop believing.

  To my twinling, who kicks me whenever it seems as if I might need it. Which is a lot of the time.

  You love me for no other end

  Than to become my confidant and friend;

  As such I keep no secret from your sight.

  —Dryden

  Author’s note

  References to treatments and medications were kept deliberately vague not out of laziness or a lack of research, but rather, from a deep respect for the fact that each individual's experience is profoundly unique and different. With treatments and methods of diagnosis constantly evolving, what's commonplace now could well be archaic in less than five years’ time. If this book is ever to become obsolete, I want it to be because cancer, itself, has been conquered and no longer exists.

  Prelude

  I’d love to say the knock was completely unexpected—but I’d be lying. Opening the door, I stood aside so he could walk past me into the hotel room.

  “You should be resting.” Even though I knew he’d been sleeping most of the day, his eyes still maintained that sunken, ill look, and I could feel the mild heat of his lingering fever as he brushed past me. His red-rimmed eyes flickered over toward the turned-down bed and back at me. Silently, I nodded and disappeared into the bathroom. After I was done, I left the light on but pulled the door almost completely closed, allowing a thin sliver to shine through as illumination. He was in bed, already half asleep, by the looks of it, his lids appearing heavier with each slow blink. Drowsy though it was, his gaze still followed my progress around the room as I closed my laptop, turned off the television and the various lights, and finally, when I didn’t have anything else I could do, untied my robe, revealing an oversized and decidedly unsexy sleep shirt.

  It was almost as if he was staying awake to make certain I really was going to slip into bed next to him—the answer to his unspoken question.

  He’d lost the sweatshirt he’d been wearing when he entered the room, although he still wore a thin T-shirt. I knew, too, even though the sheets and blanket were pulled to his chest, that he’d also lost the sweatpants. My hand resting on the bedside lamp, we studied each other. A hollow feeling took over my stomach as I realized that, unlike last night—when I’d slept on top of the covers—tonight, I’d be feeling all of him against me—no barriers.

  Somehow, that seemed so much more intimate than sex itself.

  Turning off that final light, I swung my legs into bed, not surprised to feel the sheets and blanket being smoothed over my body as I settled against the pillows.

  “I thought I was supposed to be taking care of you.”

  He curved himself around me, chest to back, fronts of his thighs solid and warm against the backs of mine as his arm settled over my stomach. “You are.”

  His lips only barely brushed against the sensitive skin of my ear, his voice little more than a hoarse whisper, but both vibrated through my body in a gentle, comforting hum.

  Settling myself more closely into the cradle of his body, learning the contours, the textures, even the smells, I sighed. “I’ve missed this the most, you know.”

  “Me too.” Seconds later, his breathing settled into a steady, deep rhythm, with only an occasional, lingering rattle vibrating through his chest. Waiting only long enough to reassure myself he really was asleep, I let myself go, falling into the best sleep I’d enjoyed in…I don’t know, months, years, maybe?

  I should’ve felt appalled. Maybe ashamed.

  Neither.

  All I felt was relief.

  Libby

  August 29

  “Look, Libby—fresh meat.”

  At Nan’s offhand comment, I glanced up from the magazine I was thumbing through.

  “Ten bucks says he passes out,” Marilyn offered, her thin face lighting up.

  “Doesn’t look like a fainter,” Nan replied. “But twenty says his breakfast goes.”

  I sighed. “Honestly, you are such a pair of ghouls.”

  Not like I should have been surprised, though. Nan and Marilyn spent most of their waiting room time placing bets against each other. Sporting events, the outcome of soap opera story lines, political debates, which doctor was most likely to divorce next, which colleague they were likely to romance in a broom closet—you name it, they bet on it.

  But, really. Even if gallows humor was what got us through most days, it rarely came at the expense of a newcomer. We’d all been there. And we’d all suffered. Each of us in our own ways, some more obviously than others, but no question, we’d all suffered. Tossing the magazine aside, I crossed to the waiting room’s water dispenser, grabbed a paper cup, and pressed the lever until it was full.

  “Come on now, bebe, you know we mean no harm.” Nan dropped into one of the surprisingly comfortable easy chairs, curiosity having given way to her normal placid expression.

  “That’s right, Libby,” Marilyn added, looking apologetic. “Guess we just got carried away—someone new coming in, especially now with Ben gone.”

  It got quiet there for a minute, except for the soft click of the beads as Marilyn automatically began a rosary. Ben was gone because his wife had finally given up, succumbing to the pancreatic cancer that was as aggressive and mean as my abuela on a bad day. Poor Ben. Viv had only been in her early fifties and otherwise healthy, not to mention stubborn as hell. That iron will of hers had allowed him to believe she had a good shot at recovery. And because he’d believed, she’d fought even harder, until the reserves were drained and she just couldn’t anymore.

  He’d looked so damn lost at the funeral last month.

  Not all that different from the expression on our newcomer’s face down the hall. Lost and bewildered, like he couldn’t quite wrap his brain around what he was hearing. The fact that he was even here meant he’d already heard a lot, but it was a whole different ballgame when you were standing in the sterile hallway of an oncology unit as opposed to the more personal—and private—environs of a doctor’s office. And as he stood there listening to the doctor, lost and bewildered gave way to a grief that seemed to visibly age him. Boy, did I know that expression. Intimately.

  “Give the guy a chance—let him settle in.”

  “God, I hope he doesn’t,” Nan sighed, the softening of her voice intensifying the French-Canadian lilt that thirty-odd years in South Florida hadn’t managed to completely eradicate.

  “That’d be nice.” I studied the exchange between Dr. Aguirre and our new arrival, waiting for a good moment. “Maybe he’ll be one of the lucky ones.”

  I tried to paste on a smile as I approached, but it was hard. I didn’t come naturally by Nan’s gift of being able to switch emotional gears, and it’d already been a rough morning with Ethan. This was probably the last thing I needed to be doing, edgy as I was, but with the way the Ghoul Squad was carrying on, I was the safest bet as today’s welcome wagon.

&nb
sp; “Libby, ¿qué tal, mi vida?”

  “Hola, Marco.” I offered my cheek for his kiss, feeling my smile relax into something more genuine as I caught sight of the startled expression on our newcomer’s face. It came as a shock to most people, the level of informality they encountered here, even with the doctors. A lot of it came from this tangible sense of being comrades in arms, the lines between the hierarchies blurred into near-nonexistence—a sense aided by the casual atmosphere. There were potted palms scattered throughout the various waiting areas, a radio at the nurse’s station tuned to a salsa station, and at any given hour of the day, a cafetera of aromatic Cuban coffee brewed and waiting for anyone who needed the caffeine jolt. The vibe was loose and relaxed and completely different from any hospital I’d ever been in.

  But when the shit hit the fan, the staff was kick ass—efficient, tremendously gifted, and completely focused on the cutting-edge treatments that had landed Miami-Flagler Cancer Center on several national “Best Of” lists.

  “How’d Ethan do today?”

  I shrugged. “Okay.” Kept it light—no need to scare our newbie any more than he clearly was. Besides, right now wasn’t about me or my husband. Marco’s nod let me know he realized I was downplaying and that he’d get the details soon enough. I turned from him and held out the paper cup.

  “Hi, I’m Libby. Forgive me if I’m being forward, but it looked like you could use this.”

  “Thanks.” Poor guy’s hand trembled as he accepted the cup and drained it in one long swallow.

  Marco watched also, his gaze concerned behind half-moon glasses. “Nick, I need to get going, unless you have any other questions?”

  “Uh no, I, uh…don’t think so. No…no.”

  Honestly, I wasn’t so sure about Nan’s assertion that this Nick guy didn’t look like a fainter. Even as he spoke, his skin was fading to the sick yellow that passed as pale for people with olive complexions, and his pupils dilated, almost obliterating dark brown irises.

  “Mira, m’ijo, if you have any questions at all, don’t hesitate to ask. If I’m not around, then ask one of the nurses. If they don’t have the answer, they can page me.” Marco's voice softened. “We’re going to do our best for Katharine. Te lo prometo.”

  “Yeah, thanks.”

  As Marco walked away, I touched Nick’s forearm. The blank expression he turned my way made it clear he’d totally forgotten I was there—if he’d ever even registered my presence at all. Eyes widening, his hand convulsed around the paper cup he still held, crushing it, a few drops spurting out to land on his fist. I watched as a single drop trickled down taut, white-knuckled skin before catching on the edges of a simple gold ring. Katharine was the wife, then. And despite the grief and fright aging him, it was obvious he was even closer to my age than I’d originally imagined and just as shell-shocked as I’d once been, what felt like forever ago. El pobre. It was easier then to push aside my rough morning and raw emotions—to focus on the kinship that had already made a tentative appearance, at least on my part.

  “Do you need anything else? More water?”

  He shook his head, glancing over his shoulder toward the closed door a few feet away. “I need to get back.”

  “Okay.” I patted his arm again. Sometimes, little things like that were what kept you in the here and now. Eventually, he'd get that. “Someone’s usually hanging out in the waiting area,” I pointed over my shoulder with my free hand, “if you need a break.”

  Even as he nodded, he began backing away, saying, “Look, I really need to get back.”

  I sighed as I watched him disappear into the room.

  “He’s going to be tough, isn’t he?” Nan’s voice came from just behind me.

  Studying the closed door I replied, “Yeah. Looks like he’ll hole up until he just can’t take it anymore.”

  “Sounds familiar.”

  “Even I reformed.”

  “Not until you’d nearly given yourself a nervous breakdown, bebe.”

  “Yeah, well, nearly doesn't count now, does it.”

  “No, I suppose it doesn't.” Nan tucked her arm through mine, and led me away from the closed door. “So, where shall we go for lunch today?”

  • • •

  “Get out!”

  Pain rocketed up my spine as I stared up at Ethan from the floor. Grabbing onto the bedrail, I tried to pull myself back up, but somehow he was able to summon enough strength to shove my hand off before I got completely upright, making me lose my balance and collapse to the floor once more. Fresh bolts of pain shot up my spine and radiated sharp, icy tingles out through both legs and arms.

  “Get the fuck out, Libby. Get out!” His voice cracked under the strain of his fury—or was it pain? Who could tell the difference anymore?

  I dropped my head to my knees, tears hot against my eyelids, but damned if I’d let them fall. Wouldn’t do either of us any good. Taking a deep breath, I reached instead for a nearby chair, hauling myself to my feet.

  “It’s bad today,” Corrine observed, as she pulled the covers back over Ethan’s chest.

  I nodded at the nurse, not trusting myself to speak.

  “Stop talking like I’m not here. I just want to be alone, dammit. Didn’t you hear me, Libby? Alone.”

  I didn’t move. Not because I was ignoring him, but because I was simply watching as Corrine went about her duties, taking care of my husband. Kept my gaze fixed on him, even though his painful thinness, obvious even beneath the loose T-shirt he wore, twisted through me like a knife digging a sharp path between my ribs, right through to my heart.

  Always did. Never mind that Ethan had always veered more toward rangy and lean than broad-chested. Never mind that it had been long enough since he’d been himself physically that I should’ve been more than used to seeing him like this. Or at the very least, numb to it. I wasn’t. Didn’t want to be. Even though the alternative—constantly acknowledging all those changes—hurt so damn much.

  No sooner than the covers were up over his chest than he was flinging them off again, tubes flailing. “Don’t want the goddamn covers, don’t want water, don’t want anything. Get out.” His bright blue eyes were wild and unfocused, lips pulled back from his teeth, his entire demeanor that of a cornered animal.

  “Honey, you’re probably better off going,” Corrine said, leading me toward the door. “I’ll look over his chart and page Dr. Aguirre—see what might’ve set him off.”

  “We tried a new cocktail this morning—he seemed fine before I went to lunch.”

  “Sometimes it takes a while before the side effects kick in. We’ll get some extra Ativan in him—try to settle him down.”

  Again I nodded. What else was I going to do? Stay? Not as if I was exactly helping Ethan right now. When the anxiety grabbed hold like this—when it exacerbated the agony and the fear—there wasn’t a damn thing I could do. A final glance over my shoulder revealed him staring after me.

  “Go, Libby.” Said much softer—pleading really. And another piece broke off my heart. Even after all this time, after all we’d been through, he still hated my seeing him like this.

  Outside the room I rubbed the back of my neck and breathed deep. “Call if he wants me?” I said to Corrine who’d followed me out.

  “You know we will, honey. But why don’t you go on and get some rest? You look like you need it.”

  Yeah. Rest. Right. But what else was I going to do? The theme of my life for the past couple years—doing what others felt would be best for Ethan or best for me. Best for both of us. It was possible some day I'd be able to reclaim the right to decide these things for myself. At the moment, however, it seemed like an unattainable luxury.

  I nodded again, punched the elevator button, stepped in, rode down to the second floor, and took the walkway across the street to the parking garage. I climbed into the Volvo station wagon we’d bought only because it was low to the ground and had room for Ethan’s walker or wheelchair—whichever he might need on any given day—exi
ted the garage then drove the short distance along Alton Road to the hotel I stayed at every time Ethan had overnights at the hospital.

  Thank God for that drive. Thank God for Las Palmas, the hotel with which the hospital had an arrangement. I'd learned early on that I needed the distance from the hospital—needed the time to myself. And, even though I was ashamed to admit it, needed some time and distance from Ethan.

  This time though, the drive that was usually just long enough for me to pull myself together after a bad day wasn’t anywhere near long enough. So I pulled into a secluded parking space, sat in the car, and blasted the stereo loud enough that I couldn’t hear myself crying and screaming into my arms, which were crossed over the steering wheel. Finally, I took a final, shaky breath, wiped my face, blew my nose, and headed into the hotel.

  “¿Señora Walker, comó estás?”

  So tempting to reply, “Like shit, and you?” but I didn’t. Carlos was being nice and didn’t deserve my snarly mood. So I just murmured some inanity as I signed the registration slip and accepted my key card.

  “Would you like me to have some tea sent up? ¿Alomejor un tacito de café?”

  I glanced up from returning the credit card to my wallet. “No, gracias, Carlos.”

  “Bueno, just let us know if there’s anything you need.”

  A smile—I could manage a small one. “Thanks.” Could go now. Could escape.

  I gathered my things, turned—and stopped. This morning’s newcomer stood just inside the lobby doors with a bewildered expression on his face like he had some faint idea of where he was, but no clue how he’d gotten there.

  A sense of déjà vu swept over me.

  Leave it be, Libby. Just… leave it. The day’s been crap enough.

  Right. As if I could.

  My sneakers made only the faintest noise on the blue-veined marble tiles—an awareness that had me ever-so-cautiously reaching out to touch his forearm. Just like back at the hospital.