Chapter 20 #2
His face has gone so ashen, his freckles stick out like pencil dots on paper.
“Stage four, but most of his treatment is done here, at the house. He has a port and goes to the clinic for a chemo infusion every two weeks, but I’ve set him up with a concierge health service, so most of his time is here, comfortably at home.” Sybil says.
I should be grateful my father can receive such good care, but it only makes me angrier with him.
After all the ways he’s hurt people, even facing possible death, his wealth keeps him comfortable.
Doesn’t seem fair that someone with the same diagnosis, but not the same fortune, won’t have access to the same kind of care.
Or even any care at all if they can’t afford insurance.
“He’d like to see you both. Piper, too.” Sybil continues while Archie and I stare at each other in shock that he’s asked for Piper, too. “That’s why we’ve been trying to reach you—to set an appointment.”
I roll my eyes and mouth, an appointment.
That’s so Malcolm.
“We can’t just come see him?” Archie asks.
“In addition to his business dealings, his treatments take a lot of time…energy, rather,” Sybil says. “He’d prefer you visited on one of his…” She takes a breath. “Good days.”
“Good on him for keeping up with his business dealings,” I say.
Sybil doesn’t miss my sarcasm. “Mr. Forsythe is an important man with very few trusted associates. Thousands of employees count on his companies staying profitable so they can feed themselves and their families.”
I hadn’t thought of his workaholic tendencies in those terms before, which makes me a bit more sympathetic.
Just not sympathetic enough to agree to an “appointment” with him.
That’s how he’s always made time for Archie and me—by appointment.
I was a teenager before I realized that wasn’t normal, and I’ve pushed back booking time with Malcolm since then.
Which means, I haven’t spent much time with him over the past decade. Haven’t seen or talked to him at all in three years. And I have to ask myself now, if his cancer is terminal, am I okay not seeing him again? Am I okay not saying goodbye?
“What are his odds of beating this?” I ask Sybil.
Archie shoots me a look like he hadn’t considered the possibility Malcolm could die.
“His doctors are very, very good. Some of the best in the world.,” she answers without answering.
“Yeah, but what are the exact odds? Percentage wise? Have the doctors told you that?” I try not to look at Archie. If the odds are low, the news will hit him harder than it will me.
When Sybil doesn’t answer, I give her a nudge. “Below fifty percent?”
“It was fairly advanced when they found it,” she says.
For a woman who’s always had a harder time with people than numbers, she’s doing her best to avoid them.
“Twenty-five percent?” I push.
“Somewhere between ten and fifteen percent,” she sighs.
Archie sucks in his breath, then picks up his mobile and holds it close to his mouth. “But you said his doctors are some of the best in the world. That’s why he came to LA, right? For the best doctors.”
In the pause that follows, Archie looks at me for answers I can’t give him.
“He hasn’t said as much,” Sybil says quietly. “But I think he wants to be near the both of you…in case the worst happens.”
Archie tips his head to the ceiling and lets out a quiet breath, then looks at me with a question that he doesn’t have to say aloud. I dip my chin in a yes.
“When would he like to see us, Sybil?” Archie asks.
I hold my breath. If she says right now, Archie will go and all the work he’s done to gain his independence from Malcolm will disappear the minute he sees Malcolm again. And I’ll be there to see it all, because there’s no way I’d let him go alone.
“He has an opening today. In fact, his afternoon is quite clear.” The tenderness in her voice from a minute before is gone.
“I thought he was in treatment today.” Archie stands and begins to pace across the room.
“He does best on those days. The chemo starts to affect him after the first forty-eight hours, sometimes within the first thirty-six.”
“Archie,” I whisper, and he looks at me. “Tread carefully,” I warn, and he nods.
“Righto. Looking at my calendar, looks like Piper and I can schedule an hour from four to five,” Archie says briskly, with no calendar in sight. “That work for you, too, Frank?”
“Yeah.” I’m grateful he thought to give a specific time, to give us an out if we need it.
“That sounds reasonable,” Sybil answers. “I’ll add you to Mr. Forsythe’s itinerary.”
With a click, the call is over, but Archie and I don’t move, until he says, “I wonder if Mum knows.”
“I’ll ring her in a bit.”
With a sigh, he tucks his mobile in his pocket. “It’ll take us at least half an hour to drive to Beverly Hills that time of day. I’ll be back at three-thirty.”
“With Piper?” I ask.
He lifts his palms. “That’s up to her.”
With that, he leaves me to process this news by myself while he sorts it out with Piper.
I haven’t felt this lonely since the day I left Brandon and LA. Just like that day, a thousand questions circle in my head, stirring up a storm of doubt about what I’ve done and what I should do.
Then my mobile buzzes and a text from Cal appears, like I’ve magically called it forth right when I needed to talk to someone.
I didn’t expect to hear from him again, not after I barely answered his texts the first time around, then told him no to talking to Junie.
Why wouldn’t he cut me out of his life for good?
I’m almost afraid to read the entire message, but it begins with I’m sorry, so I take a chance and open my texts.
I shouldn’t have asked you to call Junie. It wasn’t fair. I’m the one who pushed you to commit or leave.
I almost laugh with relief as I read it. A shallow, needle-edged relief.
It was a fair ask, Cal.
I send the message, then can’t stop my fingers typing what I really want to know.
She alright?
He replies with,
She’ll be fine
Which isn’t a yes.
I want to say yes to facetiming, but I want to protect her too. I’m afraid of hurting her.
I know.
He sends, but bubbles appear, so I wait for the rest of his message.
I thought it’d be better this way, but she keeps asking if you don’t like her anymore.
My heart feels like it’s being plucked from my chest, as I wait for his next text to appear.
I didn’t anticipate that.
I keep telling her you do, but she keeps asking. I’m not trying to make this your problem, I’m just trying to figure out what to do.
I stare at his text, not sure what to do either.
Not sure what to feel, or what I am feeling.
I hate the idea of Junie thinking my leaving is her fault or has anything to do with her.
At the same time, I’m so touched that she cares, that she wants me to love her, and that Cal feels safe enough to ask for my help.
I want to tell him yes, but that’s not the right thing to do—to keep stretching out this separation when I've got no clue where my life is taking me. Even with Piper’s advice from last night ringing in my head, I’m not ready to have any harder convos with Cal than what we just had.
I’m not ready to tell him all my reasons for wanting to start acting again.
I have no money. Every dime I earned at Flamingo’s has gone to pay my rent and to chip away at the loans I took out in order to be a partner in Sanctuary.
Maybe all that changes in my appointment with Malcolm later today, but I can’t count on that.
I don’t want to count on it. I don’t want to be dependent on Malcolm or anybody else.
The best part of working at Flamingo’s—aside from the people—was making my own money.
No one could take it from me or tell me what to do with it.
But I don’t want to spend my life in a diner hiding, waiting on people, pretending to be someone I’m not, day in and day out.
Not when there’s still a possibility I could make money playing someone else for a few months, then go back to being me.
Frankie Forsythe. Even more tempting, I could do something creative again. Something I’m good at.
For so long, I’ve resisted following any path. A path of red carpets, surrounded by cameras. A path of ease and luxury, forged by my father. A path to love and belonging.
Now, they’ve all converged at once. I know I don’t want to follow my father’s path—that hasn’t changed.
But no matter what happens today, seeing him again will change the course of whatever path I decide to take.
I’m opening a door—even if it’s just a crack—that I’d slammed shut. A door that will allow him back in.
The path back to acting—even with all the negative things that come with it—is beckoning as loud as the surf when the swell’s up. Especially if there’s even the slightest chance I could be in a production of Frederica.
My heart’s tugging me in that direction, but Cal and Junie are pulling on those heart strings, too. I can’t ignore that. I can’t ignore Junie asking for me. But it’s not fair to any of us if I pretend I can give her everything she wants. I can’t give her all of me.
But I can give her a piece of me. A piece of myself.
So, I text Cal.
How ‘bout I record a message for her? You can play it if she needs it. If she doesn’t, then that’s better, right? But if she does, you’ve got it. It’s something.
He texts right back.
Perfect. Thank you.
So, I record a quick video for her. There’s no acting involved.
“Junebug. I miss you heaps,” I tell her. “And I hope I’ll see you again soon. But I can’t promise anything until I get my life sorted out. That may take a while. Just remember, I love you.”
I send it to Cal, and I hope he knows it’s not just for Junie.