Chapter Fourteen
Twelve weeks after Justin was diagnosed with his relapse, things were looking really, really good. It was practically miraculous.
Yes, he’d lost a lot of weight, dropping from 165 pounds to a low of 126, less than Lark. But he’d gained back 11 pounds, and in the past two weeks, he seemed to have adjusted to the regimen. He was tired, but not comatose, and he wanted to talk when he was awake, or have her read to him, or watch TV. He’d lost muscle mass, but he was simply weak, not “neurologically challenged,” meaning he didn’t list to one side, fall, show any facial drooping or slur his words. In other words, the cancer hadn’t gone to his brain.
While his blood pressure was low, he wasn’t fainting. His lungs were clear (Lark had picked up some diagnostic skills wicked fast), and his pulse was steady. He had to wear a mask anytime he was in public, and so did Lark and his parents. Addie, too, when she came to see them. She was the only Smith who was allowed to visit, and she’d been a champ, bringing delicious vegan treats from Clarke’s Cakes Cookies, picking up organic vegetables, making soup, which was the one thing Justin had been able to keep down from weeks two to eight. Addie would then flop in the chair and not ask about Justin’s symptoms, instead complaining about regular life, their siblings, Nicole’s irritating brother. She bragged a little about the trip to Ecuador she and Nicole were planning, first-class tickets, a spa resort in the rainforest…being herself, in other words. She was Lark’s portal to normalcy, a glimpse of the future when Justin would be past this.
Nine of the twelve weeks had been sheer and utter hell. A few times, Lark thought he’d die, he was so sick—a headache so bad he lost his vision for two terrifying hours, violent shivering during his infusions. One particularly horrible night, when diarrhea caught him in bed, he’d cried because of the indignity. She’d gone a little Captain America herself and carried him to the bathroom to clean him up. As she was kneeling in front of him, he vomited into her hair. She’d managed to get him into the tub and rinsed him off (and her own hair), and even though the water was gentle and warm, he cried out in pain.
That was the normal stuff. The “don’t be surprised if” side effects. Then there were the complications. He’d been hospitalized once for pneumonia, once when his heart rate went up to 180 because he was so dehydrated from vomiting and diarrhea.
Then, miraculously, he turned a corner at the end of week nine. He woke up and didn’t have a headache. Ate a pancake and a half for breakfast. Kept it down. Wanted to take a walk around the block. The next day, he didn’t need Lark to help him get out of bed. He took a shower by himself. He opened his laptop and looked at a project he was still included on, out of the kindness of his manager. By the third day, his inimitable sweetness returned, and he was once again not just a cluster of symptoms, but Justin. Day by day, his appetite increased, his strength grew and his attitude went from grim determination to a sense of wonder. He was getting better. He was doing it, just as he’d said he would.
At his twelve-week checkup, Justin’s T cells, blasts, red blood cells and leukocyte count were all moving in the right direction. Dr.Kothari seemed almost surprised. “This is excellent news,” he said, raising his eyebrows as he looked at his computer screen. “You’re doing so well, Justin.”
“Of course he is,” Heather said. “Honestly, the power of positive thinking is amazing.”
“He’s a fighter,” Theo said, his eyes shining with tears of pride.
Lark squeezed his hand, and Justin smiled at her. “Told you,” he said.
“I love when you’re right,” she said, and for the first time in a long time, she felt like she could see beyond his treatment.
“When is the wedding?” Dr.Kothari asked.
“December tenth,” Heather said. “Justin refused to call it off. Just six months to go.” She beamed at Lark. “They are a remarkable couple.”
“We’ll invite you,” Lark said. “It’ll be on Cape Cod.”
“I would be honored, and not to blow my own horn, but I am a wonderful dancer,” Dr.Kothari said with a smile. “Of course, we still have to be careful about infections. But I’m very pleased with what we’re seeing.”
“Thank you for helping me, Dr.Kothari. For believing in me,” he said, his voice rich with that sweet earnestness, and there he was, the old Justin.
Leaving his office today was nothing like it had been the first time. Today, they were still deployed in this terrible war, but they were nearly done. They were Easy Company in the 101st Airborne, and Germany was just about to surrender. Almost home. Almost done. Remission was around the corner. Justin was on the right track, and Dr.Kothari was optimistic.
Theo and Heather swung by the Laughing Monk Cafe for takeout and met them back at Justin’s. For the first time in twelve weeks, Heather brought up the wedding and asked where they might want to honeymoon.
“Somewhere warm,” Justin said. “Right on the beach. Lark in a bikini, and finally, some alcohol. That’s what heaven is, right there.” They all laughed. Lark could picture it—white sand, long sunsets, gentle walks…and sex. Lots of sex, because she missed it. They hadn’t had any since early in the treatment, and it had been terrified, desperate sex.
And then, she thought, a baby. Forget waiting. Maybe get pregnant on the honeymoon, because how sweet would that be? Heather would be delirious with joy. Lark smiled at her, picturing her bursting into tears when they told her and Theo. Her own mom would be delighted, too, and oh, gosh, Grammy and Grandpop! How thrilled they’d be.
“How’s your family?” Theo asked. “Your gram doing okay?”
Lark nodded. “She is, yes. Two cancer warriors in the family.” Grammy was done with her much milder treatment for breast cancer and was back to reading obsessively and taking walks with Winnie every evening.
While they hadn’t wanted to risk exposing Justin to anyone who might have the slightest cold, Grandpop, who still worked in Boston two days a week, had met Lark at the Common a few times, and though she had to wear a mask, it was so good to see him. Harlow had sent books and care packages, funny T-shirts and chocolate. Mom and Dad had come to town once a week, even if Lark couldn’t see them, leaving packages in the building’s foyer—beautiful white rocks from the beach and one of Mom’s ocean paintings to hang over their couch, blueberry bread she’d baked from scratch, a loving letter from Dad.
Lark’s eyes filled with tears. Her family had been there for them, even if they hadn’t been allowed to actually be physically present.
“You must miss going home,” Heather said, squeezing her hand.
Lark glanced at Justin, who was demolishing his pad Thai. “Nah,” she said. “This is home now.”
He put down his chopsticks. “Babe, you should go down for the weekend. I’m doing great. You heard the doctor. Your family would love to see you, and I know you miss them.”
She felt her heart tug. She missed Harlow’s calm, kind presence; Winnie’s dry sense of humor; Robbie’s pranks and irreverence. Justin was right. She wanted to see them, have dinner in Mom and Dad’s big disorganized kitchen, sleep in the room she’d shared with Addie, curl up in the bookstore, eat a cheeseburger at the Ice House. God, she missed cheeseburgers!
“We’ll stay with Justin,” Theo said. “He’s right, sweetheart. You’ve been incredible, and you deserve a break.”
“I don’t need one,” she said, twisting her beautiful engagement ring. “Really. Don’t tell Justin, but I’m kind of developing feelings for him, you know?”
They laughed, but all three of the Deans were insistent. It was the third week of June, and the Cape sure was beautiful at this time of year. Mom’s wild, rambling garden would be bursting; Wellfleet’s Main Street would be all spiffed up and bedecked with window boxes and flowerpots; and soft breezes would grace the evenings, bringing the smell of ocean and good food.
Heather was clicking on her phone. “I just booked you a facial and massage at Shui Spa in P-town for this weekend,” she said. “Ooh, how about a mineral bath afterward? There.”
“That’s so sweet of you, but—”
“Nope. It’s done.” Heather took Lark’s hand. “You have to take care of yourself, too, honey. You look tired. God knows, this has been hard on you, too.”
She was tired, and she’d lost a couple of pounds with the stress of Justin’s sickness.
“Go, little bird,” Justin said. “Fly home to the Cape and come back to me, clean and sweet-smelling.”
She threw a napkin at him. “I’m clean now, thank you.”
“Admit it,” he said, grinning. “You’re codependent. Don’t start liking this arrangement, future Mrs.Dean. I’m on the road to recovery. You’ll have to find a new hobby.”
He looked so happy, so much healthier, his cheeks pink, eyes gleaming…almost vigorous. “Okay,” she said. “I’ll do it. Unless anything changes, but sure. Thank you, guys. I am pretty homesick.”
It was Monday. She’d leave on Thursday morning and come back on Saturday to avoid the bridge traffic that started each May.
On Wednesday night, Justin cooked dinner for the first time in months. He lit candles and poured them each a glass of wine.
“Larkby Christina Smith, I love you,” he said. “I’ve loved you with all I am since I was five years old, and every day, I love you more.”
Her eyes filled with tears. “I love you, too,” she whispered.
He kissed her then, smoothing away her tears with his thumbs. His lips had healed from their cracks, and though his mouth tasted a little strange from all the medications, and while he was still so thin, he was hers. Her Justin. The love of her life.
Dinner could wait. They went to the bedroom, hand in hand, and undressed each other, so gently. It was almost like their first time, and it had been so long. Their kisses were almost shy. Lark thought she might break under the weight of love and gratitude. This was how they were. This was their love in physical form, deep and eternal and pure. Soft sighs, the hum of desire, gentle hands. When they came together, tears slipped out of Lark’s eyes, the happiest, most grateful kind.
They were still them. The leukemia hadn’t stolen that. As long as they had this, they had everything.
Being back home was wonderful. The weather was sparkling, and the sky was that special shade of Cape Cod blue, so bright and hopeful, as if nothing bad could possibly happen. On Thursday night, the whole family went to the Ice House, where she got a giant cheeseburger with bacon. Beth, the owner, brought out two bottles of prosecco and comped their desserts. Lark and Addie sat next to each other, Nicole on Addie’s other side. Harlow sat on Lark’s left, her arm around Lark’s shoulders. Grandpop was in fine form, making them all laugh, and Mom and Dad held hands and smiled at their offspring. Grammy’s cheeks were pink, Winnie seemed more relaxed and bickered amiably with Robbie.
Afterward, Lark FaceTimed Justin from the bottom bunk of her room. “How are you, sweetie?” she asked. “Surviving without me?”
“I’m great,” he said. “Mom and Dad cooked enough for a football team, and then we watched Iron Man.”
“Without me?” she said. “How dare you, sir!”
He laughed, then coughed, just once. “Listen, babe, I’m gonna do some work. I’ll talk to you tomorrow, okay?”
“Is that cough new?” she asked, immediately on alert.
“Nope. I just had ice cream, and you know how cold food makes me cough sometimes.”
That was true. Long before the leukemia had returned, Justin coughed after ice cream. Vagal nerve irritation. “What flavor?”
“Coconut.”
“You cheated on me with Iron Man and coconut ice cream? Justin! It’s like an orgy there!”
He laughed. “It was vegan, so settle down. How about you? What did you have for supper?”
“I can’t tell you. I want you to respect me.”
He laughed. “You ate meat, didn’t you?”
She nodded. “Babe, it was so good. A cheeseburger from the Ice House. With bacon.”
“I’m so jealous.” His smile was so warm, his dark blue eyes so beautiful. “I love you.”
“I love you more,” she said. “Talk to you tomorrow.”
“Have fun at the spa, honey. You deserve it.” He smiled and ended the call.
After three hours of fragrant bliss at the Shui Spa on Friday, Lark floated to the dressing room, took off the fluffy robe and pulled on her clothes. She sniffed her arm and smiled, remembering Justin’s quip about returning sweet-smelling. She checked her phone, and the smile froze.
Nine texts, five missed calls. Just then, someone knocked loudly, then cracked the door. “Miss Smith, there’s an emergency call for you at the front desk, I’m so sorry. Please follow me.”
Lark followed him to the desk, mouth open, then swallowed, and took the phone. “Hello?”
“It’s Theo, honey. Come right now. They think it’s fungal pneumonia.”
Fungal pneumonia. The floor dropped away.
Fungal pneumonia. That one seemingly harmless cough last night hadn’t been from ice cream. It had been from a fungus growing in Justin’s lungs. She should have known. Should have told him to go to the hospital. She should have sensed something.
“I’m on…” Terror cut off her voice, and she had to force herself to speak. “I’m on my way. Can I talk to him?”
“They’re intubating now.”
No.“Tell him I love him.” Her voice was taut and strange.
“Drive fast, Lark. Safe, but fast.” Theo’s voice choked off, and then the call ended.
She ran to the car.
Fungal pneumonia was the single greatest fear they’d had these past twelve weeks. Spores could burgeon in the lungs, and Justin’s already too-active white blood cells would swarm to fight them, which would then prevent enough oxygen from being in his bloodstream. What was the treatment? Antifungals, antibiotics…but they weren’t always effective…or fast enough.
He had coughed Wednesday, too. Yes. They’d laughed in bed after making love, and he’d laughed so hard he choked a little. That happened, of course, it was even normal, but…
The fungus had already been in his lungs then. She hadn’t picked up on it. Oh, God. When they’d said goodbye yesterday morning, he’d rubbed his chest. Just an idle motion, but pleuritic chest pain was a sign!
She’d missed it.
She tore out onto Bradford Street. Blew through the stop sign, did fifty in a thirty-mile-an-hour zone, was yelled at by a bicyclist, passed her, then squealed onto Route 6. It would be an hour to the bridge, best-case scenario, another hour and fifteen to Dana-Farber. Without traffic, but there was always traffic. Goddamn it! She’d be lucky to get there in three hours, and she’d be hitting Boston at prime rush hour on a Friday.
Shit, shit, shit.
“I love you, Justin. Please, honey, I need you.” She was speaking out loud, she realized, flying past the other cars. If a cop flashed his lights, could she get a police escort to Boston? Get the fuck out of my way, she thought viciously, illegally passing an SUV. Could she get away with seventy miles an hour? How about seventy-five? The slowdown in Eastham at all their damn traffic lights. The rotary.
She was passing the sign for Harwich when Addie’s number appeared on her phone. She hit the “accept” button.
“Justin’s at Dana-Farber,” Lark said without preamble. “Fungal infection. I’m on my way there. He’s intubated.”
“Oh no. Oh, shit, Larkby. Okay. Um…we’ll be right behind you,” Addie said. “Why don’t you pull over, and I’ll pick you up? You probably shouldn’t be driving.”
“No. I’m past Harwich already.”
“Okay. All right, we’re on our way, honey. Hang in there.”
“They won’t let you in the hospital,” she said. “He’s too high risk.”
“That’s okay. We’ll be close by. I love you.” Her sister’s voice shook.
Lark swallowed against the jagged piece of metal that seemed lodged in her throat. “Addie, don’t let anyone call me. I need to concentrate.”
She hung up. Route 6 was a one-lane highway at this point with stupid yellow metal poles so you couldn’t pass. The person in front of her was doing fifty-five. That was only five miles above the speed limit. Was this or was this not Massachusetts? No one did the speed limit! She pushed the button for the hazard lights and leaned on her horn, bringing her car inches from his bumper.
“It’s a fucking emergency,” she screamed. “Get out of the way!”
He pulled over. She passed, and soon after the road widened to be two lanes. Lark stomped on the gas and flew west, tailgating, passing, nearly sideswiping a landscaping truck. Her hands were sweaty on the wheel.
“Hey, Siri, call Heather.” Her voice was thin and tight with fear.
“Calling Heather,” said the phone. Heather picked up right away.
“How is he?” Lark asked.
“It’s not good,” Heather said through her tears. “He said he started coughing last night but thought it was allergies. After breakfast, he took his temperature, and it was one hundred and one, Lark.” The desperation in her voice made Lark grip the wheel even harder. “His white count dropped to four eighty. They’re waiting on the culture, but they started antifungals already.” There was a pause. “I’m scared,” she said, and her voice was just a whisper. “Where are you?”
“Coming up on Mashpee.”
“Oh, honey, hurry.”
“Is he…conscious?”
“They sedated him for the ventilator, but his sats are still low. Seventy-nine right now.”
Do not cry. You’re driving. Stay calm or you’ll kill someone. Or yourself.“Love you, Heather. All of you.”
“Be careful, Lark. Just…just get here as soon as you can.”
She heard Heather sob before the call ended, and that scared her more than anything. Not once—until now—had the Deans wavered in their granite optimism that Justin would beat this.
There was construction at the bridge, and along the canal, and onto Route 3. Ten miles north, though, and the highway opened up. It was hotter on the mainland, and she put the AC on high, pushing the car to eighty-six miles per hour. Thank God she’d filled up her tank yesterday. Then, just as soon as she started to make good time, there was a sea of taillights. A traffic sign informed drivers that there was a disabled vehicle in Kingston. She called Heather again.
“His fever’s up to one hundred and four,” Heather said without saying hello. “Lark…they told us it’s grave. The x-ray…his lungs are inflamed, and they said…something about lesions and nodules.”
Oh, Jesus. Please, God. Please help him. Lark took a slow, shaky breath in. “He’s young. He’s healthy.” Of course he wasn’t healthy. He had leukemia. “Is he…scared?”
There was nothing but silence, and Lark knew Heather was crying. “He knows it’s bad,” she whispered.
“Tell him I’m on my way, and I love him so, so much.”
“I will, honey. Drive safely.”
She was not driving safely. She was driving like the Masshole she was, weaving in and out, speeding up, then slamming on the brakes. She was driving as if the man she loved was dying…because he was.
If he could pull out of this, she’d give anything. Anything. Forget med school. She’d be a stay-at-home wife and worship him and make him so happy every single day, he’d be the happiest man in the history of the world. She’d have their kids and they’d look just like him, please, God, and Heather and Theo would be the best grandparents, and if he wanted to stay in Boston, that was fine, she loved Boston, they could live wherever he wanted, Sweden, Ethiopia, Antarctica, anywhere, as long as he pulled through. She would give him foot rubs every night and never argue with him, because really, they never argued now, and every day would be so wonderful and filled with gratitude and all that shit.
“You can do this, Justin. You’ve got this. You’re not going anywhere. You promised you wouldn’t leave me.” Her stomach clenched with terror.
When Route 3 turned into 93, there was more traffic. She was probably twenty-five miles away, and yet she was in stop-and-go traffic in fucking Hingham. She gripped the wheel so hard her hands went numb. When the traffic breathed again, she floored it.
Her phone rang. Heather. “He wants to talk to you.”
“Is he better?” she asked, hope like a flash fire.
“No. Here.”
“Lark.” His voice was so thin, she could barely hear him. She shut off the air conditioner.
“I’m here. I’m here. I love you. I love you so much. Fight this, honey. You’ve done it before.”
“I’m sorry.” His words were just breath now.
“No, you’re not! You’re not because you’ve got this, Justin! You’re the most amazing person I’ve ever met. You have nothing to be sorry for!”
“Love…you.”
“I love you, too. I’m coming, honey. Please, Justin, hang on. Fight, baby. You have to fight.”
There was silence. “Justin?” she whispered.
“It’s Theo,” came his father’s voice. “Are you almost here?”
“Quincy,” she said, her voice breaking.
“Anything you can do to get here, Lark, do it. He needs you here.”
“I’m trying.” She pushed “end” and called 911.
“Nine one one, what’s your emergency?” said the dispatcher.
“My fiancé is in critical condition at Dana-Farber and I need to get there and I’m stuck in traffic on 93 in Quincy.”
She heard typing. “Ma’am? How can we help?”
“Can I get a police escort? Please? I have to get there. He’s…he doesn’t have long.” Don’t let that be true. Let that just be her pulling out all the stops.
More typing. “Stay on the line, ma’am.”
Please help me. Please help me. Please. Please.
The dispatcher came back on. “Ma’am, the police in the area are unavailable. There’s a—”
“Help me!” she screamed. “Help me get there before he dies!”
“Ma’am, I’m so sorry. We can’t do anything at this—”
Lark hung up. Ahead of her, brake lights glowed like the gates of hell. Fine. She’d get off the highway. There was an exit, just past National Grid. She shoved her way in front of the car in the center lane, ignoring the horn blasts and curses, then did it again to get into the line of cars for the exit, which was just as packed. “Come on, come on, come on,” she sobbed. “Hurry!”
She turned on Freeport Street, heading northwest toward the hospital. If Boston had been like other, normal cities, she wouldn’t have to deal with all these one-way streets, but no, it had to be a tangled mass of yarn. Once she hit Hancock Street, though, it should be easier. Still, the traffic was barely moving. She could stay on Hancock or take Pleasant.
But they weren’t moving now. At all. Why? She was so close! She laid on the horn and then…then she saw the smoke. And lights. Fire trucks and police cars had their lights flashing and were directing traffic to do a U-turn. But a U-turn was impossible, because now traffic was backed up on both sides of the street. No one was moving an inch.
She was four miles away from Justin, give or take. Four miles. She could run it if she had to.
Lark turned off the car, grabbed her bag, flung open the door and ran toward the first responders. Cops were milling about, doing whatever cops did at fires, being useless, really, when they could’ve given her an escort. Firefighters tromped around, dragging hoses and talking into radios. A ladder was extended toward the smoke. So many trucks, so many people, so much noise, not to mention all the bystanders filming on their stupid phones.
“Please!” she yelled at a cop. She grabbed his arm, which he immediately pulled away. “Please help me! I have to get to the hospital!” She was shaking head to foot, and God, it was hot. Her shirt was stuck to her with sweat.
“Are you hurt, ma’am?” He looked her up and down. “Or are you lookin’ for a fix?”
“No! My fiancé is sick and—”
“Yeah, we can’t help you, lady.” The cop had a thick Dorchester accent. “Take a look around, okay? The Asian mahket’s on fiyah. Get back in your cah.”
“Fuck you,” she spat, then ran to a firefighter. They were nicer, anyway. No one ever protested about firefighter brutality, did they? “Please help me,” she blurted, then dropped to her knees as her legs gave out. “Please help me.” She grabbed on to his leg and looked up at him. His helmet read District Commander. “My fiancé has leukemia, and he’s at Dana-Farber, and he’s…he’s dying. Help me! Help me! Please!” She grabbed on to her own hair, and she didn’t recognize her own voice, it was so hoarse and terrified. “Please! Please help me.” Sobs of anguish and despair ripped out of her, and the pain made her fold over.
There was a hand on her back. “Okay, dahlin’, we can do that. Take it easy, now. We got you.” He pulled her to her feet. “Hey, you,” he called to someone. “Over here. The lady needs a ride to Dana-Fahbah. Take my cah, lights and sirens.”
“Yes, sir.” He wore turnout gear and took Lark by the arm. She stumbled, and he slid his arm around her, There was something wrong with her legs. “Right this way, miss,” he said, practically carrying her.
There was an SUV with Boston Fire written on the side, and he opened the door for her, lifted her in, then went to the driver’s side, slid off his jacket and got in. The vehicle made some bleeps and whoops, and then they were moving, past the other trucks, taking a right, then a left.
Lark was shaking so hard she wondered if she was having a convulsion. She was gasping, unable to catch her breath. The tears that had been dammed for the past twelve weeks burst forth, and her nose was running. Please. Please. Please. She might have been talking out loud.
“Try to take a deep breath and hold it, miss,” said the firefighter, but she barely heard him. “We’re almost there.”
With shaking hands, she texted Heather. Almost there. Minutes.
The firefighter put a hand on her shoulder and gave it a squeeze.
Another left, a few more blocks, and even in this car with its flashing lights and blips and bleats, it was taking so long.
Finally, they were here.
The firefighter pulled to the curb. “I hope everything—”
She flung open the door before the vehicle even stopped, and ran, her purse flopping at her hip. In the lobby she looked around, frantic. She should’ve asked what room he was in. Which floor. She started to text Heather again, then saw Theo.
He was slumped against the wall next to the elevators, sitting on the floor. “Theo!” she said, running toward him. “What…”
Theo looked up, his face gray and twenty years older.
“I’m so sorry, Lark,” he said, his voice faint. “He died ten minutes ago. He tried to hold out till you got here, but he…he just couldn’t.”
Justin’s room was dark and quiet. Heather fell into Lark’s arms, and the three of them stood in an agonized little circle, sobbing. Lark didn’t want to look at Justin. She didn’t want to turn her head and see the truth of him not being alive. If she didn’t look, it wouldn’t start, this impossible, apocalyptically bleak world where she would be forced to live without him.
But she did look, of course. She had to. She pulled back from the Deans and went to his bedside.
The nurses and CNAs had done their sad, kind job, and the tubes and needles were gone, the monitor black and silent. It was simply Justin, lying in the hospital bed.
He looked so still. His skin was not the right color…it was all one shade somewhere between taupe and gray. He looked smaller. But he didn’t look dead, either, not yet. Just…just not quite alive. Yesterday on FaceTime, he’d been so vital. From the Latin, vita, which meant “life.” His eyes had been alert, his grin adorable.
How could this be him now? Maybe there’d been a mistake, and this was someone else. Someone who looked a lot like him, but Justin…he was down the hall, responding well.
Stupid thought.
He’d had this fungus in him for at least three days, she thought. The cough. The rubbing of the chest. Even so, it had moved horribly fast, preying on his devastated immune system.
Now his skin was growing whiter while she looked at him, the blood in his body, no longer being pumped, succumbing to gravity. Hypostasis. The way he lay on the bed was different…he had sunk into it. His cheekbones looked more prominent. Muscle flaccidity.
Even when he was in horrible pain, he had looked better than he did now, because he’d been alive then. He’d been living. She’d take him screaming and shitting himself over this.
Quickly, before he was completely dead (what a ridiculous thought), without thinking to ask Heather and Theo, she climbed in next to him and put her head on his shoulder, her hand over his heart. Nothing. No rise and fall, no thump. His chest felt hard and bony, but he was still warm. Wasn’t that what everyone said? He was still warm. He looked like he was sleeping. You wouldn’t know he was dead.
Heather and Theo said something about giving her a few moments and left, and then it was just the two of them. Someone had turned off the light, and even the color of the air seemed gray and sad. Probably the smoke from that fire was hanging over the city, turning the previously beautiful day into dusk. It would be appropriate—nature acknowledging that the world could not be as bright without Justin.
Lark’s throat was too tight to speak. Her stomach felt like she’d been kicked, and her chest…it actually felt like there were shards of thick, jagged glass being shoved into her heart.
“I’m sorry,” she finally whispered. “I’m so sorry.”
She shouldn’t have gone to the Cape. She should’ve known that his chest was hurting, that the cough wasn’t from ice cream. She shouldn’t have gotten a facial. He wouldn’t even know how sweet-smelling she was. She should’ve taken the service road in Dennis or gone down 6A. She should’ve taken 495 instead of 3. She should’ve kicked that cop in the balls and rammed the fire trucks blocking her.
Oh, Justin. She gripped him hard, sliding one arm underneath him, pulling him to her, and he offered no resistance and no help. She let go, horrified. That wasn’t how it felt to hug him. That was obscene, this lack of reciprocity, this nothingness. She put him back as he was and once again rested her head on his shoulder, sobbing, shaking, her tears soaking into the sheet that covered him. She reached up to stroke his head, his still-bald head. He would have hated this to be the last image she had of him, but the bastard had left her no choice, had he? He smelled like hospital, and that was also a profanity. She buried her nose in his armpit, and there, that was his smell, and the shards of glass in her heart grew barbs and twisted.
This would be the last time she’d smell him. Twenty-one years of love, over. How would she survive? She didn’t know life without Justin. She barely had memory before him. No, thanks, she wanted to tell God or the universe. I’ll pass. Her hands gripped the sheets as wave after wave of anguish crashed over her, drowning her.
Ten minutes. All she’d needed was ten minutes, and at least the last thing he would’ve seen was her face, the love in her eyes. He wouldn’t have died wondering where she was. If she’d been in Wellfleet, even, that would’ve been enough, but no, she’d had to go to the stupid spa, somehow thinking she deserved a break. So wrenchingly selfish. If she’d gotten off in Quincy and gone the back way. If that 911 dispatcher had had an ounce of sympathy.
She was dimly aware that she would have to get out of this bed. The Deans would want to come back in. But Lark didn’t want to move. If she just lay here, the rest of her life could wait, unknown and unlived. She stayed where she was, tears streaming, sobs shaking her body, aware that she was in shock but not caring, exhausted from the adrenaline that had been raging through her bloodstream the past four hours.
Finally, she raised herself up and looked at Justin’s face. This was the last time she’d lay at his side, ever. His lashes were gone, and his eyebrows mere fuzz, and she’d never see the dark blue of his eyes again, would she? She wouldn’t marry him. Ever. She wasn’t a fiancée anymore. She wasn’t sure what she was now.
We grew up together, Larkby. Let’s grow old together, too.
Guess I’m shit outta luck on that front, she thought. She’d never tease him again. He’d never tease her.
She got out of the bed. It was the hardest thing she’d ever done, because in that move, their story, their beautiful, pure, happy story was over.