Chapter 34
34
You remember you knew when it came back the third time (bones and liver, lymphs in your neck). It was less than a year ago now. You remember it not so much as recognizing something as sensing something gone. A little bit of life, maybe. You were just getting into shibori again.
You remember we were growing four varieties of lettuce, pickling strawberries, radishes, lemons, cukes. We had given up caffeine, gotten into local politics, hosted poker on Thursdays; you’d mastered pasta. It felt like a golden era, coasting, didn’t it? You remember it felt like you forgot to remember. You remembered only to forget. That’s human nature, is what your therapist said. When things are working correctly.
It came in the night, or it came in the day. You can’t remember. You remember one day bleeding into the next. Don’t say blood .
You remember the feeling in your stomach, your shoulders, out of nowhere. Not pain exactly but not not-pain either. Like what?
Presence. An acorn, an orange segment, a thumbtack without the point. You knew what to expect.
You remember lying awake beside me, wishing for the universe to talk back. You remember that your mother slept on her roof in Baghdad’s sweltering months. You remember tears filling your ears as you didn’t sleep. You couldn’t. How much time.
You remember it wasn’t that you were afraid of me living without you. I would be okay. Or Max. He would, even more so. You just didn’t want to leave this. You remember the longing was physical. You thought of your garden. It is a ridiculous cliché and yet.
You remember every time we’d go to the city for appointments, we’d make our way to the Park. Coffee, hot dogs, dog walkers, saxophone somewhere, a wagon full of kids and two teachers, reminding them to keep their hands to themselves.
Sometimes, as we sat, you leaned on me so hard that I wondered about my own strength.
You remember when we stopped going to appointments.
You remember wishing, sometimes, that Max would just show up.
You remember twice, always early in the morning, calling him and hanging up. There was something you wanted to tell him. Once, it was about your mother. A memory for him to carry with him. The other time, you’re not sure. But you hung up.
There is nothing I could say, you say.
I’ll tell him, I say. Anything you want.
You remember holding me in my sleep so tightly that I’d wake and ask if you were all right. You couldn’t get the words out. You remember staying awake just to be here, watch the sky, the moon full again, waning again, full again. Again.
It is hard to breathe.
You remember sitting on our shower bench and wishing. Or maybe: even dying can feel like melodrama. And yet, in some ways, death is most anticlimactic of all. We just do.
For a moment, you stop remembering. I wonder if you want to take a break. But I do not suggest it. Instead, I put my hand on your cheek. I put your hand on mine.
What else? I hear myself saying. And again, I wonder who is holding up whom.
You remember being propped up, bathed, spoon-fed yogurt, tea through a straw. You remember remembering that it wasn’t so long ago that you picked blueberries for hand pies, made the dough from scratch. You remember making sounds from the pain that you couldn’t believe were yours. You’d look around. I’d tell you it was all right.
You remember our love like a river, a rock, a fountain, a rainbow. You remember it as an August evening, the holidays, the first spring day. You remember it as sparkle, or maybe I do. Why not? We had our bumps. You remember it wasn’t always easy, but so often it was. How lucky are we? Sometimes, over the top is just enough.
You remember one night, you walked around the neighborhood till morning just to remember it. It was before Christmas. Everything was lit, including the sail loft on stilts by the sea. You were sick then, but you did it. I stood at the window and waited, held my breath, and when I saw you coming up the driveway, I ran so you might hold on to me. But I held on to you.
Jane, do you want me to take over?