21
“It was one of the coolest days I’ve ever had,” Ben says over the phone.
It’s near dinnertime, and he fills me in on the first day of the intensive. I struggle to listen and absorb every word, but
my brain is all over the place. Wren’s words hammer a soft spot in my heart, but so do Jenna’s. Of course I want to tell Ben
who Liam is to me, what he meant. But as I hear the uptick in his voice, infused with an energy I’ve never heard—not even
when he was healthy—I know I need to wait until he returns.
It’s just a week , I tell myself. But I know, more than anyone, what can happen in a week. How much can change. How much can begin or end.
“This sounds so incredible already, Ben,” I say instead. “I’m so happy for you.”
He explains that there have been studies of people entering these intensives with life-threatening illnesses and by the time they leave, they are completely cured. It’s not anything that Joe is doing or not doing; it’s simply showing people how to enter a new state of consciousness that creates infinite possibilities. It’s a lot to wrap my head around, but Ben sounds clear and focused. I want to ask him if he’s eaten and hydrated today, if he will get to rest much tonight, but I bite my tongue. I want him to ride this high as much as he can. If he needs me, I’m only a short drive away.
“How’s it going with Liam?”
“It’s fine,” I say, though my body tenses as I say it.
There’s an awkward silence between us, and then Ben laughs. “Oh-kay. You sure everything’s good?”
I can feel the words bubbling up my throat, but now is not the time. This week is about Ben, not me. “Yeah.”
“Harper. You know I can tell when you’re not okay. I promise I’m going to be fine. Better than fine, actually. I haven’t felt
this physically good in a long time.”
“No, that’s not it.”
“Then what is it?”
I squeeze my temples as I stare at my phone on speaker. Should I FaceTime him? Would it be better if I could see him? “I need
to ask you something,” I finally blurt, deciding to change the subject. “Did you suggest to Wren that I should do a solo show?”
“Oh,” he says gently. “That.”
“Yeah, that,” I say. “Ben, I appreciate the thought—really, I do—but now could not be a worse time for me to create a show.
I don’t think I’ve ever felt less creative in my life.”
“I understand that,” he says. “It was just an idea. I thought...”
He trails off, but I want to hear him say it. “Say what you want to say, Ben.”
“I just thought it would be amazing to see one of your shows before...”
Again he trails off, and we both know what he’s not saying. I take a deep breath, and in one messy gush, I explain why I’m not ready. I tell him about my big shot in New York a decade ago and how I blew it. While I’ve alluded to that time in my life, I’ve never really taken ownership of the fact that I just couldn’t cut it, that my work wasn’t good enough, that I wasn’t good enough. And now Wren is giving me a second chance. “Even if I could get it all together by August, what if I
blow it again?”
“First of all, you didn’t blow it. It just wasn’t the right time.” I hear another audible squeak that must be him shifting
on the bed. “But now it is. It’s time to manifest what you want, but you have to get honest about what that even is.”
Ben has never used the word manifest in his life.
“Get honest about what I want?”
“Yes. What do you want? What’s your biggest, wildest dream?”
I open my mouth to respond, but then stop. Hadn’t Wren asked me the same thing? I recall what I told her: that I want Ben
to be cancer-free. That I would like to know what life would be like as a working artist, even though I also enjoy being a
teacher. “I do think it would be amazing to reach as many people as I can with my art,” I finally say.
“Oh, come on, Swanson,” he encourages. “You can do better than that.”
“Fine.” I search my heart—not my ego—and share what comes up. “I would love to earn my place in the art world... to sell
pieces, get written up in articles, to make a solid living doing what I love.” It’s the first time I’ve said any of these
things out loud to Ben. I haven’t really thought much about what I want out of an art career since that fateful night when
my dreams crumbled around me like dust.
“There it is,” he says. “So go get it.”
“Ben.”
“Harp.”
“It’s not that easy.”
“Why not?” His voice is hyper, energized. It’s been so long since he’s been able to offer me advice, and I realize how much I’ve missed it. “Why can’t it be that easy? Why can’t I walk out of here without cancer? Why
not us?”
I’m speechless. He’s right, but it seems like it should all be so much more complicated. “I’ve never been able to pluck out
what I want from the universe and actually have it.” Even as I say it, I know that’s not true. It did happen, once. If only
for a week. But I know it’s more than possible.
“So start now.” His voice is kind but determined. “Talk to Wren about it. She can help.”
“I’m not sure what I think about this law of attraction version of you,” I joke.
“It’s not the law of attraction.” He laughs. “It’s science.”
“Look, I’m sorry I brought all this up,” I say. “Especially with how important this week is for you. I hope you can do what
you need to do there.”
“Harper, stop. I’m happy to talk about what’s on your mind. You’ve sacrificed this last year of your life for me. You’ve been
there as my caretaker, my wife, and my best friend. I want you to focus on you this week. Focus on your art. I’ll be fine. I need this, but I also need to know you’re doing what’s best for you too.”
“Well, I appreciate it,” I finally say. “Let me know how day two goes, okay? Don’t, like, scale a mountain or something without
telling me first.”
“Do you remember when we hiked Mount Whitney? Man, that was a great trip.” Our conversation swings into safer territory: reminiscing about the past, which sometimes feels fruitless, but right now it’s a welcome distraction. We used to only think about the future and what we would do once Ben got a clean bill of health. In these last few months, however, it’s been all about the past, about honoring the time we had together and what time we have left.
“I love you, Ben.” My eyes fill with tears, and I miss him so much, I can hardly breathe. The way he smells. His smile. His
hands. The way he makes me feel. Ben is my home.
“I love you too.” He clears his throat. “More than you possibly know. I’ll call you tomorrow, okay? Sleep well, my love.”
We end the call, and I gnaw on a cuticle, ignoring the five text messages Liam has sent. My stomach is in knots, and I feel
reckless, unhinged. The sun has long since set, but I step outside, the night inky and humid. I tip my head up toward the
moon and see the stars, reminding myself how infinite it all is. My eyes lower and pass across the street to the Edwin. Part
of me expects Liam to be standing on his balcony again, staring at me, like he was the first night, but his room is dark.
I sigh and head back inside, feeling Ben’s absence. Before I can wallow in it, there’s a sharp knock on the door.
“Harper, it’s Liam. We need to talk.”