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Ben and I drive the short distance to Lookout Mountain, Georgia, which contains endless waterfalls and miles of challenging,
breathtaking hiking trails.
When we park, Ben exits the car, stretches his arms, and gazes over the top of the bluff. “Man, I’ve missed this.”
“Me too.” Prep work for my show has been so all-consuming, I’ve barely stopped to take breaks. Wren has been taking over some
of my shifts so I can focus. Still, I’m not confident I can finish in time, and it reminds me eerily of my time in Brooklyn.
I’ve been neglecting time with Ben, and today I’m making more of an effort to connect with him.
I turn my attention back to why we’re both here: to get some fresh air. I need this as much as he does. Staring at the vast
expanse of trees, I remember so many afternoons just like this before he got sick, when Ben and I would drive to nearby trails
and spend the entire day hiking. We’d pack a picnic lunch, plenty of water, and trek the hardest trails, expertly navigating
our way back before sunset. Today we are doing a simple three-mile loop, which used to be our warm-up.
I lightly stretch my legs, realizing I haven’t prioritized exercise this last year. I grab a backpack stuffed with food and water, and we set out to the top of the ridge that overlooks a waterfall. The path descends down to the bottom and then winds its way back up to the parking lot.
“Ready?” I ask.
“Born ready.” He offers me a goofy grin as he fits a ball cap on.
I lead the way and let these odd few weeks slough from my shoulders as the sweet sounds of nature take over. Nothing but birdsong,
fresh air, and the crunch of twigs beneath our boots. In a matter of minutes, we are both in the zone, and I am floored at
how winded I am by the time we make it to the bottom.
Ben is breathing heavily as well and sits on a rock. The spray from the water is powerful, and the violent hiss drowns out
any chance of conversation. He closes his eyes, whips off his ball cap, and aims his face right toward the spray. I do the
same, thrusting my arms wide and allowing the cool mist to lower my body temperature. After a few minutes, we move away from
the strong spray and find a giant boulder to spread out on. I unpack our bagged lunches, and we munch thoughtfully, taking
it all in.
“I’ve really missed this,” Ben says. “It’s the little things, you know?”
I swallow a hunk of sandwich and ball the wax paper in my fist. “Me too.” I gesture to the winding path back to the top. “I
also miss being in better shape. That incline is going to be a beast.”
He squeezes my knee. “You’ve sacrificed so much for me, Harper. I never wanted you to give up the things you love because
of me.”
“I haven’t,” I say all too quickly. But is that true? In this new reality, I work nonstop, especially since Ben is no longer collecting a hefty salary. I’ve stopped seeing my friends as much, and Ben and I are sometimes like two ships passing in the night, just as I was with Liam in my other life. It wasn’t really like that with us before the full moon ritual. “I want to be here,” I say. “You’d do the same for me.” I also know it’s only temporary, but the fact that I won’t always be here like this, as Ben’s caretaker, shakes me in its relentless fist. Yes, I will get my life back... but will it be at the cost of his? Or will it be because he regains his health?
He snorts. “Likely story.”
I shove him playfully because we both know he’d drop everything in a heartbeat to take care of me. It’s been so strange that
in all this time, with all this stress, my health has stayed intact, as if the universe wouldn’t possibly throw us too many
curveballs to handle. Though lately, I’ve been more tired than usual.
I search for what to say. I hate keeping things from Ben, and it’s been hard for me to separate my before world from this
altered after, especially since Ben can’t possibly understand what happened to me with that full moon ritual. His not knowing
bothers me more than I thought it would. If I’ve learned anything, it’s that I don’t want there to be anything left unsaid
between us.
“So I had this dream recently,” I say. I’m not even sure how I’m going to frame this when I start talking, but I take it one
sentence at a time. “Which seemed very real. In it, I was still me, but I was living in Brooklyn, as a working artist and
gallery owner. It’s like I’d never left New York.”
A muscle in Ben’s jaw flexes, but he waits for me to continue.
“And though we didn’t know each other, you still found me.”
His eyes flash to mine.
“In this dream, you were totally healthy. You had beaten cancer, all because of the Dr.Joe Dispenza workshop. You showed
up to a big opening I had, and we had an instant connection. You and I went for a walk, and do you know what you said to me
when you left?”
Ben only shakes his head, a hint of emotion in his eyes.
“You said, ‘I’ve got all the time in the world.’” I swallow and stare at the gushing waterfall. “I watched you walk away,
and I began to wonder if I’d ever see you healthy like that again.” I could stop the story right there, but I continue. “And
ever since then, I’ve been wondering if what I experienced could come true. If you could actually be completely healed. If
the cancer could be gone.” I haven’t dared say it out loud until now. “I just can’t let it go. I got to see you healthy and
happy, and it’s stuck with me ever since.”
He reaches for my hand.
“Do you think that maybe, when we dream, we’re actually living out some alternate version of reality? And that maybe there’s
another version of you out there somewhere living a healthy life? Even if it’s without me?”
“I’m right where I’m supposed to be,” he finally says, squeezing my fingers.
“Me too,” I say, and I mean it. Still, the question I’ve been dying to ask lingers, and I know I have to ask it. “Do you think
it’s possible, though? That you’re better?”
He’s quiet as he contemplates my question. “Yes,” he finally says. “I’m not banking on anything, but I’d be lying if a part
of me wasn’t hopeful.”
That’s all I need to hear. And the proof is there. He has been feeling better. Since our anniversary, he’s been able to do more on his own without my help. That has to mean something.
We stare at each other for a few unspoken moments, then gather our trash and stuff it back into my backpack.
“You ready, old man?”
He smirks. “I have a confession,” he says as he stands. “This whole cancer thing has just been a ruse so you don’t feel so bad when I beat you. I know how competitive you are.” This time he blows past me, and I laugh as I try to catch up. Though there are a ton of switchbacks and divots, I tame the impulse to tell him to be careful as we surge upward, my breath becoming thinner with the rising altitude.
Just as we settle into a steadier pace, my heart and brain feeling so much better for having told him some version of my dream,
Ben staggers ahead of me and pitches forward on the path.
My heart leaps into my throat. When he doesn’t initially jump up, I rush forward and see that his palms are bloody. His nose
is gushing blood, and his face is a sickening shade of gray.
“Oh my God.” I search around for a nearby hiker, removing my backpack and grabbing a spare T-shirt to help staunch the bleeding.
Did he hit his face, or is this just a nosebleed? Ben has never had a nosebleed, and though nosebleeds for the most part aren’t
dangerous, I know in his case, it could mean something more serious. I remind myself of what is coming, however. Ben is going
to get better. Ben is going to beat cancer. This is just a blip. He sits up, and I have him pinch his nose and lean forward
to help a clot form. With bloody hands, I find my phone, but my fingers are too slick to make contact. I scream in frustration
and tell Siri to dial 911, but there’s no service.
I attempt to stay calm and calculate how far we have to go to get to the top. Another half mile, maybe? There’s no way he
can make it up, but there’s also no way I can leave him here. I move him to a rock on the side of the path, though the blood
is not slowing. I try to stay calm, though Ben appears on the verge of passing out. Even though he insists he can make it
to the top, I know he can’t.
Panicked, I’m relieved when a few hikers spring into view. They are laughing and chatting happily as they meander their way toward us, and I rush down the path. They all startle as they take in my bloody appearance. I explain the situation and ask if any of them have reception. They don’t. I beg one of them to sit with Ben while I race to the top to try to get service. A young man, Craig, volunteers to do it, and I give Ben a quick kiss and take off toward the parking lot. My legs burn, my lungs are on fire, and I berate myself for bringing him here. What was I thinking? Though Ben has been feeling better, what if he isn’t?
Near the top, I finally get a signal and dial 911. I tell them they are going to have to send paramedics about halfway down
the path. After a series of back-and-forths about the exact location, which I have no idea of, they promise to send someone.
I stay on the line until the ambulance arrives what seems like hours later. Ben is finally fastened on a stretcher and hoisted
in the air.
By this time, there’s a crowd, and a hush of concern falls among all the hikers. I follow helplessly, not knowing what any
of this means. He seemed good today, strong. But I know how good someone can seem and still be sick on the inside.
I tamp down my worries and crawl into the back of the ambulance. I’ll have to get my car later. Taking Ben’s hand in mine,
I find him almost unconscious. I want to scream at the paramedics to tell me what’s happening, but no one utters a word.
I have a terrible feeling that something bad is looming, that what I’ve seen in that other life might not apply here.
What if Ben doesn’t get better? What if it was all just a dream?
I grip his hand as we careen around corners and bump over potholes. I stare at his bloody face and try to keep hope alive.
But I can feel it slipping through my fingers like sand.