Prologue #2
“—the cost of adding another person on insurance.”
A piece of Merritt.
“I’d have up to two years, though?” I interject. I can’t unscramble my thoughts from my feelings just yet. I want time.
“Well, yes.”
I focus on the painting again. On those two girls laughing above rough waters. “I’ll take all the information. Thank you.”
I know better than to open the letter right away.
I drive home in silence so I can’t be triggered by any songs, then force myself to do the dishes I haven’t touched in a month before I let myself open it—like doing this means I’ll be allowed to fall to pieces later, some sick sort of reward system.
Afterward, I climb into my bed on weary limbs, my hands shaking when I finally pry open the envelope.
If you’re reading this, it means that I am dead. WOMP WOMP WOMP.
That’s all it takes. I hear the words like they’ve been spoken in her bright voice—sarcastic and indelibly on the brink of a laugh—and implode.
The sob that rips through me shakes my bones and sets my throat on fire.
I want to turn myself inside out and put my soul on ice.
Anything to relieve the burn of this deep, raw hurt.
I cry and gasp into my knuckles until the worst of it passes and I can go on.
Sorry for the cold open, but it’s hard to take this too seriously. They’re adamant when they tell you to think positively, to surround yourself with optimism after a diagnosis. Especially after the second one.
And then they follow that up with telling you to make a will and testament.
Therefore, I am writing to you from this extremely weird headspace where I’m not supposed to actually think the cancer will do me in, but where I also have to consider that it will. And you know what, Bea? I really don’t want to write this. I really don’t want to die.
I have to pause to breathe through another blinding stab of agony.
I guess the good news is that if I am in fact dead, it’s not upsetting me!
Definitely sad for you, though. No chance there’s anyone as funny as me, or as tolerant when it comes to your Halloween costume choices.
Who the hell is going to be the Sexy Gandalf to your Hot Sauron?
Or, for that matter, who else is going to dress up for Halloween with you at all at your big age?
I hope there’s someone around to correct all the sayings you get wrong.
Remember, it’s last-ditch, not last-stitch.
And for god’s sake, it’s “for all intents and purposes,” not “for all intensive purposes,” no matter how you try to justify it! !!
I know this. But I loved how it made her laugh when she had to correct me. I knew she loved correcting me.
At any rate, I’m still oscillating between making this incredibly earnest or totally cavalier, so I guess instead of doing either, I’ll focus on myself and hope I can impart some final wisdom on you.
When I do my best to consider being dead, the things I feel regretful over are mostly small, silly things.
Like, why didn’t I ever adopt a pet? I kept thinking there would be a better time.
I should have gotten into baking my own bread.
Like, named my own sourdough starter and gotten weirdly intense about it.
The idea that I wasted any of my precious days actually depriving myself of carbohydrates fills me with such rage, BB.
I also wish I’d gone on one of those ocean fishing boats so I could find out for myself if halibut are actually real.
I am simply not convinced. They look made-up!
Like something someone’s toddler drew! I wish I would have written something that reached publication somewhere, or maybe painted something.
Something that would have my name on it.
Anything that left some sort of mark on the world, long after I’d died.
I suppose since I am dead—
“Jesus, Merritt, how many times are you going to say dead?”
—you will have heard about the Big Thing I did when I was diagnosed the first time. I am planning to tell you, so hopefully I finally got around to it and this isn’t jarring news . . .
“You didn’t. And it is.”
I always picture us raising our kids together, even though I’m never totally sure I want them.
Even though I never can quite picture the man I’d have them with.
But you’re the Gilly to my Sally Owens, Bea (at least in the redhead-brunette respect, since we’re a little swapped when it comes to personality—you get what I’m saying).
Even if it’s just you and me forever, we can inspire witchcraft rumors and live in one of the old Victorians on the back side of town.
Our moms can cosplay the old aunts. We’ll have midnight margaritas and try not to wake our two perfect girls.
Shit. I’m talking like I’m still alive. Let me get back on track . . .
The thing is, when I was looking into the whole egg-freezing process, I just got one of those weird feelings I sometimes get, like it was important to slow down and take in the details instead of bull-rushing things like you and I both prefer.
So, I read up on what would happen to my eggs if I should die, and when I learned about the option to leave them to someone, of course the only choice was you.
If I get all the way through this and can’t carry a baby, I know you’ll do that for me, too.
Isn’t that crazy? To just know that about someone?
I can picture how that conversation would go so vividly.
You’d say something like, “Give it here, I’ve got you.
I’ll lord this over you forever.” You’d make it sound so easy.
But if I really am dead, then I know you’ll know what to do, either way. Maybe they’ll be a gift, somehow. Maybe this is how I’ll leave my mark on the world.
I’m planning on telling you about all of this, but, BB, I can tell you don’t want to hear it, because this scenario means I’m dead and you hate when I admit that possibility in any way.
You’re a perfect friend, don’t get me wrong (I swear to god if you shave any bit of your head this time, I will haunt your ass)!
I just know you’re scared. If I am currently fish food—
“Fuck’s sake, Merritt.”
—then I hope I thanked you often enough for trying to be brave.
For those occasions when you have let me talk about dying, even though your whole jaw turns to stone and you won’t meet my eyes.
And listen, if I ended up croaking and didn’t talk to you about this egg stuff, please know it was only out of pride.
You have every right to say no, but I’m afraid you’d say yes to my face no matter what.
If I’m already gone, you’ll know it won’t make a difference to me either way. You’ll know it’s your choice.
BB, I’m too tired to try to put into words what you mean to me. You know it, though, yeah?
You’re my goddamn soulmate. Always.