What's Left of Me
Page 66
“S-Since … since when?” His voice breaks on the words.
“Since I was seventeen.” I try to sound confident, but instead, my words come out fragile and weak.
Parker runs his hand through his hair and stands. I don’t follow him, or try to comfort him. I just watch as he paces my room. When I get dizzy from watching him, I stand up, leaning against the wall for support, and just wait. Wait for him to process it. Wait for him to ask questions. Wait for him to look at me.
He stops abruptly and, looking out my bedroom window, he asks, “Are you dying?”
“I’m sorry? What did you say?”
Usually when people learn I have cancer, the last thing they ask is if I’m dying. People want to know what kind of cancer, how I’m feeling, and sometimes what I’m doing for treatments, but no one has ever asked me if I’m dying.
“Are you dying?” He says it louder this time, still not looking at me.
“We’re all dying, Parker.”
That causes him to move so fast that I don’t even see it coming. One second he’s across the room, and the other he’s right in front of me. Placing his hand under my chin, he lifts my face so that I’m forced to look into his sad, sympathetic eyes.
“You know what I mean.”
“No,” I whisper. He lets out a sigh, but I continue. “At least, not anytime soon.”
That causes him to tense.
“Look, I don’t know how to answer that, but what I can tell you is I have a team of doctors doing whatever they can to keep my cancer from spreading. I have one chemo treatment left before my transplant.”
“Transplant?”
“I had my bone marrow taken from me at the end of August for my stem cells to be frozen, then replaced after my chemotherapy.”
“Why?” His voice has turned strong. It’s loud and alert.
“My chances of accepting the transplant are higher if it comes from me rather than a donor. And, in my case, the doctors don’t want to take any more chances. My blood counts were decent, so they took the transplant from me.”
He walks away from me, going to sit on the edge of my bed. He rests his elbows on his knees, putting his head in his heads.
Without looking up, he asks, “I mean, why do you need a bone marrow transplant?”
“Because of the type of chemotherapy. The drugs I’m getting are too strong. They’ll kill all the bad cells I have so, in turn, I have to replace them with healthy cells from the bone marrow after the treatment is finished.”
He sits there, breathing in short, shallow breaths. When he looks up at me, I see his sadness. His pity.
“Please don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“With those sad puppy dog eyes you give to one of the animals you’re trying to save. I don’t want your sympathy or pity, Parker. It’s that look, right there, why I didn’t want you to know.”
“I don’t pity you, Aundrea. I …”
I move to stand on the opposite side of my room. I need some space between us for this conversation. If I am going to open up to him, then I need to be able to think clearly.
“Were you going to tell me?” He doesn’t turn to face me, but continues to look into the empty space I just left.
“Yes.”
“When?”
“I don’t know. When I had the courage.”
He turns then, looking in my direction. “Do you have the courage now?”
“I’d like to think I do, but deep down I’m not sure.”
We don’t speak. I move back to the bed and sit on the edge. He stands like a statue, staring out my window. Our eyes meet often, but he always looks away first, like it pains him to look at me.
“You should have told me sooner.”
“I know.”
“I …” He looks at me with his mouth open, but no words come out. He closes it, then opens it again. “I need a minute.”
My eyes follow him as he starts to walk in circles around my room, stopping to rub his face, or run his hand through his hair.
When he stops in front of the door, my hand flies to my mouth to stop the choking sob. My eyes fill with tears and slowly, one by one, they start to fall. This is it.
Just as his hand touches the door handle, I blurt out, “I know this is all too much for you. Hell, it’s too much for me at times.” I wipe the tears from my swollen eyes. “But I want you to know I understand if you walk away. I won’t hold it against you, or think differently of you.”
Parker drops his hand and turns around so quickly that I have to blink to make sure I’m seeing him correctly. Walking closer to me, our eyes locked, he speaks loudly, “Aundrea, I’m mad and frustrated you didn’t tell me sooner. I had a right to know.”
I nod. “I know. I am so sorry, Parker.” I choke on my sobs, trying to push them away.
Bending down in front of me, he whispers, “You need to listen very carefully to what I am about to say, okay?”
I nod because I can’t speak.
“You own me, Aundrea. As much as it pains me that you couldn’t tell me, I couldn’t walk away from you if I tried. The second I laid eyes on you that night, in the mirror, I knew it.” He takes my hands in his, squeezing gently. “I would be a damn fool to let you slip away from me. I am so unbelievably in love with you.”
The tears slide down my face as my shoulders shake uncontrollably at his words.
“Since I was seventeen.” I try to sound confident, but instead, my words come out fragile and weak.
Parker runs his hand through his hair and stands. I don’t follow him, or try to comfort him. I just watch as he paces my room. When I get dizzy from watching him, I stand up, leaning against the wall for support, and just wait. Wait for him to process it. Wait for him to ask questions. Wait for him to look at me.
He stops abruptly and, looking out my bedroom window, he asks, “Are you dying?”
“I’m sorry? What did you say?”
Usually when people learn I have cancer, the last thing they ask is if I’m dying. People want to know what kind of cancer, how I’m feeling, and sometimes what I’m doing for treatments, but no one has ever asked me if I’m dying.
“Are you dying?” He says it louder this time, still not looking at me.
“We’re all dying, Parker.”
That causes him to move so fast that I don’t even see it coming. One second he’s across the room, and the other he’s right in front of me. Placing his hand under my chin, he lifts my face so that I’m forced to look into his sad, sympathetic eyes.
“You know what I mean.”
“No,” I whisper. He lets out a sigh, but I continue. “At least, not anytime soon.”
That causes him to tense.
“Look, I don’t know how to answer that, but what I can tell you is I have a team of doctors doing whatever they can to keep my cancer from spreading. I have one chemo treatment left before my transplant.”
“Transplant?”
“I had my bone marrow taken from me at the end of August for my stem cells to be frozen, then replaced after my chemotherapy.”
“Why?” His voice has turned strong. It’s loud and alert.
“My chances of accepting the transplant are higher if it comes from me rather than a donor. And, in my case, the doctors don’t want to take any more chances. My blood counts were decent, so they took the transplant from me.”
He walks away from me, going to sit on the edge of my bed. He rests his elbows on his knees, putting his head in his heads.
Without looking up, he asks, “I mean, why do you need a bone marrow transplant?”
“Because of the type of chemotherapy. The drugs I’m getting are too strong. They’ll kill all the bad cells I have so, in turn, I have to replace them with healthy cells from the bone marrow after the treatment is finished.”
He sits there, breathing in short, shallow breaths. When he looks up at me, I see his sadness. His pity.
“Please don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“With those sad puppy dog eyes you give to one of the animals you’re trying to save. I don’t want your sympathy or pity, Parker. It’s that look, right there, why I didn’t want you to know.”
“I don’t pity you, Aundrea. I …”
I move to stand on the opposite side of my room. I need some space between us for this conversation. If I am going to open up to him, then I need to be able to think clearly.
“Were you going to tell me?” He doesn’t turn to face me, but continues to look into the empty space I just left.
“Yes.”
“When?”
“I don’t know. When I had the courage.”
He turns then, looking in my direction. “Do you have the courage now?”
“I’d like to think I do, but deep down I’m not sure.”
We don’t speak. I move back to the bed and sit on the edge. He stands like a statue, staring out my window. Our eyes meet often, but he always looks away first, like it pains him to look at me.
“You should have told me sooner.”
“I know.”
“I …” He looks at me with his mouth open, but no words come out. He closes it, then opens it again. “I need a minute.”
My eyes follow him as he starts to walk in circles around my room, stopping to rub his face, or run his hand through his hair.
When he stops in front of the door, my hand flies to my mouth to stop the choking sob. My eyes fill with tears and slowly, one by one, they start to fall. This is it.
Just as his hand touches the door handle, I blurt out, “I know this is all too much for you. Hell, it’s too much for me at times.” I wipe the tears from my swollen eyes. “But I want you to know I understand if you walk away. I won’t hold it against you, or think differently of you.”
Parker drops his hand and turns around so quickly that I have to blink to make sure I’m seeing him correctly. Walking closer to me, our eyes locked, he speaks loudly, “Aundrea, I’m mad and frustrated you didn’t tell me sooner. I had a right to know.”
I nod. “I know. I am so sorry, Parker.” I choke on my sobs, trying to push them away.
Bending down in front of me, he whispers, “You need to listen very carefully to what I am about to say, okay?”
I nod because I can’t speak.
“You own me, Aundrea. As much as it pains me that you couldn’t tell me, I couldn’t walk away from you if I tried. The second I laid eyes on you that night, in the mirror, I knew it.” He takes my hands in his, squeezing gently. “I would be a damn fool to let you slip away from me. I am so unbelievably in love with you.”
The tears slide down my face as my shoulders shake uncontrollably at his words.
