“What does that mean? Is metastatic worse?”
“It's incurable. It means cancer cells have broken away from the primary cancer, spreading to other parts of the body.”
I stopped breathing, waiting for him to say more. My eyes scanned his body, as if by magic, I'd see beneath his skin and know exactly where he hurt.
“It's in my lungs.”
My world stopped; my suspicions confirmed. My mother was killed by lung cancer after it spread from her breast. It couldn't take Woodrow, too.
“Liver, stomach, and lymph nodes. There's no cure, Jolie. The doctors told me without treatment, I'd be looking at six months. With, I'd only get nine. To me, it wasn't worth it. All the pain of chemotherapy for three months where I couldn't even enjoy my remaining days. I wanted to enjoy them; I prayed to all that was holy I’d get you back to spend them with you.”
“This can’t be happening.”
“I’m sorry for being selfish. For needing you now and bringing you in only to hurt you in time,” he needlessly apologized.
"How many months has it been?"
“Seven.” He smiled an ingenuine smile. “I'm defying odds.”
“Are you scared?” I had to ask, because I was fucking terrified.
He swallowed, and being so close, I could see how much it hurt him. His mannerisms that space usually disguised, couldn't be hidden from me while I sat in his lap. His lips tightening and his eyes lowering to a slight squint were much clearer to see.
“Terrified.” He turned us, positioning his back against the cupboard doors. He picked up the pill bottle and shook it, giving himself a distraction. He clutched the flower from the floor, conducting it to his nose.
And from those actions, I knew he wanted to escape. But he chose to stay, cherishing these minutes, no matter how painful they were, because he was spending them with me.
“For a while, Hell wanted to take you with us.” A tear rolled down his cheeks. “But I told him good things come to those who wait. We’ll wait for you.”
“The diary? You told him in a diary?” You still keep one.”
“Until my last day. But it’s not like it used to be.” He swallowed again. Closing his eyes with the pain that pushed out another tear.
I moved between his legs, turning to wipe away his sadness.
“Let him do it. Let him take me with you,” I begged. “Please. . .”
“No. I don't want to die knowing it was my hands that killed you. Everything else they've done hurts enough. He's not going to take you with us.”
“But—”
“No buts, Jolie. . . this is how it is. Besides, there’s no guarantee that we'll be going to the same place. I'm not sure I'll get into heaven.”
“You will. You'll be with our baby. With Daizee. And Nessie.”
A tear rolled, one from each eye, one for each of my special little angels.
“Waiting for you.”
I couldn't talk to tell him he wouldn't be waiting long. I huddled into his lap, my fingers jabbing into his skin and his arms bandingaround me. And I stayed there until morning faded away, until the clouds darkened with the arrival of evening.
Getting restless beneath me, he reached up for the drink, his knuckles almost hitting the glass over and spilling the contents onto my head. I stretched for it, placing it at his lips. I winced, feeling like the milk would have soured by now, but he didn't complain, drinking it until he drained the glass.
He gave me a squeeze, and asked, “When I'm gone, will you take care of Bushy?” He rolled his eyes, in disapproval of the name I'd chosen.
“He'll be in good hands.” I smiled, delivering the devious lie. I let Woodrow believe those hands would be mine, but they wouldn't. I'd reach out to someone. A sanctuary, or something.
“Can we have the same for dinner today?”
