“Don’t.”
“Pauly, I have to say this.”
She was quiet.
“If I don’t make it, take care of Michael. He’s going to fall apart and he’ll pretend he’s fine but he won’t be. Make sure he eats. Make sure he doesn’t work himself to death. Make sure—” My voice caught. “Make sure he knows it wasn’t his fault.”
“Claudette—”
“And Jack. He’s going to blame himself even though there’s nothing he could have done. Remind him I love him. That I’ve always loved him even when he was being an overprotective pain in the ass.”
“You’re going to survive,” Pauline said fiercely. “You’re going to wake up from surgery and we’re going to go get ridiculously expensive cocktails and laugh about how dramatic you were being.”
“I hope you’re right.”
“I’m always right. You know this.”
We talked for another hour. About college memories and terrible dates and all the normal things that felt precious now that time was running out.
Michael and I spent the next day being present. No talk of surgery or odds or what-ifs. Just us and the ocean and time we weren’t wasting.
We walked on the beach at sunset. Michael took photos of me with the water behind me, golden light turning everything beautiful. I took photos of him laughing at something I’d said, his hair a mess from the wind.
We cooked together. Well, Michael cooked and I sat on the counter drinking fruit wine and providing commentary. He made pasta and I made fun of his technique. He told me I was a terrible sous chef and I said that’s one advantage of being his wife—for his cooking skills.
“Just my cooking skills?” he asked.
“And your uh— voice maybe?”
“I’m reconsidering this marriage.”
“Too late. You’re stuck with me.”
We made love slowly. Taking our time. Memorizing each other in case this was the last chance. Neither of us said that out loud but we both knew it.
Afterwards I lay with my head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat, trying to imprint the sound in my memory.
“What are you thinking about?” he asked.
“How much I love you. How grateful I am for this. For you. For all of it.”
His arms tightened around me. “Don’t talk like you’re saying goodbye.”
“I’m not. I’m just saying in case I forget to say it later.”
“You won’t forget. You’re going to survive this and we’re going to have years to say it.”
I wanted to believe him so badly it physically hurt.
The night before surgery, I couldn’t sleep.
I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, listening to Michael breathe beside me, thinking about the morning. About the surgery that might kill me.
Around midnight, I slipped out of bed quietly so I wouldn’t wake Michael.
I found paper and a pen, sat at the desk in the corner, and began to write.
Michael,
