Deirdre finally cried herself to sleep, woke up, and cried some more.
She tried to distract herself with television and work e-mail—Deirdre was the executive assistant to the CFO of a multinational insurance company with a West Coast office in Portland—but she couldn’t concentrate. She put her head back down and sank into a restless sleep, her dreams a jumbled narrative about cancer, coffee, and New York City.
When she came to in the middle of the night, there were no more tears. She felt hollowed out, like there was a big, gaping, sucking hole at the center of her being. The only thing left to fill it was anger. Deirdre didn’t cry anymore because she was too mad to cry. She stomped up the stairs and practically kicked in the door to her husband’s office.
“I just have to know, what the fuck were you thinking,” she barked into the room. She stopped short in the doorway. Every other time she opened this door, Jared was either sitting cross-legged in the desk chair in front of his computer or napping on the futon that doubled as their guest bed. He wasn’t there now, and for a minute Deirdre thought he wasn’t in the room. That’s when she noticed him lying on the floor.
“Oh my god!” she cried and dropped to her knees. “Jare?” She shook him, and his eyes flicked open.
“Oh, hey, D.” He smiled up at her. “I must’ve dozed off again.”
“What are you doing on the floor?”
“Reducing external stimuli. Helps me focus. I think.”
Deirdre lay down on her back next to Jared and stared at the ceiling. It was hard to see any detail in the low light.
“Does it hurt?” she asked after a long minute of painful silence.
“Does what hurt?”
“Your tumor.”
“Oh, right, of course. Sometimes. Yes. Headaches. Mostly, I just feel confused. And I’m starting to forget things.”
“Like what?”
Jared propped himself up on one elbow and looked at her. He pursed his lips and tried hard to concentrate on Deirdre’s question. “I’m not sure,” he answered.
“Oh, sweetie,” she said, tearing up. “I was just making a joke.”
Jared paused for a second and then smiled. “Oh, I see. That is pretty funny.” He put his head back down.
They lay there for a while, like two kids in a summer field looking up at the stars.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” she asked, keeping her eyes focused on the ceiling.
“I don’t suppose you’d believe me if I said I forgot.”
“Is that true?”
“No,” he said quietly. “I suppose it’s not. I guess I wanted to figure out how to make everything okay first.”
“And selling yourself to some psychopath on eBay was your answer?”
“Like I said, I’m confused. I’m not even really sure what I’m saying to you right now. Am I making sense?”
Deirdre rolled over to look at her husband to see if he was serious; she didn’t see a hint of irony or mischief on his face.
“Don’t you think the girls and I can take care of ourselves?”
“I guess I didn’t think,” he said. They were both quiet for a while before Jared added, “Although, you know, I did get a bid for a million dollars. I think it’s from a hooker or something. The name is SisterBJ143.”
Deirdre rolled onto her side, facing away from Jared.
“What?” he asked, taking her hand. “I won’t do anything you wouldn’t want me to do.”
“Then don’t die.” She said it so softly she wasn’t sure Jared had heard her. When Deirdre rolled back over, she saw serpentine streaks of tears carving rivers on her husband’s cheek.
“Oh, Jare,” she said and took his hand.
They both cried and hugged and hugged and cried.
Then their lips met, and they began to kiss.
***
Jackie was sitting in the back of the class, her usual spot, slumped down in her seat, trying to evade the notice of her chemistry teacher. Maybe if she had been more nonchalant about it, the teacher wouldn’t have noticed, wouldn’t have zeroed in.
Esther Markowitz stood five feet two inches tall but still managed to tower over every one of the students in her class, including Jackie, who was a good three inches taller. Patches of pink scalp showed through the teacher’s short, frizzy hair, and she had some kind of monstrosity—a mole, a wart, a boil—at the corner of her right eyebrow. Her demeanor matched her appearance to a T.
“Miss Stone,” she boomed, walking toward Jackie. “Perhaps you can tell us how many joules are in a mole.” She arrived at Jackie’s desk, standing ramrod straight and perfectly still.
Jackie kept her head down.
“Look at me, Miss Stone.”
Jackie looked up, but she couldn’t make eye contact with Mrs. Markowitz. She wondered how the woman had managed to become a “Mrs.” Who would marry such a witch?
“Well?” the teacher asked.
Jackie had no idea; she never had any idea.
“Jackie?” Mrs. Markowitz said.
Jackie didn’t answer.
“Jackie?” she said again, this time louder.