“How about I tell you what happened and you write it?” I ask, hoping she agrees. She doesn’t.
“I want you to.” Reluctantly, I grab her diary from the side of the bed and open it up. I try not to glance at the pages, but I can’t help but notice some of the pictures that are in it. There are pictures of her and our friends, some of just our friends, but most are of me and her. “Did you take a picture on Monday?” she asks, her look hopeful. I had promised Saylor to document every day for her. And of course, I kept good on my promise.
“I did.”
“Okay. I’ll add it when we get home.” Home. Home was in Nevada, and it was a place I never thought I would long for, but now I do.
“How do you want me to start this? Dear diary?” I ask, thinking how stupid it already makes me feel.
“I want you to write it like you’re writing me a letter. But wait till I’m asleep.” I sigh and put the book back on the table. Saylor laughs at my reaction and I smile at the sound. I look down at her, noticing how bright her eyes shine now that her eyebrows and eyelashes aren’t obstructing their view.
“You are so beautiful,” I say, running my fingers across her face.
“You got a fetish for baldies?” she asks, blinking up at me.
“I got a fetish for you.”
“You know, there is a plus side to losing my hair. I don’t have to shave my legs.” I laugh and have to agree with her. I kiss the top of her head and pull her closer. Today was a good day. Yesterday is gone and tomorrow doesn’t matter. Only today, only this moment, and only me and her.
24
FRIDAY, SAYLOR IS strong enough to walk down for her treatment—stage-four blue Skittles. She is wearing a colorful head scarf, shorts to show off her smooth legs, and a hoodie. I brought a blanket with us just in case. The room is always cold, and considering Saylor’s attire, she is probably going to need it.
It had become tradition for me to leave and get candy, and this time was no different. They had already done the blood work in her room and had it sent down, so we were able to bypass that part. I kiss her at the door and leave to go on my weekly store run. I’m in the parking lot when I get a call from the hospital.
“Hello.”
“I need you to pick me up something else,” Saylor says, and her voice is sad.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, already making my way back inside to her.
“I’ll tell you when you get back. Will you please pick up some markers and a poster board for me?” I pause in the lobby.
“Saylor, will you please tell me what is going on?”
“Dirk, will you please just pick it up? And bring extra Skittles,” she adds, and the smile in her voice is enough to have me heading toward the car.
“I love you,” I tell her, knowing she can’t hear it enough and I can’t say it enough.
“I love you too. Hurry up.” She hangs up and I’m laughing.
—
I push open the door to find one of the reclining chairs empty. Someone has died, and the room is so melancholy, that even I feel depressed.
“Okay, guys,” Saylor says, addressing everyone and taking over the show. The nurses are staring at her like she’s lost her mind, and one is on the phone asking someone to come up. “The doctors here think that we shouldn’t talk about our friends when they pass. Well, I think that’s bullshit.” All the patients take turns looking at one another, probably thinking that Saylor has lost her mind.
“Marcus would have wanted to be remembered. I’m not saying we have to mourn his death, I’m saying we should celebrate his life. So, my handsome lover Dirk has been kind enough to pick us up some things to help us do that.”
I cross the room to Saylor, thinking that maybe she has lost her mind. No one says a word and all eyes are on me and Saylor and the bag in my hand.
“Ralph,” Saylor says, addressing the old man to her left. He looks at her with raised eyebrows, or what were once eyebrows, and looks nervous that she called on him. “What was your favorite thing about Marcus?” Ralph stutters before answering.
“Um, well. He was a nice boy. Said he worked on his daddy’s chicken farm. I like that he was a hard worker. He was respectful too.”
Saylor writes on the poster board with one of the markers as Ralph speaks. When I see her struggle with it in her lap, I locate a table next to the nurse’s desk and bring it to her—shooting a look to the nurse when she starts to object.
“Thank you, baby.” Baby. I like when she calls me that. “Hershel?” Saylor looks pointedly at the man to her right, and he looks around the room before answering.
“He had a good sense of humor. And he laughed at all my jokes, even the ones that ain’t real funny.” Saylor writes again, and so it goes until every patient in the room has said something they like about Marcus.