Come Back Tomorrow, page 4
“I’m . . . gonna . . . be . . . sick.” He forces out the words.
I look around for a basin or something, but Jenny’s shout brings me up short.
“He can’t do that now!” She’s unable to move from the other side of the bed because she’s holding the ultrasound wand in place so the doctor can see where he’s drawing the fluid from.
I grab Will’s chin and raise it so he has to look at me. “No, you’re not. You can’t be sick right now, or it will mess up the procedure. Look at me, and breathe as slowly as you can. You can get through this. Don’t look at what they’re doing; look right here.” I free one of my hands and bring it up to stroke his cheek. “Feel me touching you, and concentrate on that. Close your eyes if you need to, but just feel my touch on your skin, and don’t think about anything else.”
He closes his eyes as he swallows loudly. Over the next few minutes, I can tell he’s making an effort to slow his breathing, and for the first time today, it’s actually working. My own breathing starts to slow as well. I continue to stroke his cheekbone, but since his eyes are closed, I look over my shoulder to see how things are going. Will’s belly is noticeably smaller. It has gone from a full-term pregnancy all the way down to a small potbelly, and I can easily see the reason. There are at least three liters of fluid in the vacuum bottle on the floor. I choke back the sob that threatens to escape.
As I look over at him, Will opens his eyes very slowly. He’s beyond exhausted, but the panic is gone, and his breathing is slow and regular. I move my hand up to brush his hair back, and as he did the day before, he leans into my touch. He closes his eyes again wearily.
There’s a flurry of motion at my side, and I realize the doctor is removing the needle and dressing the puncture wound. Jenny has shut down the ultrasound, and she’s cleaning up the equipment from the procedure.
“You did it,” I whisper. “The doctor is all done, and you can rest now.”
His eyelids flutter, but he’s so wiped out, he can’t even lift them. He squeezes my hand gently, and as he surrenders to sleep, the sound of his deep, even breathing is music to my ears.
Taking a deep breath of my own, I slowly disentangle my shaking fingers from his and place his hand on the mattress. I need to leave this room right now before I fall apart.
I make it as far as the hallway outside his door before I have to lean up against the wall as my knees buckle. I slide down slowly until I’m curled in a ball, my knees hugged to my chest. I’m hyperventilating; all I can think about is how close I came to losing him today. I can’t lose him. I just can’t. Not like this, not before I can help him. No!
A few minutes later, or maybe it’s a long time, Jenny pulls me into her arms.
“It’s okay. You were fantastic. You really helped him through today.”
“Jenny, I don’t know if I can do this! I’m so . . . God, I don’t know what I am, but it’s totally different from any of the other times I’ve done this. I can’t bear to watch him go through this! How do I help him when I feel like I need help myself?”
“Oh, honey, you care about him just like I do. You’ve lost your detachment, and you need support too,” Jenny says, giving me a squeeze.
I turn my head to grin wryly at her. “Who’s the psychologist here?”
She snorts a laugh, shaking her head. “You know I’m right.”
“Yes, dammit, you’re right, but how the hell did I get so attached in only a week? He hasn’t even told me why he’s alone yet, and already I feel more bound to him than I have to any of the other patients I’ve helped.”
She shrugs. “Now you know why I came to see you. I don’t know how he does it, but he did it to me too. There’s something special about him, something that shouldn’t be leaving this world so soon.”
Her words send a chill down my spine. She’s right, as usual. Will is special, and I’m sure I don’t even know the half of it yet. But I have to find out. Soon.
Chapter 8
After the events of yesterday, I want to see Will first thing in the morning, but I resist the temptation. I make it until lunchtime, but by then, not knowing how his day is going is driving me insane, so I call Jenny to make sure he’s okay. She can’t give me any details about his condition because I’m not family, but she gives me a curt “yes” and tells me he was asking about me earlier. It’s enough to hold me over until I can see him in person.
As I walk through Will’s door at my usual time, he smiles at me. This is the first time seeing me has evoked that kind of response from him, with the exception of when he was high on morphine, and the satisfaction I feel blooms into an excited grin. He looks tired and weak but peaceful. His hands are resting on his belly, and I’m struck again by how much flatter it is. But the best thing of all is the even rise and fall of his chest as he breathes. Every time I’ve visited him, he’s always had to struggle to breathe.
“Hi, Tori,” he says, greeting me first.
I’m thrilled by the obvious change in our usual routine. “Hello, Will. How are you doing today?”
“Much better.” He smiles again, and this time, it reaches his eyes, making their emerald depths sparkle. “I’m still tired from everything that happened yesterday, but this is the best I’ve felt since I got the blood infection. I’m in a lot less pain, and it feels amazing to be able to breathe again.”
Suddenly, he looks down, focusing on his fingers as he runs them over the weave of the blanket, which I realize is a nervous habit. “Thank you—for what you did for me yesterday. I don’t think I would have made it through the day without you.”
His words are so honest and sincere that they melt my heart, and I have to swallow past the lump in my throat. I take my usual seat next to his bed. “You’re welcome. It was no big thing. I’m just glad I could be there for you.”
“No big thing, huh?” he says, cocking an eyebrow at me. “That’s interesting because at the time, I seem to remember thinking you looked as terrified as I was.”
I don’t like being called out, but the fact that Will feels comfortable enough with me to do it is a major step in the right direction. “Okay, so I was as scared as you were. Is that important?”
“To me it is. The fact that it scared the shit out of you, and you still stayed with me means . . .” He pauses awkwardly.
“Means what?”
“Well, it means more to me,” he says quietly, his cheeks turning crimson.
Oh my.
“I’m glad you let me do it,” I tell him, looking into his eyes and covering his hand with my own.
Somehow, that’s more than he can handle because he looks away from me, so I pull back my hand.
He stares out the window as if he’s trying to make up his mind about something, so I sit and wait patiently.
After a few minutes, he looks at me again, somber and resigned.
“I think I owe you an answer to another question. A harder one this time.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Well, I still don’t understand why, but what you went through with me yesterday has made me believe that you really want to be here. You want to know about me, and I’ve got nothing to lose by telling you.”
“Okay, Will.”
He draws in a deep breath, bracing himself for me to ask the all-encompassing question: “Why are you alone?” But I know he’s not ready to tell me. He’s maneuvered himself into this space between a rock and a hard place. If I try to take all the walls away at once, he’ll fall to pieces, and he’ll never see what I need him to see, that the end of his life needs to be about what he needs, not about what he can spare other people from.
So I take aim at just a piece of the puzzle. “Was someone with you when you had your chemo?”
He releases the breath he was holding in a whoosh, and I know I made the right choice.
“Yes. I had some very close friends help me through my chemo after my diagnosis and then again after my first relapse. When I relapsed this time, I decided I couldn’t burden them any longer. So . . . I pulled away from them all. A few of my closest friends know I’ve relapsed again, but I told them other friends were looking after me, when actually, no one was.”
“Do you think they’d understand your decision?”
“No, probably none of them would. But this is my problem, and I just couldn’t bear to watch them suffer with me. It’s bad enough that I have to go through it, but watching people I care about suffer because they feel bad for me . . .”
“So you did this for them.”
“Yes.”
“But what about you?”
“What about me? I’m going to die either way, so if I can save everyone else the pain of having to go through it with me, then it seems to me I should. Like I told you before, everyone dies alone.”
He’s angry about what’s happened to him, but it’s buried deep and tightly controlled until something makes it rise to the surface. I stare at him impassively, trying to decide my next move. He’s made this decision, and he’s using his anger to fuel his resolve, but what will happen when the anger runs out?
He looks down at the blanket again, biting his lower lip and scratching absently at his arm. “You’ve already done so much for me, but . . . I was wondering if I could ask you for a favor.”
Wow, now this is progress! “Of course you can, Will. Anything.”
He glances over at me shyly. “If I gave you my keys, would you be willing to go to my apartment? I was brought here by ambulance two weeks ago, and I was delirious at the time. I don’t even have my cell phone. There are some things I’d like to have here, and . . . I left a friend behind.”
“A friend?”
“Yes. God, I hate asking you to do this,” Will says, but he takes a deep breath and plunges ahead. “I have a cat named Sebastian. I took him in off the street as a kitten the week after I was diagnosed, so he’s kind of been with me through everything. I knew I might . . . disappear, so I made an arrangement with this sweet old lady who lives down the hall from me. She would check in with me every few days, and if I was suddenly gone, she’d look after Sebastian. She has a key to my place, and I’m sure she’s taking care of him, but I wanted to ask you if maybe . . . if I told you where to find it, you could leave some money for her for food and for taking care of him.”
Will has a cat. And he’s worried about who’s taking care of it despite the fact that he’s terminally ill, in the hospital, and he nearly died yesterday. It’s the absolute sweetest thing I’ve ever heard. Warmth floods through my chest as I look at him, and I’m taken aback by the strength of it. I can do more than see that the old woman is compensated. Much more.
“Of course I can do that—all of it, but . . . would it make you feel any better if I took care of Sebastian for you? I had a cat when I was at Berkeley, but she died, and I haven’t gotten around to adopting another one. Just until you’re out of the hospital, of course. I’m sure your neighbor is looking in on him, but at least this way, Sebastian would have some company in the evenings while you’re away from him.”
“You would do that?” he asks, his eyes alight with hopefulness.
“Sure, why not?”
Suddenly, the light goes out. “I can’t ask you to do that. It’s too much,” he says, shaking his head.
“Well, you didn’t ask; I offered. I wouldn’t mind the company in the evenings, and cats aren’t much trouble to take care of.”
“Maybe I was right that first day,” he murmurs. “You just might be an angel.”
I chuckle, and he gives me a brilliant smile.
“Is that a yes, then?”
“Yes. I’m sure you and Sebastian will get on famously,” he answers, his gaze warming parts of me that it has no right to warm.
“Would you like me to go today? I have time this evening if you know everything you want.”
“Sure, that’d be great. I’m thinking the easiest thing to do might be to have you call me once you get there. I’m not exactly sure what state things were in when I left, so I’ll probably need to give you some direction,” he says, looking down.
“Don’t worry about that. You’ve been sick, and I’m not going to inspect the place. What things did you want me to get?”
“Well, my phone and charger, and I was going to ask you to grab some of my own pajamas—these damn hospital gowns irritate the hell out of my skin and are making me even itchier—and I’d like some of my art supplies.”
“You’re an artist?” I ask, my eyes widening.
He grins. “Yes. I think it’ll be fairly obvious once you see my place. Mostly, I’m a painter, but since I can’t really do that at the moment, I’d at least like to be able to draw when I’m feeling well enough.”
He’s a painter? I never would have guessed that, but then again, I never put much thought into what he did before he came here. “I think that sounds like a wonderful idea. Why don’t I leave you now, and I’ll stop by your place on my way home. I’ll get your things and Sebastian and take them home with me tonight, and then I’ll bring everything by in the morning, all right?”
“Tori, thank you,” he says, covering my hand with his own. “This means a lot to me, and I really appreciate your doing it.”
My stomach flutters as electricity shoots up my arm. He’s touching me. Why am I reacting like a schoolgirl? Get a grip, Tori! I smile at him sweetly, and the warmth of my blush stings my cheeks. “Think nothing of it, Will. So I guess this means I get to come back tomorrow?”
He chuckles, and for the first time, he doesn’t wince. “Yes, you can come back tomorrow although I still don’t understand why you want to.”
“That’s my business to mind,” I say teasingly. “Tell me where your keys are, and give me your address. I’ll go grab my stuff and head there now.”
Will gives me what I need, and I hurry down to my office to grab my things. Will has an apartment on the southwest side of the city in Pioneer Square, a historic neighborhood known for its many art galleries.
I find parking in a garage around the corner and walk quickly to the address Will gave me. He lives in a five-story building that spans the block with an art gallery and a few storefronts taking up the first floor. The building is red brick and has lots of evenly spaced windows, each with a sculpted terra cotta relief underneath. It’s obviously very old—maybe even a historic landmark. Wow.
I glance up and grin at the twin griffins carved in the pediment overhead as I push through the outer doors. I love old buildings.
I make my way up to the fourth floor, eager to learn more about the still-mysterious young man I just left at the hospital. The apartment is a gorgeous loft with hardwood floors and red brick interior walls climbing to a ceiling at least twelve feet high, but what draws my eye and has me clutching at the doorframe is the absolutely stunning picture of the nighttime Seattle skyline that takes up most of the living room wall.
As I stare, a gray blur catches my eye as it flies down the hallway, breaking the trance I’m in. I push the door closed behind me, not taking my eyes off the picture, and slowly cross the room toward it. Oh my, it’s a painting. The detail is so precise and so realistic, I was sure it was a photograph, but as I get closer, I can see the rich strokes of Will’s brush on the sky and the trees surrounding the rooftops in the foreground. It’s breathtaking. And enormous. The painting is at least six feet tall, mounted over a low leather couch.
Suddenly, my legs give out as I remember that the beautiful, artistic soul who painted this is dying in a hospital all alone, and I’m the only person he’s currently allowing to care about him. I swallow past the lump in my throat as a few tears trickle down my cheeks. Oh, Will.
I sit there on the floor for a moment, taking in the other artwork that adorns the walls of Will’s apartment while I try to compose myself. There’s a smaller painting of the skyline of a city on the water hanging over the table in the dining area and paintings of other cities and architectural structures everywhere I look. I decide that I’d better take a walk through the place before I call him in case I react to anything else the way I did to the painting of Seattle.
The loft is small but cozy, despite the hardwood floors and high ceilings. Will has scattered area rugs about the space, and the furniture is a rich cherry, the couch and chairs overstuffed and comfortable-looking. The kitchen is a galley opposite a wall of windows, with range, dishwasher, fridge, and sink all falling in line, and there are dishes strewn across the countertops. The sight contrasts sharply with the impeccable neatness of the apartment, but then I remember Will was very sick when he left here.
I proceed down the hallway to his bedroom, and I’m stunned again. Over the simple double bed with no headboard hangs a painting of San Francisco that is at least as large as the one of Seattle in the living room. The view of the city is from across the strait, and the Golden Gate Bridge is angled in from the left, twinkling streetlights dotting the span. The city is lit up against a soft purple sky, and there’s something . . . inviting about it. Will has never said where he comes from, but I wonder if San Francisco is home. His bedroom is decorated with two other smaller paintings of San Francisco—a closer view of a portion of the skyline and a row of brightly colored two-story houses on a swiftly sloping street. I think it’s a good bet one of them is home.
As I return to the hallway, I’m confronted by a portrait of a gray tabby cat with hazel eyes, whom I think I might be getting acquainted with shortly. Finally, I turn to the second bedroom across the hall. Canvasses line the walls, finished and unfinished work alike, the skylines of at least a dozen more cities, storefronts, landscapes, a few castles in Europe, but the piece that draws my eye is the skyline of New York City that takes up the entire right-hand wall of the room. It’s unfinished. Will has gotten about two-thirds of the way across the large canvas. Then the buildings abruptly stop. I wonder when he was last able to work on it. It’s the most detailed—and the most beautiful—of his paintings I’ve seen yet. As I stare at it, I can almost hear the cars honking in the distance and the gentle hum of white noise that pervades all large cities.
