I was going to tell you after we got back from the ocean. I thought we would take the trip. I thought I could give us those days before everything became hospitals.
My thumb pressed into the paper hard enough to crease it.
The ocean trip.
My blue suitcase had been open on the guest-room bed. I had bought sandals I did not need and a ridiculous wide-brimmed hat Randall said made me look like I was planning to interrogate a lifeguard. We had argued cheerfully over whether to spend money on the balcony cabin.
Then my doctor called.
I kept reading.
Then your diagnosis came.
You sat beside me in the car and said you were sorry.
I stopped breathing.
I remembered.
Not the whole drive, not anymore. Treatment had muddied some memories while sharpening others to cruelty. But I remembered saying that. I remembered holding the folder of test results against my chest, looking at Randall’s rigid profile as he drove us home.
