Always and Forever (5 page)

“Lisa?”

She didn’t take her glasses off, just smiled and kept walking.

“Morning,” Lisa said. “I’m heading into my office to work on my next collection. I’d rather none of the customers knew I was in.”

“Um, is there anything I can get you? A coffee?”

Lisa stopped walking, found her smile came easier here for Jules than it did at home when she was trying to be upbeat for Matt. “Yeah, sure. Put a ‘Back in five’ sign on the door and nip down to get me a latte. Grab yourself one, too.” She pulled a note out of her wallet and passed it to Jules. “Thanks.”

Lisa straightened her shoulders and opened the door to her office, then shut it behind her and went around to her big leather chair. She collapsed into it, loving the way it seemed to mold to her shape almost instantly.

“Hello, old friend,” she whispered, running her hands across her glass desk top. She pressed the button on her computer screen and looked around at the piles of fabric samples. She opened her big design book, the one she always kept on her desk, and looked at her most recent sketches.

Lisa took a deep, shuddering breath. A wave of sadness crashed toward her but she fought hard, didn’t let it take hold. This was her sanctuary. This was her happy place, where she could be alone and do her work, lose herself in her creations. Somewhere she didn’t have to think about children or cancer or the fact she was supposed to be feeling grateful that she’d been cured and didn’t have to endure chemo or anything else on top of what she’d already been through.

She opened iTunes and clicked on her design playlist, let the music wash over her, feeling the beat, her lips moving almost instantly to the Macklemore & Ryan Lewis track she sometimes listened to on repeat when she was designing.

She could do this. She could actually do this.

Lisa picked up her pencil and put it between her teeth as she flipped to a fresh page.

She could do this.

7.

M
att gritted his teeth and knocked back the shot of whiskey. If his friends had stayed and he’d been having a few more beers, he’d have been okay. But nothing about seeing his wife suffering with her grief, and wondering why the hell he still felt he was losing her even though she’d survived, was any part of okay. He slid the glass across the bar, swallowing the burn, wishing it hurt harder so it blocked out his thoughts. All he knew was that being here was a hell of a lot easier than being at home.

“Another,” he ground out, clearing his throat. He’d told Lisa he’d be home after work, before dinner, but he’d never made it.

His mom had passed away eleven years ago, but the pain was still there, the loss of a parent something that would forever haunt him. But now with Lisa suffering, still recovering from her cancer surgery, the pain was raw, more real. He shut his eyes, thinking back, no longer fighting the memories that had been drifting into his vision every time he tried to fall asleep, every time he stopped thinking about his wife and what he could do for her. His mom was haunting him, the memory of her dying, the feeling of helplessness that he’d long since buried.

Matt walked silently over to the bed. He’d been told not to, that he should remember his mom the way she looked in his mind, but h
e nee
ded to see her. If he didn’t say goodbye and see for himself that she was gone, he knew he’d never believe it.

“Mom?” he said hoarsely as he approached, glancing behind him to make sure the door was still shut, that no one had followed him in. He didn’t want anyone to hear him, and he sure as hell didn’t want anyone to see him.

“Mom.” It was a whisper this time as he stood over her, reaching for her hand and holding it so carefully, afraid he might break her.

She was gone. He could see there was no one there anymore, that it was just her lifeless body forlorn on the bed. Tears started to fall down his cheeks but he angrily brushed them away, sniffed hard and wiped his nose with the arm of his shirt. It wasn’t right, her lying there like that, so bare, so exposed. She would never have shown that much skin.

Matt carefully put her hand down, back on the bed; her skin was almost translucent. Before she’d become sick, she’d always had a tan, was outside more than she was in, but now her skin was ghostly white. He was finding it harder and harder to remember his beautiful mom the way she’d always been, her dark hair falling to her shoulder blades, a big smile always firmly in place, making her mouth tilt up every time she looked at him. That was the mom he wanted to remember for the rest of his life, but right now he wanted to give his mom some dignity.

“Excuse me, but
. . .
”

Matt spun around, glaring at the nurse who’d interrupted him.

“What?” he snapped.

“It’s just that we need to clear the room and
. . .
”

“Get the fuck away from my mother!” he screamed.

His father appeared then, eyes dark, days’ worth of stubble on his cheeks. “Son, she’s just trying to do her job.”

“Leave me,” Matt said, his voice like venom, staring at his dad. “Leave me alone.”

He turned his back, didn’t give a damn now whether anyone else was in the room or not, because he wasn’t leaving his mom like that. He sure as hell wasn’t going to let her be wheeled out like a nameless corpse, dressed in the ugly hospital gown. She had always looked beautiful, never left the house without make-up on and nice clothes, and he wasn’t going to let anyone else see her like this. It was the last thing he could do for her and he was going to damn well do it.

Matt glanced behind him, saw they were alone again, and he touched her hand, then placed a palm to her cheek. He might be only seventeen, but he knew right from wrong, and this was wrong.

“I’m so sorry, Mom,” he muttered. Her head was bare, her bald head almost grotesque it was so pale. And she was so, so thin. He hadn’t noticed it so much until now, just how bone thin she really was beneath her clothes.

Matt dragged his eyes from her scalp and looked around for her bag. She never left home without it, and he doubted she would have gotten in the ambulance unless someone had brought it for her. He was right. It was sitting on the floor, kicked halfway under the hospital bed. He pulled it out and found her scarf; the softest silk and in a light pink color. Maybe that’s why he hadn’t noticed how sick she’d looked, because she’d always had her scarf tied around her head and
make-up
on her face, her trademark pink lipstick brightening her skin. He lifted the scarf and stared at it, tried to figure out what to do and had no damn clue. So he just folded it in half and placed it over her head, covering part of her forehead, then carefully lifting her head to tuck it under.

He sucked back a sob as his fingertips connected with her skin. It felt too cold, not right. But Matt kept it together, did his best tying the scarf to the side slightly. At least she looked a little more like herself. Then he found her blanket, one made of soft wool that she’d always had folded in her large bag, slung across the top because she was always getting cold and needing it near. When she’d been to watch his football games, he’d always looked up and seen her with it tucked around her shoulders, but her big smile and even bigger wave had meant no one else probably had a clue how sick she was. Maybe not even him. It wasn’t until he’d received the call today, walked into the room and seen her lying on the bed, that it had really hit him. His mom’s cancer had been bad; he’d known that, but knowing hadn’t prepared him, not even close.

Matt pulled her gown down her legs as far as he could, feeling weird touching her like that when it wasn’t something he’d ever usually do. Then he opened out the blanket and placed it over her, wanting to keep her warm even though he knew it was impossible. He even tucked her hands under it, knowing how cold they’d been the last couple of months. She was always calling him over to hold her hands, always telling him how warm he was and how she needed to steal a little bit of it before he left for the day.

He wished he’d skipped school and just stayed home. If he’d known she wasn’t going to be around when he got home, he would have. Screw school. Screw football. Screw the whole fucking world.

Matt bent down low over her, wished he knew what to do with make-up so he could have put some on her face, but that was way beyond him. Instead, he held her, let all his tears fall onto the blanket he’d just covered her in.

“I love you, Mom,” he choked out. “I love you so much.”

He wanted to believe she was watching him from somewhere, that maybe she hadn’t even left the room yet and was standing behind him, or drifting up above, before she passed over to wherever it was that dead people went.

And then he stood up, pulled himself together and walked out the door.

“Matt!”

His dad called out behind him as he stormed down the corridor, furiously wiping tears from his face. He didn’t stop, didn’t want to see him.

“Matt!”

A hand closed over his arm and he turned, angrily shoving his dad’s fingers from his jacket.

“Don’t touch me,” he growled.

“I know you’re upset, we all are, but
. . .
”

“Upset? You’re upset? I don’t see any tears!” Matt shouted. “Why the hell aren’t you crying?”

His father’s face was tired, worn, but it sure as hell didn’t look upset.

“Matt, you need to calm down.”

He raked a hand through his hair. “Did you see her in there? Did you see the way they left her? Or was that you? Didn’t you care enough to give her some fucking dignity?”

Matt knew he was making a scene, would never have spoken like that around his mom, but he couldn’t help it. Anger thrummed through him, made him want to slam his fist into something, anything.

“I was with her when she passed, Matt. It was very fast. She had an infection that her body just couldn’t fight any longer.”

“Did you fight hard enough for her? Did you even cry when she died in front of you?”

Matt wiped more tears away, unable to stop the flood of them as they rained down his cheeks. He hated him. He hated his father for not fighting, for not doing something to save his mom. He hated him for never crying, for always standing there silent and stoic instead of acting like he gave a damn. And he hated the look in his mom’s eyes when she saw the strain between them. Because he’d loved his mom so bad, had no idea how he was even going to live without her. He was seventeen. He needed a mom. He needed
his
mom.

“I have some paperwork to fill in,” his dad said, taking a step back. “I’ll meet you at home and then we can talk.”

Matt turned on his heel and stalked back down the corridor. He didn’t want to go home, didn’t want to talk to the man he’d slowly started to hate.

I wish it was you and not her.
That’s what he wanted to say to him, only he’d been too chicken-shit to spit the words out.

Matt clenched the glass hard, stared into the amber liquid before raising the glass and swallowing the entire contents. He’d drunk too much; the straight whiskey no longer stung his throat. It should have numbed his pain, but it hadn’t.

His phone rang and he pulled it out of his jeans pocket, stared at the screen through blurry eyes. It was Lisa. Lisa, his bubbly, fun wife. Lisa who had always kept him on the straight and narrow.
Lisa who had cancer
.
Lisa who stayed in their room all day and didn’t want to leave their bed.
He waited until the ringing stopped and pushed it back into his pocket. He was in no state to talk to her, and he wasn’t in the mood for a lecture about where he was. He’d tried so hard, but he wasn’t used to being the adult, wasn’t used to being the strong one and having to care for her. Because since he was nineteen, Lisa had had his back, but their roles had been reversed and he was being a pretty shitty husband right now.

“One more,” he told the bartender, pointing to his glass.

He watched as it was filled, stared at it awhile. The bar was quiet now, the noise from earlier long gone, replaced with the silence of a few serious drinkers propping up the bar.

Matt felt hollow, and it was a feeling he recognized well, even after all these years. When his mom had died, there’d been nothing left inside him except pain, no other feeling other than an agony that made it almost impossible to lift his head. And anger. He had been so damn angry he could have exploded.

He lifted his drink and gulped down the shot, slammed the glass down on the bar and heaved himself up. He was wobbly on his feet, the room spinning.

“Hand over your keys,” the bartender said. “You can come collect them in the morning but you ain’t driving.”

Matt shook his head, tried to laugh. “Nah. Then I’d have nowhere to sleep.”

The bartender shrugged. “Not my problem, pal. I’ll push the button and unlock it if you want to crash in there, but I’m keeping the keys.”

Matt threw them on the counter and staggered out. Tonight there would be no Lisa giving him a hard time about staying out too late, no explosive argument followed by him begging to be let in the house. She liked making him sleep on the sofa when she was angry, but not tonight. Because tonight his wife was alone in bed, recovering still, depressed still. And instead of being with her, he’d given up and gone out.

If he hadn’t felt like shit before, he sure as hell did now. All because he didn’t know how the hell to deal with a wife who had had the same goddamn disease his mom had. And thinking about losing Lisa was impossible. All he wanted was his wife, and yet all she seemed to care about was what they’d lost.