Always (Spiral of Bliss #5) (12 page)

I could die.

The thought simmers beneath everything I do, an underground river of fire. I dump the washed carrots onto the cutting board and start to slice them.

Though no day is promised to anyone, I’d expected—certainly hoped—to live a long time. And despite reassurances and statistics, the stark fact is that I am suddenly facing an illness that kills people, young and old, all the time.

All the fucking time.

A sharp pain shoots through my hand. I gasp and drop the knife. Blood swells from a cut on my finger.

Dean is at my side in an instant, reaching out to grasp my wrist and guide me over to the sink.

“Doesn’t look too bad.” He examines the cut and grabs a paper towel to press against it. “You okay?”

I laugh, a shrill, unnatural sound.

“Sure,” I say. “I’m just fine.”

A shadow darkens Dean’s expression. He concentrates on pressing the towel to my finger until the bleeding stops.

“Liv, what…” His throat works with a swallow. He tightens his grip on my wrist. “What do you need me to do? You know I’ll do anything.”

We look at each other. His gold-flecked brown eyes. His familiar, beautiful face. His thick, dark hair.

Pain fills my chest.

I’ve depended on Dean for so much over the years. I was so happy to simply be his wife, until I realized I also wanted to be more. That I could be more. I’ve had to learn to stand on my own, and then to understand that I can be independent and still ask for his help. I’ve had to accept that being in control and fixing things is part of who Dean is, and that
needing him
is part of who I am.

And I know that my need for him, and his desire to take care of me, is important to both of us. It’s intrinsic to our dynamic, our relationship, our love.

Which is exactly why everything inside me aches when I realize that only in the blackest moments of our relationship has Dean been forced to
ask
what he should do when something goes wrong.

Otherwise he just knows. He does whatever it takes
.
And his certainty and assurance have kept the ground solid beneath our feet.

A cold, icy ball tightens in my throat, but I force the words out, the stark truth that slithers inside me like a worm.

“Dean, aside from just being here, I… I don’t think there’s anything you can do,” I say, hating the admission, hating the black pain that descends over him, the darkness that extinguishes the light in his eyes.

“Daddy, come back,” Bella calls from her seat at the table.

Dean slides his hand over my hair and turns to go into the sunroom. I get back to slicing carrots.

Later that night, when I climb into bed, Dean isn’t there to wrap his arms around me. A heavy loneliness falls over me as I think of him in his tower, burying himself in books and articles. If I called him right now—if I sent him a sexy, suggestive text or a provocative selfie, would he drop everything and come join me in bed like he always has before?

I look at the shadowed ceiling for a long time, acutely conscious of my naked breasts underneath the cotton of my nightgown. I think about how long it took me to become comfortable with my body, to enjoy the pleasures of being a woman, to feel strong and confident inside my own skin. So much of that happened because of Dean.

I wonder if I will ever again feel the same way about myself. And if I don’t… will that change the way I feel about Dean or the way he feels about me? About us?

The question is no longer
“What are we going to do?”
The question is now
“What is going to happen to us?”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

OLIVIA

December 7

PROFESSOR ALBUS DUMBLEDORE IS THE ONE
who finally helps me realize I need to say the word aloud. When everyone else in Harry Potter is calling the evil wizard “He Who Must Not Be Named” or “You Know Who,” Dumbledore is unafraid to say his name.

“Call him Voldemort, Harry,”
he says.
“Always use the proper name for things. Fear of a name increases fear of the thing itself.”

So to prevent
it
from having that kind of power over me, I whisper the word to myself one morning in the shower, working up the courage to use it in a conversation with Dean. I find him making coffee in the kitchen, dressed in track pants and a T-shirt, sweaty from a run.

“Morning, beauty.” He wraps his arm around me and presses his lips against my forehead.

I hug him around the waist and move away to pick up the cup of tea he put on the counter for me.

“You want eggs or cereal?” he asks, rummaging in the fridge.

“I’ll get something a little later.”

My chest tightens. I have to say it. Now that I’ve chosen a surgeon and an oncologist, we need to make a decision about the type of surgery—either a lumpectomy to remove the tumor or a mastectomy to remove my breast.

I take a breath. “So last night I was reviewing all the information about c—”

The syllable sticks in my throat, like something choking me. There are a thousand other words I could say that start with that same sound.

kisses

cookie

kites

crafts

cake

kumquats

cold

crack

kill

“About… c-cancer.” The word shatters in my mouth, spilling something rancid over my tongue. “Breast cancer. The pros and cons of the two surgeries, so I have all the information.”

Dean’s jaw tightens. He turns away to put a pan on the stove.

“And what are you thinking?” he asks.

“I have to make a choice,” I say. “Both the surgeon and Dr. Anderson said the survival rate is the same with either surgery.”

“Dr. Anderson also said the lumpectomy would mean you need radiation and possible chemotherapy.”

I look at my tea. I sense that Dean wants to firebomb this sickness with every weapon in the arsenal. His
take-no-prisoners
attitude doesn’t surprise me. I also know nothing in the world will ever eliminate
any
chance of reoccurrence.

“Less chance of further treatment with a mastectomy,” Dean says.

“Less chance doesn’t mean no chance,” I reply. “And God, Dean, you heard what they said about the mastectomy. Not just the surgery itself, but the recovery time, the drains, permanent numbness, plus more surgeries for reconstruction. I’ll never look or feel the same again. I mean, not that I will anyway, but…”

Dean doesn’t respond. He takes a carton of milk out of the refrigerator. The surreal quality of this moment washes over me—my husband getting breakfast ready while we discuss the most viable way to cut into my body and rid me of cancer.

“Dean, I want to keep my breast. As much of it as I can, anyway.”

I smother a rush of embarrassment, the sense that I’m being silly and vain.

I have
cancer
, for God’s sake.

Why am I not firebombing it with the most invasive treatment possible? Why am I worried about keeping my breast, the way I’d look, how I’d feel about myself? Why am I worried about what Dean would think if both my breasts are gone? Why am I worried about how the different treatments will affect our sex life?

Shouldn’t I remove my breasts in the hopes of obliterating the cancer? And it’s not as if a lumpectomy won’t change the way I look either. There will be scarring and misshapenness, not to mention the effects of possible chemo and radiation…

I sense Dean’s gaze on me, and I look up at him. He’s watching me with sorrow and helplessness, which makes my chest ache.

“I want you here, Liv,” he says, his voice hoarse. “I want you with me, with our children, for many more years. I love your breasts. But nothing—
nothing
—compares to how much I love
you.
It makes me insane to think of you having to go through a mastectomy. And that doctor who recommended it was a jerk. But if it lessens the chance of reoccurrence, no matter how slight, and the need for chemo and radiation, that’s something to consider.”

“I have considered it,” I say. “Does this mean you wouldn’t be in favor of a lumpectomy?”

“I’m in favor of whatever destroys the damned thing,” he says. “I’m giving you my opinion.”

I bite back the retort that I didn’t ask for his opinion.

“Dr. Turner said a lumpectomy is meant to conserve as much of the breast as possible,” I continue.

“I know.”

“He also said many younger women opt for a lumpectomy, if it’s an option for them.”

A faint tightness pulls at Dean’s mouth. “You’re not
many younger women.
You’re you.”

“I know who I am.” I cross my arms almost unconsciously, as if I’m trying to protect myself. “And I want to keep my breast.”

Silence falls. It’s not just about sex, though that’s part of it. My breasts have always given both Dean and me immense sexual pleasure. They’re also… mine. Part of me.

How many times did I nurse my children with them? How many hours did I hold my babies to my breasts while they slept? They both still lean against my breasts when we’re cuddling on the sofa or reading picture books. Bella nestles her head on my breasts when she comes to sleep in our bed.

And of course Dean…

No, my breasts don’t define me, and yes, I’d be the same person without them, but severing part of my body…

“Dean, I need…” I swallow hard. “I need you to support me on this.”

Dean’s expression clears. He puts down the carton of milk and crosses the kitchen to fold me into his arms.

“Of course I support you,” he says. “I will always support you. You know that.”

“I mean, I don’t want you to think I’m making the wrong choice. That I shouldn’t be so concerned about keeping my breasts when I have a life-threatening illness.”

Dean’s arms tighten around me. His heart hammers against my cheek.

“Liv. It’s your body. What you should be concerned with is fighting this the way you want to. And if that means a lumpectomy with treatment, then that’s what we’ll do. The only thing I’m going to
think
is that you’re a goddamned warrior. ”

I close my eyes and breathe. I wish I felt like a warrior.

“I’m scared,” I confess.

“I know.”

“What are you scared of, Mom?” Nicholas’s voice comes from the hallway.

Shit.

Dean squeezes me tightly before letting me go. We both turn to our son. My heart constricts at the sight of him standing there in his Superman pajamas, his dark hair sticking up in different directions.

God in heaven, please let me see my children grow up. Please let me be there for them.

“Good morning, Nick-Nack.” I hold out my arms so Nicholas can come and hug me. I pull him close, inhaling the sleep-and-shampoo smell of him, absorbing the feeling of his strong little body against mine.

I look at Dean over the top of Nicholas’s head. He nods, indicating he’ll back whatever I choose to say right now. Relief flows through me. Dean and I have been so tense and snappish lately that I can’t even take it for granted we’ll present a united front to our children.

I ease back to look at our son. His thick-lashed eyes. His perfect, smooth cheeks. I remember seeing him for the first time, when the doctor held him up and my eyes met his, and I could almost hear him thinking,
“Oh, hi, Mom.”

Love washes over me like a breaking wave.

“Nicholas, do you remember…” I swallow and force my voice to sound calm and reassuring. “Do you remember when you had to go to the doctor for a shot, and you were scared of what it would be like?”

Nicholas nods.

“That’s kind of what I’m scared of now,” I explain. “I have to go to the doctor too, but not for a shot. I have a sickness called cancer inside my body, and the doctor is going to help me get better.”

Nicholas frowns. “Why are you sick?”

“I don’t know,” I admit. “But the doctor has to do a surgery and give me some medicine. And like you were with the shot, I’m a little bit scared.”

Nicholas processes this.

“But after you got the shot, you told me it wasn’t that bad after all,” I remind him. “Do you remember that?”

He nods again.

“So it’ll probably be the same for me,” I continue. “I’ll find out I really didn’t need to be scared after all.”

Nicholas doesn’t respond, but I can see the confusion and questions brewing in his sharp mind. I steel myself, prepared to answer honestly, but instead of asking any questions, he says, “I could go with you.”

“Go with me?”

“Yeah.” He scratches his head. “When the doctor gave me the shot, you told me to squeeze your hand and think about that instead of the needle. I could go with you, and you could squeeze my hand when the doctor gives you the surgery.”

I can’t speak. A thousand tears fill my throat, an ache ready to break me in half.

Dean steps forward and puts his hand on Nicholas’s shoulder.

“That’s a great idea, man,” he says. “You’ll probably be at school when Mom has the surgery, but I promise I’ll be there to hold her hand. Hey, you want to help me make French toast for breakfast?”

“Sure.” Nicholas pulls away from me and wanders into the kitchen.

Dean looks at me, his eyes filled with unbearable love. He presses his lips swiftly against my forehead before going back to the stove.

I watch as he pauses to lift Nicholas into a hug so hard and tight that Nicholas makes an “oof” noise. Dean grins and tickles him. Nicholas laughs, squirming to escape.

I stumble out of the kitchen and make it to the bedroom before the sobs bring me to my knees.