Terminal (8 page)

Turning, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror, and what I saw wasn’t fucking pretty. I hadn’t turned into the thing in the dream, not yet, but Michelle was right. I really did look like shit. I looked old. Not twenty-five but thirty-five. Forty even. The skin on my neck and chin was swollen and puffy, and my eyes were two sunken brown circles. The stubble on my cheeks looked rough and spotty— almost as if the cancer was killing the hair follicles in some places, like somebody had sprayed patches of my face with Michelle’s hair remover. The same thing was happening on my chest. The hair that was left was turning prematurely gray. I followed the silvery trail down to my navel, and noticed just how loose the sweats were around my waist. Michelle had been right. I’d definitely lost weight.

I wasn’t going to be able to hide what was really going on for much longer. Michelle was smart, and soon she’d figure out for herself that this wasn’t just the flu. And when she did, she’d know I’d been lying to her. Then the truth would come out, in all of its ugly glory. I hated myself for lying to her. She wasn’t just the love of my life. She was my best friend, too. I trusted her, and remained faithful to her in a town filled with cheating spouses. I respected her, and she did the same for me. This just wasn’t right, and it hurt me in ways the cancer couldn’t.

I showered and shaved, and by the time I finished up, Michelle had my coffee and the first cigarette of the day waiting for me. The combination of the hot water, nicotine, and caffeine took care of most of the aches in my back and sides, and the headache was reduced to a low rumble.

“You look better,” she said, while I sat on the floor with T. J., watching Yu-Gi-Oh. “Want some breakfast?”

“No, I better not. My stomach’s still a little queasy.”

“Okay.”

I tried to concentrate on the cartoon but I couldn’t. A commercial came on for a hair loss cure and I wondered why the hell they were advertising that during the time of day when kids watched television. T. J. stirred next to me.

“Daddy, can we go to the park today?”

“I don’t think we’d better, babe,” Michelle told him. “Daddy’s still not feeling good.”

“I feel better,” I insisted. “That shower helped. It’s just my stomach now. Tell you guys what. Let me have a few more cups of coffee and then we’ll go to the park. Sound like a plan?”

T. J. cheered, then his cartoon came back on and he was completely absorbed. I stood up, walked into the kitchen, and poured myself another cup of coffee. Michelle wrapped her arms around my back and nuzzled my neck. Her breath tickled my skin, and I breathed her in: vanilla-sugar and shampoo. Clean. Healthy. She gave me goose bumps.

“You sure you feel like going out? I can take him by myself. Let you get some sleep . . .”

“No,” I turned, kissing her on the forehead. “Seriously, I’m all right. It’ll do me some good to get out. It’s springtime. Can’t stay cooped up in the trailer watching TV all day. Especially these Japanese cartoons. They all look the same.”

“I love you, Tommy O’Brien.”

“I love you too, babe. I really, really do.”

She pulled back a little and stared into my eyes. Her forehead wrinkled in concern.

I wanted to tell her, felt overwhelmed with guilt for not telling her, but I couldn’t.

“What is it? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all. Just . . .”

I struggled for the words, something I’d never said to her before in all the years I’d known her.

“. . . Just hold me, okay? Just hold me and don’t let go.”

She did, and she loved me enough not to ask me why.

* * *

We went to the park, and I pushed T. J. on the swings and seesawed with him and played horseshoes and told Michelle to quit worrying about him falling off the monkey bars. We bought ice cream (thank God Michelle had cash and we didn’t have to use the ATM) and sodas, and we brought along a loaf of bread to feed the ducks. We tore the slices into little pieces and the ducks converged on us as we tossed the bread into the pond. T. J. and Michelle both laughed when a swan got brave enough to take the pieces right out of their fingers. Then T. J. played with some friends from day care while Michelle and I curled up on the blanket together. We didn’t talk— we didn’t need to. We had that comfortable vibe where both partners are happy just to be together. The sunlight felt warm on my face, and it caught the highlights in Michelle’s hair, making the strands shine like spun gold.

After his friends had scattered and gone off with their parents, T. J. ran up to us.

“Daddy, do you feel better now?”

“Yeah, I feel a lot better.”

“Will you play with me then?”

“Sure, little man. What do you want to play?”

“Cops and robbers! Cops and robbers!” He jumped up and down.

“Okay,” I stood up, joints popping, trying to hide the pain in them. “Who do I get to be?”

“You’re the robber and I’m the policeman. You have to rob a bank, and I get to put you in the jail.” He pointed to the monkey bars, indicating that they were the playground’s version of prison.

“Rob a bank?” I paused as something twisted and uncoiled deep down inside of me. “How about I just kidnap Mommy and give her a spanking instead?”

“Noooo,” he stomped. “If you’re gonna be a robber, then you have to rob a bank. That’s the way you play it.”

I looked at Michelle for help but she lay there on the blanket, smiling at me.

“He’s got a point, Tommy. Bad guys don’t help old ladies across the street. They rob banks.”

The unease grew.

“Maybe Mommy can be the bad guy,” I suggested.

“Girls aren’t bad guys,” T. J. fumed. “Only boys. That’s why they call them bad guys, Daddy.”

“Okay,” I relented. “I’ll be the bank robber.”

The words seemed to hang in the air after they left my mouth, but T. J. was cheering and started giving me instructions. I shook my head and tried to concentrate.

“This tree is the bank. Mommy can be the person who works at the bank. When you rob it, you have to say ‘Stick them up’ because that’s what they do on the police shows.”

“I told you he’s watching too much TV,” Michelle whispered, getting to her feet.

“Okay,” T. J. shouted impatiently, “let’s go!”

Michelle leaned against the tree, and said, “Welcome to O’Brien Savings and Loan. My name is Michelle. How can I help you today?”

“Ummm, stick ’em up,” I mumbled. “Give me all your money.”

“No, Daddy! You have to yell it, and you have to point your fingers like this.” He stuck his index finger straight out and cocked his thumb.

“How can I help you, sir?” Michelle asked again, giggling.

“Stick ’em up,” I said halfheartedly. My breath wheezed in my chest and my head began to hurt again.

“Louder, Daddy! And do the gun!”

“Come on, Tommy,” Michelle hissed. “What’s wrong with you? Why are you being a spoilsport? Make him happy and play the game the right way.”

My heartbeat was racing, throbbing in my temples.

“STICK THEM UP!” I shoved my finger pistol under Michelle’s nose. “Put the money in the bag and nobody gets hurt!”

“That’s more like it,” she whispered. Then she raised her voice, and yelled, “Oh no! We’re being robbed! Help! Help! Police!”

This was T. J.’s cue and he didn’t miss it. He ran toward us across the grass, shouting “WHOO WHOO WHOO” in an imitation of a police car siren. He stopped behind us and pointed his own finger pistol at me.

“All right, you bank robber! Reach for the sky!”

“Don’t shoot,” I hollered, warming to the part. “I’m dropping my gun. Don’t shoot.”

But he did anyway. He made the little “KA-POW” noises, then stopped, staring at me in frustration.

“What?” I asked, perplexed.

“You’re supposed to fall down, Daddy. That’s what you do when I shoot you.”

“Oh.” I clutched my stomach and groaned. “Looks like you got me, copper. I’m a dead man.”

“You’re going to jail,” T. J. informed me. “Get up, you robber!”

“Don’t I get to go to the hospital first?”

“No.” He started to giggle.

“My hero,” Michelle cried and gave him a hug. “Thank you, Officer. Would you like to stay for some cookies and punch?”

“No thank you, ma’am,” T. J. drawled. “I’ve got to take this bad guy to jail.”

He grabbed me by the arm and I pushed myself to my feet, letting him lead me to the monkey bars prison. I ducked down and slipped between the bars, crouching in the sand.

“When can I get out, Mr. Policeman?”

“Never. Bank robbers have to stay in jail forever.”

“But I have a family, sir. A wife and three kids and a dog.”

T. J. paused, and his face grew serious.

“Daddy?”

“What, buddy?”

“Do bank robbers really have families like that?”

Suddenly, I couldn’t breathe again. I struggled for the words, any words, anything.

“Sometimes they do, I guess. Not all bank robbers probably start out as bad guys.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, maybe they are just poor and don’t have any other way to get money. Or maybe they’ve got a sick little boy at home who needs medicine or a mommy that needs to see a special doctor who’s really expensive.”

“So is robbing banks wrong?”

“Yeah, little man,” I fumbled, “it’s wrong. It’s definitely a bad thing.”

His brow creased in confusion. “Then how can all bank robbers not be bad guys?”

“I’m sure that most of them are, T. J. But some are just regular guys— guys like Uncle John or Uncle Sherm. Guys like me. They just get caught up in something that they can’t get out of, no matter how badly they’d like to.”

He thought about this, then asked the question I’d been dreading.

“Daddy— would you ever rob a bank?”

“No, T. J., of course not. I’d never do that.”

“Never ever?”

“Never.”

I’d been lying to Michelle and now I’d just lied to my son. At that moment, I welcomed death from cancer because it was no less than what I deserved.

“Not even if we were sick? Not even if we really needed the money?”

“Nope. Not even then. And you know why?”

“Why?”

“Because then I’d have to go to jail and I wouldn’t be able to see you and Mommy.”

“That would suck.”

The abruptness of his statement made me laugh and I was grateful, because the laughter kept me from screaming. It kept me sane.

“Yeah, you’re right, little man. That would suck. Hey, I’ve got an idea. How about we play something else now?”

“Okay, Daddy. What do you want to play?”

“How about hide-and-seek? I’ll even be it.”

“Sweet.” He scampered away.

“Hey,” I called after him, “can I come out of the jail now?”

“No,” he shouted over his shoulder. “You have to count from there.”

I wrapped my fingers around the bars that separated me from my family, closed my eyes, and began to count.

The chills had almost left me by the time I got to twenty.

* * *

Later, after we’d gotten home, I grilled some steaks and made baked potatoes and corn on the cob for dinner, while Michelle gave T. J. a bath. We ate, and when the meal was finished, the three of us curled up together on the sofa with a bowl of microwaved popcorn, and watched The Lion King for the four hundredth time. It was just as good as the first time we’d seen it— except for the part when the father dies. That had always choked me up before, and it really knocked me on my ass now. T. J. fell asleep between us during the last half hour, and when it was over, I lifted him in my arms and carried him to bed. He stirred, mumbled something, then went right back to sleep. I kissed him on the forehead, smoothed his rumpled hair, and shut his door, leaving it open a crack to protect against monsters, just the way he liked it.

Michelle and I finished the popcorn; and then we made love, right there on the couch. She smelled just as good as she had that morning— the vanilla-sugar lingering in the air. When it was over, we snuggled together, still naked, smoking and soaking in the afterglow. We didn’t say anything. We didn’t need to.

After a while, she fell asleep too. I carried her to bed, pulled the blanket over her, kissed her forehead and smoothed her hair just like I’d done with T. J., and crawled under the sheets next to her.

I didn’t sleep.

* * *

I wish that I could tell you it was a good day, but it wasn’t. Except for the panic and guilt attack during the game of cops and robbers, and my battle with nausea earlier that morning, it should have been the perfect day. Sounds like it was, doesn’t it? Well you weren’t there. You weren’t inside my head. I should have been grateful— should have loved every minute of it, every second. Except I didn’t. How could I? How the fuck was I supposed to? My wife and son had enjoyed a beautiful spring day as a family, and in their hearts they thought that there would be thousands more of those days to come.

But I knew better. I knew that this would be the last. And that knowledge was a fucked-up thing. It ate at me in ways the cancer never could. It devoured me from the inside. If I shared that knowledge, it would destroy them. And by not sharing it, I destroyed what we had.

I lay there in the darkness, listening to my wife breathing next to me, and my son snoring softly down the hall. Anger suddenly overwhelmed me. Silently, I cursed God and the Devil and the tobacco companies and the doctor and my vanishing father and bitch of a mother and the owners of the foundry and everybody else I could think of. Most of all, I cursed myself.

The thought occurred to me that maybe I should just commit suicide. Sign up for a life insurance policy with a big payout and take one of the pistols and blow my brains out the back of my head. But that would never work. Most insurance companies would want some kind of physical, and they’d find out about the cancer right away. Besides that, I didn’t think they paid out if you killed yourself.

Still, it would be an easy way out, a way to stop the lies and the pain and the sickness, a way to stop the dread I constantly felt in my gut, the dread that was consuming me, gnawing at me like a worm.

I tossed and turned. The sheets stuck to me. After a while, I got up and tiptoed to the front door. I opened it quietly, knowing that if Michelle woke up now, I’d have no choice but to come clean. Slipping outside, I made it to the truck, opened the door, killed the dome light, and reached under the seat. For one terrifying moment, I couldn’t find the box, and all kinds of things went through my head. Michelle had found it or a neighbor had stolen the guns or maybe the cops knew about the buy. But then my fingers brushed against it, and I pulled it out, relieved.