Wander and Roam (Wander #1) (24 page)

We spend the hour-long hike back to the bus arguing about the terms of our agreement. Our negotiations sound business-like, almost like they belong in a penthouse office suite rather than this beautiful cliff-side hike. Oceans, beaches with golden sands, the azure-blue sky, none of these have anything to do with negotiations or mediations.

“No daily letter writing,” Sage orders.

“What’s wrong with letter writing? I could be anywhere and still write letters to you.”

“That’s my entire point. You’d be more focused on making sure you wrote each day than on whatever else was going on.”

He’s so busy protecting me, he’s forgetting to think about himself. About the joy each new letter brings, about the sense of connection and caring a hand-written letter provides. If Sage is going to think only of me, I need to focus entirely on him.

We pass a souvenir shop on the way to the bus stop, and the solution comes to me. “Postcards.”

“What?” Sage looks into the store. “You want to buy postcards?”

“No, what if I sent postcards? I could only write to you on the back of a postcard.” The idea makes me cringe a little. My thoughts and feelings naked on the back of the postcards for anyone to see.

Sage smiles. “I like it. You would have to keep visiting new places to get postcards.”

“You’d truly be able to see the world through my eyes.” I don’t know if that’s a good thing or not. He’s right. I would need to make an effort to see new places. That’s so far outside of my comfort zone I can’t even imagine it.

“Okay, postcards.” Sage beams now. “Our first compromise.”

T
HE REMAINDER
of the long trip back to the farm continues in the same manner. We work out visitations on the forty-five minute bus ride. I refuse his “once a month” offer right from the beginning, and he rejects my “every single weekend” rebuttal immediately.

“If you spend every weekend with me, how will you be able to see new places? You’re weekdays are already going to be super busy with school,” Sage argues. School is one of his non-negotiable items. He wants me to enroll in my local community college so I can raise my GPA again. He insists an education is vital to being in the land of the living.

The bus rolls through the city streets. We’re going to be back at Circular Quay soon, and I’m so tired of arguing about terms, I’m desperate to come to a compromise.

I sigh and throw up my hands. “Sundays. I can live life on Saturdays and tell you all about it on Sundays.”

He smiles at me. “As long as you take the last weekend each month for bigger trips.”

“Agreed.” I don’t have the energy to fight anymore. I can’t figure out why this is so hard. I got over my fear of watching another person I care about die, but he’s still not ready to welcome me into his healing.

Sometimes, thinking of others first has its downfalls.

After the doors open to our stop, we cross the street to the docks then watch as our ferry pulls up.

As we make our way up the ramp, he talks about therapy. Whether I should pick my own therapist, or he should try to find someone who specializes in bereavement counseling.

I walk to the railing, which overlooks the Opera House. When he joins me, still talking about options to help me get through my grief, I place my index finger to his lips. “Stop. I can’t talk about this right now. We’re passing some of the most beautiful sights in Sydney. I want to enjoy them instead of creating more terms.”

He laughs. That wasn’t the reaction I was expecting, so I turn to him.

“You want to live life,” he says. “I got so trapped into planning for the future, but you remembered to live life.” He kisses me above the backdrop of the Opera House. A slow, tender kiss that’s full of his sweetness. I pull him closer until I am sandwiched between the metal railing and Sage’s warm body. If only we could stay here forever.

This is our last ferry ride together. Tonight, he’ll return to the city while I continue on at Susan’s. I know only too well how this progresses. So I snuggle even closer, until every inch of my body presses against his. We savor one another as our ferry makes its way along the harbor.

The water taxi finally arrives at Susan’s dock. Sage steps off then offers me a hand. We hike hand-in-hand to Susan’s house. I don’t ever want to let him go.

I’m forced to, though, when Susan runs out her kitchen door, heading with open arms for Sage. She embraces him so hard, I’m worried he’ll pop.

“You absolutely terrified me,” she scolds him. “When I heard Abby screaming, then saw your limp body in the grass…”

I shudder. I had the same reaction.

“I’m sorry about that. I never thought I could actually have a seizure.” He runs his fingers through his curls. “I mean, the doctor mentioned seizures as a possible symptom, but I never imagined—”

“Now don’t get all guilty before our party.” Susan pats his shoulder. “I’m just glad we have the opportunity to say our goodbyes.”

Her words have a double-edged meaning, as if she means our permanent goodbyes. I’ve never thought of Susan as fatalistic. Maybe it’s not fatalistic, though. She always has been a realist, and she’s facing the situation—more bravely than I did—with the information she’s been given. In spite of Sage’s endless optimism, he too considers the worst-case scenario endings.

Maybe I’m the only one who still believes Sage will survive. I have to believe he will. If I don’t, I have no hope left to cling to. And I never want to be hopeless again.

“I’m still preparing our meal,” Susan says. “I’ll need about an hour to have it all ready.”

“Perfect. I’m going to pack up my stuff, then I want to take one last walk around.”

One
last
walk. No talk about returning to the farm one day instead of acting as if it’s the final hike. I need to distract myself before I lose myself in the spreading waves of grief.

“Do you want company on your walk?” I ask.

Sage considers my offer. “I think I’m going to need some privacy. Do you mind if I go solo?”

I’m relieved, actually. I need to take a break from all the intensity. I need time to regroup and gather my strength.

“I could use some help in the kitchen. Would you mind, Abby?” Susan looks toward her open doorway. “Things are going to burn if I keep chatting out here.”

“I’ll be right in.” Talking with Susan will be the perfect way to figure out how I’m really feeling. She’s become a good friend without me even realizing it.

That’s when I realize just how much I’ve recovered from losing Robbie. I want to seek out the comfort of a friend, rather than lock myself in a room all alone—that’s healing. If I can heal from Robbie’s loss, I can handle anything Sage throws my way. I’m ready, brain cancer. You’re not going to break me.

W
HEN
I step inside Susan’s kitchen, the aromas wafting off her stove tempt me. A yellowish sauce, speckled with red, bubbles in a pan on the back burner. Rice noodles soak in another pan. An empty wok sits on the largest burner, while her rice cooker steams away.

“I thought I would make a Thai feast for Sage.” Susan hurries from pot to pot, stirring and sniffing each one. “I know how fond he is of all that Asian stuff.”

“It’s perfect.” I spot colorful paper lanterns and intricately designed silken tablecloths piled up. “He’ll love it.”

“I hope so. Cooking is my way of coping, you know.” She adds chopped pumpkin to the yellow sauce then throws in a handful of cut-up potatoes. “I pour all of my feelings into the food.”

“Does it help?” I’m still gathering my coping strategies. On the surface, this frenzied, manic cooking seems to calm her.

“A little. When I think about his age, though—” She throws a pile of tofu into the spluttering oil at the bottom of the wok. “He’s not much younger than I am. If something happened to me, who would be there for Zachary?”

That’s the thing about death. It makes people reflect on all the worst-case scenarios out there. I try to bring Susan back to the present. “How old are you?”

“Twenty-nine.”

“Twenty-nine? Really?” I would have pegged Susan to be in her mid-thirties. She has a maturity about her, so different from that of the people I went to school with. But she’s experienced loss, too. Maybe grief ages people.

“I know I look older than that. It’s hard to retain your looks when you have the stress of a farm and a baby and…” She wipes a tear away. “It has been a long time since I’ve had a good friend. Sage reminds me of my friends’ brothers, joking, silly, and playful. I guess I’ve grown a little attached.”

“Attached.” I sigh. “Please don’t use that word with him.”

“Why?” She turns away from the pots and the pans. “What happened when you returned to the hospital?”

It’s been a long time since I’ve had a good friend as well. Susan’s support, understanding, and willingness to listen help me open up. I share everything. His empty bed, the postcard, his reluctance to continue our relationship. We talk about all the rules he’s constructing for us going forward.

“Sounds like he’s more afraid than you are,” she notes.

“Afraid?” I get why Sage would be afraid of dying, but not why he would be afraid to accept love from those around him.

The buzz of the rice cooker interrupts our conversation. Susan jumps up then simultaneously stirs two pots before they burn. “The food’s nearly ready.” She points to the pile of lanterns and silks. “Can you decorate the outside while I make the finishing touches on our meal?”

A few minutes later, the paper lanterns flicker with candlelight atop Asian-inspired tablecloths. Tonight’s food covers one table, while the other is set with Susan’s best dishes.

“Let’s call our friend.” She reaches up and rings the dinner bell.