A Seahorse in the Thames (6 page)

“Don’t think the worst, Alexa. She could be just in need of a little break from the routine. You know?”

“Yeah. Maybe.”

“Okay, then, for now?”

“I guess.”

I wait for a second to see if he will ask about my surgery, how it went, but then I remember I didn’t tell him I was having it. I don’t know why I didn’t. I guess I just want him to think I can get along just fine with his minimal intrusions in my life, that I am like Priscilla in at least this one way; that I don’t need more than the little he is willing to give. I don’t know exactly if this is why Priscilla and my dad had a falling out all those years ago, but I do know Priscilla has no desire to patch things up. And the fact that he apparently has no desire either just fuels her resolve to leave things as they are.

“Okay. Talk to you later,” my father says.

I toss the phone on the seat next to me and take my exit off the Interstate.

Somehow I know when I get to my apartment that there will be no sign of Rebecca having been there. The note is right where I left it. The secret place where the key is hidden is undisturbed. I go inside and head straight for the landline, fully intending to call Priscilla and unload on her. But I don’t do it. She has always been the rational, calm, intuitive one. I hate appearing so terribly desperate and needy in front of my mirror image. I decide to eat something first.

It isn’t until I finish eating leftover macaroni and cheese that I remember Stephen had his MRI this morning. As I place my bowl in the sink, I am torn with wanting to go see him and wanting to call Priscilla before it gets too late.

I decide to make the call. It’s Saturday night in London. In all likelihood Priscilla will be out and I will miss her anyway. We email each other once a week, but I usually only call Priscilla twice a year, on Christmas and on our birthday. She’ll be surprised to hear my voice. She’ll also be surprised to hear that Rebecca has run off. But she won’t be worried like me or detached like our mother. She will be realistic, like our Dad. That’s the ironic thing about my father and Priscilla; those two who refuse to speak to each other. They are so much alike.

When the call goes through and Priscilla’s voice picks up on the other side I’m almost expecting to hear the rest of an answering machine message. But it is Priscilla on the other end, not a machine. She’s at home in her flat that overlooks the Thames.

“Good Lord, Alexa, what’s up?” Seven years in London has rubbed off on her. She sounds British. It was bound to happen. Priscilla is a master at languages. She speaks fluent French, Spanish and Italian and she recently learned to read and write Mandarin. It’s why she is paid so well at the import company where she works as a translator.

“I know it’s kind of late, Pris, but I need to talk to you,” I tell her the whole thing—all of it—including Rebecca’s mysterious note. I even manage to sneak in the news of my benign tumor and the injured man I’ve unbelievably fallen in love with, an injured man who just might have has cancer.

“Anything else?” She says it half in jest and half not.

I offer a tired laugh. “No, that’s about it.”

“Well, first off Lex, why don’t you subtract your tumor off your list since it was benign and you are healing well, yes?”

“Yes.”

“And the prognosis is favorable?”

“Yes.”

“Then let it go. And as far as Rebecca goes, I hate to say it, Lexie, you know I do, but you can’t find someone who wants to be absent, especially if that person is of reasonable intelligence.”

“But she is gullible and naïve,” I counter.

“So are most high school graduates and yet we hug them, wish them luck and send them on their way with a lot less than a suitcase and headbands.”

“Aren’t you the least bit worried about her?” I ask, a bit miffed.

“Of course I’m concerned. But face it, Lex. She wasn’t abducted. She left. With a suitcase. She may not want to be found.”

“I just feel like there’s got to be something more to do than just wait.”

“Like what?”

“Well, like go through her room. Go through her trash, her pockets, and her closet. Maybe there’s something hidden away that will tell us where she went. Maybe this ‘thing’ she wants me to find and throw away is a clue as to where she went.”

“I guess it can’t hurt. If it’s what you want to do and if you think it’s best, you should do it.”

Priscilla’s voice, so like mine and yet so not, is soothing to me, despite her flair for being shamelessly candid. I so wish she were here. The wish falls from my lips before I can catch it and analyze it. “I wish you were here, Priscilla.”

“Do you really?”

Her response surprises me. I expected her to say how we all need to find the place where we bloom best and how she’s found it.

“Yes. Of course I do. I always do. But especially now.”

“It’s interesting you should say that because I’ve actually been thinking of coming out for a short visit. I have been thinking about it for quite a while. This may actually be a good time. There’s… there’s something I need to tell you.”

I don’t know which statement to address first. Coming out for a visit? She hasn’t been home in four years. This may a good time? A
good
time? Has she been looking for a good time to come? Has she been looking for a reason? And what is this something she needs to tell me? What kind of something? Is it bad news? Is she sick? Maybe she is engaged. My head is reeling.

“Alexa, are you there?”

“Yes!” I finally say. “Are you serious? Priscilla, are you really thinking of coming?”

“Is that all right?”

“Oh, Priscilla, that would mean the world to me. And Mom, too. I know it would mean a lot to Mom.” I don’t mention Dad’s name. “Especially with what has happened with Rebecca.”

“I can’t stay longer than a week, Lex, no matter what happens with Rebecca. You understand that, don’t you?”

“Of course. If you can’t, you can’t.” It’s on the tip of my tongue to say ‘if you won’t, you won’t,’ but I don’t want to say anything to break the spell. “Can you tell me what it is you want to tell me? I’m not sure I can wait.”

“I think it’s best you find out when I get there.”

“Priscilla, is it—”

“It’s nothing that will rock your world, Lex. Don’t fuss over it, all right?”

“Okay.”

“I have some vacation time coming to me and I need to take or I’ll lose it. I’ll see if I can get a flight out tomorrow evening. That would get me in Monday sometime. Would that work? If you can’t get to the airport I can rent a car.”

“Of course it will work!” I exclaim. “I’ll take another week of sick leave. I will come for you, don’t worry about that.”

“And Lexie, I want to stay in a hotel this time. I don’t want to stay with Mom.”

I don’t want to consider what aversion Priscilla has to staying with Mom. I can think about that later. But I don’t want Priscilla staying in a hotel, either.

“Please stay with me,” I reply. “Please, Pris?”

“Lex, you have a one-bedroom apartment. Don’t be silly.”

“But I have a queen-size bed. And I have a sofa bed in the living room. I can sleep in the living room and you can have the bedroom. Please, Priscilla! Please? Please stay with me.”

She hesitates for a moment like she is making a huge decision. I don’t see what the big deal is.

“All right.”

“Great. It will be better than staying in a hotel, you’ll see.”

“I’ll email you tomorrow when I know the flight number. But right now it’s late and I want to go to bed.”

“Okay!”

“And Lexie, don’t worry yourself to death over Rebecca. Worry won’t fetch her back.”

“I’ll try not to.”

“And don’t fret over falling in love with a man who might have cancer. If you really have fallen in love with him, and I mean
really
fallen in love with him, well, there’s not a whole lot you can do about it. You won’t be the first.”

“The first?”

“Lex, every man who has cancer has some woman in his life that loves him, even if it’s just his mother. So you would be no different than a million other women. There are worse things that loving a sick man.”

“Oh really? Like what?” I say, challenging her.

“Well, like loving an unfaithful man. Or an abusive man. Or a dishonest man. Or a heartless man. Want me to go on?”

Priscilla the Sensible.

“Okay, I see your point. I’ll try not to worry about either one.”

“Right, then. See you soon.”

“Goodbye, Priscilla.”

We click off and I feel joy for the first time today.

The feeling empowers me to run a brush through my hair and freshen my make-up in preparation to see Stephen.

The sick man I am in love with.

A
s I retrace my steps to Stephen’s hospital room, I find myself mentally wrestling with Priscilla’s words:
There are worse things than loving a sick man.

I really do know that she is right.

I know it is worse to love a man who beats you, or who lies to you or who ignores you.

And I suppose it’s also worse to have no one to love at all. I already know what that is like. I’ve been living
that
life for years.

But the prospect of falling for a man who has a brain tumor scares me witless. And yet according to Priscilla, if I have indeed fallen for Stephen, then there’s little I can do to reverse it. You can’t fall back up. You can only fall down. You can climb out of something but I’m not sure I would know where to start, where to look for the first foothold. My life has become increasingly complicated. I don’t even know which direction is
up
.

I decide to brace myself for bad news. I pretend as I walk that I already know the outcome of Stephen’s CT. If it has revealed nothing, then I will be in for a nice surprise. It’s better to imagine the worst than to be upended by it.

The door to his room is half-open, like yesterday. I knock softly and his voice reaches me.

“Come in.”

The first thing I notice is that Ivy’s chair is empty. Then I see Stephen, sitting up in his bed. Above and across from him, the TV is turned to ESPN with the sound off. His leg and arm are again elevated by pillows and lying open across his chest, pages down, is a Bible.

“Hey.” He offers a smile.

“Hi.” I come to his side. My eyes are drawn to the Bible on his chest.

“You okay, Alexa?”

I don’t know how he knows I’ve had a difficult day, but my demeanor must give it all away.

“Oh, I had a crazy morning, but I’m sure you don’t want to hear about it. Besides I came to see how you are.”

“Is everything all right? What happened?” He ignores my reason for coming in the nicest way possible.

“We don’t have to talk about me, Stephen.”

“Is it about the roof? Did my friend not show up?”

“No, no, he came. And he brought friends. The roof is done. And they took your truck. I suppose they drove it home for you.”

“Oh, good. Sit down, Alexa. Please.”

I take the chair that Ivy was sitting in yesterday. It’s pulled close to his bed. I leave it there as I fold my body into it. “Your mom isn’t here?”

“I sent her down to the cafeteria to get something to eat.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“So what happened this morning?” He is delaying talking about himself. Perhaps it is best.

So I tell him everything. That Rebecca has disappeared. That my parents don’t seem that concerned. That Priscilla has decided to come home for a visit after a four-year absence and that she has something to tell me. I don’t tell him about Rebecca’s note, nor that I think I’ve fallen in love with a man who may have a brain tumor.

“So are you going to try and find Rebecca yourself?” He asks like it is not the most ridiculous idea he’s ever heard. I don’t feel foolish answering him.

“Well, I’m thinking that maybe she left clues to what she was planning in her room. A note, a scrap of paper.
Something
.

“It’s a good idea,” he says. “Worth a try, anyway.”

I am about to murmur my thanks for his not making light of my plan when he continues, “So you must be pretty excited that Priscilla is coming.”

“Yes. Yes, I am. I miss being with her. I have learned to ignore how much by concentrating on my job and caring for Rebecca, but I do miss her. She’s… she’s like the half of me that makes sense of things. She’s always been the wise one.”

“Well, I hope you have a wonderful visit. And I hope whatever news she has to tell you is happy news,” Stephen says, and immediately his countenance seems to fall a bit.

He has news to share, too.

I think he senses that I know already it is not happy news.

“So you had the MRI.”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“The tumor is back.”

I let the words penetrate my mind, my heart.

“So what does that mean?” Despite my resolve to be brave, my voice quavers a bit. He notices the tiny shift in my voice. I can see in his eyes that he notices.

“Well, the last time doctors were able to remove most of it. Radiation took care of what they couldn’t.” Stephen says every word carefully and methodically. “This time surgery isn’t an option. The tumor has attached itself to a place where surgery isn’t safe. So it will mean heavy doses of radiation to shrink the tumor, and chemotherapy to kill it, if the radiation can’t do it alone.”

“So, so it’s bad.” Dumb thing to say. An inoperable brain tumor is never good.

“Well, brain tumors usually are, because they have no room to grow,” Stephen says. “The bones of the skull box them in. But they grow anyway.”

I look down at the floor for no particular reason at all. Perhaps to just avert my eyes from his. I don’t know what to make of this. “So are the doctors thinking it will work? The radiation? Is it… will you…” but I can’t finish the sentence.

“They’re thinking it could work,” Stephen says. “Good chance of it.”

I nod. A good chance of it. He may live. He may die. That’s what he is saying.

“You don’t have to stay in the hospital, do you?” I ask.

“No.” His voice brightens a little.” No, actually if I don’t have a black out spell today, I will go home tomorrow. The radiation therapy is outpatient stuff. I will start tackling this the first part of next week most likely. I’m getting a referral for an oncologist that specializes in brain tumors. This hospital speaks really highly of him.”

“Oh. That’s good,” but my comment sounds absent-minded, even to me.

“It
is
good, Alexa.”

I look up when he says this.

“I am not afraid of the future,” he says to me when our eyes meet. “This is not what I wanted to have happen, but I can’t stop it by wishing it away. And I know God is watching over me, looking out for me. I’ve been in worse straits than this, Alexa. A lot worse.”

“What could be worse than this?” My voice is a whisper.

“Lots of things.”

I study his voice. He isn’t being cocky or naïve. He looks anxious but not fearful.

“How can you not be afraid?” I whisper and my eyes are misting over. For all kinds of reasons.

“Who says I’m not afraid?” He laughs nervously.

“You don’t look like you’re afraid.”

“I don’t want this to kill me and I don’t want it to hurt, but I’m not afraid to die.”

“But I don’t want you to die.” It is out of my mouth before I can decide if I really want him to know I feel this way.

“Come here,” he says to me, soft and gentle, the way a father might speak to a frightened child.

I obey. I stand and close the distance between us. He reaches for my hand with his good arm. I almost smile at the thought that his good arm is reaching for my good arm. I extend it and our hands meet. He closes his fingers around mine.

“You don’t have to go down this road with me, Alexa. I wouldn’t mind it a bit if you did, but I would never ask you to.”

My heart is racing at the sensation of his touch. And I feel breathless. As though I’ve just sprinted across miles of sandy beach. Did he say he wouldn’t mind it a bit if I did? Is he saying what I think he is saying? He would never utter such a thing if he didn’t already suspect I was falling for him. And he must likewise be feeling something similar. It’s exhilarating, embarrassing and alarming all at the same time.

“I… I think maybe it’s a little too late for me to turn around.” I feel color rising to my cheeks.

“No, it isn’t,” Stephen replies quickly and I realize he is giving me an out, a way of escape. He is holding the door open for me, the door that leads back to where I was before I met him. He is holding it wide-open, gentleman that he is. I also realize that I am torn between whether or not to take advantage of it. It would be easier to walk away now, before Stephen meets up with whatever awaits him. But I’m not so ignorant that I do not know there are things we relinquish when we choose the easy way.

I wonder how long he will hold this door open for me. And to my horror I realize that I have actually said this aloud, for he says, “As long as you want.”

Embarrassment washes over me like I have been hit full in the face with a pail full of water. But Stephen doesn’t notice or doesn’t seem to care. “What about your job? Won’t the radiation make you ill?” I’m trying very hard to cover up my shame with a good question.

“I’ll probably have to take a few months off. And yeah, it will probably make me ill, but that’s just the way it is.”

“How will you, I mean, who will be there to… um, what if you need help?”

I must sound like an idiot. But I think Stephen is touched by my concern.

“I belong to an awesome church. I know they will be there to care for me. I already had some visitors this morning and people are already praying for me.”

My face must reveal that while I am relieved to hear he has a support group already in place, I am feeling out of place. Unnecessary, perhaps. In the way. He strokes the top of my hand with his thumb.

“But you can never have too many friends when you’re facing tough times, don’t you think?” he adds, looking intently at me.

I nod. I have this incredible urge to embrace him. No. To
be
embraced. To feel his arms around me like I did on Tuesday when I barely knew him and he carried me into my house. I think of that moment now and I remember confiding in him how frightened I had been when I thought perhaps
I
had cancer, that perhaps
I
was in for the ride of my life, that perhaps
I
would not survive. And that I felt like there was no one I could tell how scared I was.

“Can I call you, to see how you’re doing?” I ask.

“Of course. Give me a scrap of paper and I’ll give you my number.”

I drop his hand, reach into my purse and search for something for Stephen to write on. I find a receipt from a grocery store and I hand it to him along with a pen. Stephen takes them and I watch how he writes. Long, skinny letters. Legible, but wiry and wild. He hands the pen and the receipt back to me. On the backside of the receipt he has written his cell phone number, his home phone and his address. It’s an invitation to do more than just call, I think. I fold the receipt and as I place it back in my purse, Ivy returns.

“Hello, Alexa,” she says and her voice and manner betray that despite Stephen’s positive outlook, she too, is not ready to imagine a life without him in it.

Small talk seems out of place. I find a way to politely leave five minutes later.

I spend the rest of the afternoon driving mindlessly around Balboa Park and downtown San Diego. I really don’t expect to see Rebecca standing on a street corner toting her pink suitcase. But it gives me something to do with my mind and my body. Before heading back home to Mission Beach, I check in at the Falkman Center. Pauline hasn’t heard anything regarding Rebecca’s whereabouts. No one has.

I make a cursory search of Rebecca’s room, looking for anything that would suggest where she has gone but I come up with nothing. Before I leave, I grab the shoeboxes on her closet shelf and carry them out to my car. Perhaps the thing I am supposed to know about and don’t is buried inside one of them.

When I get home, I carry the boxes to my room and set them on the floor by my closet. I open one of them. It’s filled with pictures of houses. All kinds of houses, all torn from the pages of magazines and newspaper articles. Rebecca must have been collecting these for years. It makes me wonder if she truly loved living at the Falkman Center as much as I thought she did. The thought of sifting through the contents of even this one box is exhausting. I’m about to attempt it anyway when the phone rings. Serafina is asking me to join her and Jorge for empanadas. I drop the lid on the box and head next door for a home-cooked meal and comforting company.

Sunday passes by interminably slow. I attend church with Serafina and Jorge in the morning, feeling the need to be where God is. I offer a prayer for Rebecca’s safety and Stephen’s healing that I feel is somehow better worded because I am on my knees in a church. Then I enjoy lunch with them and their extended family at a Mexican restaurant near downtown. I stop off at a grocery store and pick up enough staples for Priscilla and I to get through the week, although I know she will want to eat out. Often.