Brisé (11 page)

The weeks pass by, one mundane task rolls into another, and at the end of the day I still go to sleep alone. I still have nobody to tell about my day, laugh with, and my arms are empty without her in them. My heart is a big void of endless space without her filling it up. I want to sneak over to her house and get a pillow so I can smell her. The day I found her on the floor of her parents’ room, rambling about her mom’s scent confused me; I get it now. One little thing can bring back so many memories. Console you and crush you simultaneously.

I open the door on the new home I’m showing today, and I turn on the lights, hoping that it will sell. I could use the commission to hold me over for the next few months and not stress with so many showings while I take night classes. I am going for my MBA. I need to complete that goal and then leaving these memories behind. I can’t stand to be next door to the house we were beginning to create a home in. I hear a knock and head to the front door, ready to sell this house. I am about knocked on my ass when I greet the happy family. A woman, blonde, is beaming at the outside of the house, her husband is next to her, holding a beautiful baby girl. It feels like a knife to the gut when I think this could have been us. Happy family, raising our baby in the town we grew up in. The smiles, the laughter, and the memories they will fill this house with could be mine . . . with Phoebe. No, it couldn’t because if I was holding our baby, I wouldn’t be holding Phoebe, and that’s the bottom line. I could survive anything, any loss, any obstacle as long as I get to hold Phoebe at the end of the day. I may not be able to hold her, but I know she’s alive, and as long as her heart is beating, so is mine.

Chapter 14

Phoebe

Three weeks of hell down. One more to go. Four weeks total of intensive therapy, and I’m drained. I’m lonely, and I’m sick. The side effects of this round are more intense, or maybe I just don’t remember the last time. That’s bullshit, I remember everything. Every feeling, every moment of sickness. The fear. It’s worse this time because I’m alone. I don’t have my mom holding my hair and wiping my face as I vomit. I don’t have my dad to carry me when I am too weak to lift my head, but most of all I don’t have Luke. I don’t have him to make me laugh, I don’t have him to distract me, I don’t have him to hold my hand and reassure me, but most of all I don’t have him here to fill my heart with his beautiful eyes and quick smile.

I came to New York, heartbroken and shattered. I at least had resolved to beat the leukemia. My resolve is wavering, with one blow after another. The first question I was asked upon checking in to the hospital was about freezing my eggs. I immediately declined. Then day three of chemotherapy was over, and I wanted to change my mind. I know a lot of decisions I made up to this point were rash and out of pain, and hopefully one day I would have my entire life ahead of me . . . I’m only seventeen. When I told them I had changed my mind, I was informed it was too late.

“Ms. Wells, we have already completed three rounds of chemo. The drug is already in your system, and the eggs we harvest more than likely wouldn’t be viable at this time.” What had I done? I lost one baby already and then I threw away a chance at others. “We don’t know that these treatments will cause infertility.” Right, they don’t know it won’t, either. I was given statistics; I was young, I was strong, more than likely I would be able to conceive on my own, but if not I had plenty of options available to me. Fuck them and their options. I want what I’ve lost, I want it all back . . . including my hair. I know, it may seem petty, in the grand scheme of things, but it’s substantial to me. How many ballerinas do you know that are bald? We all have long hair; we pull it up into a tight bun to look classical. It’s the way it is, and no we shouldn’t be defined by our hair, our body stature, or anything else that shallow . . . but we are.

I have no color in my life; I don’t even see black and white anymore. Everything is gray area; all the questions I have, all the decisions I’ve made, and my future. It’s just out there floating around, like my entire life was thrown into a blender, put on the highest setting and someone opened the lid, and said ‘have fun, find all the pieces, and put them back together again.’ Yes, fucking impossible, because as much as I want things to go back the way they were, that isn’t a possibility. Yet, I have no clue how to move forward, create a new path in life and forge ahead. I’m at a standstill. Attitude is a big factor in this disease; mind over matter, and I’m trying my hardest not to delve into the despair I’m feeling, so I choose to focus on dancing. I complete my intensive inpatient hospital therapy at the end of this week, I will get out of the hospital a week after that and will continue chemo, but less vigorously, so I plan to meet with the head of the ballet company and discuss my schedule and place with them.

He emailed after the video audition, offering me a full position as a principal dancer; pending completion of this cycle. We both understand it will take months to get my strength back. Luckily, the performances won’t start until March, and that gives me six months to train. I made it known that soon after I would be coming for the top spot. Ballerina. I study their performances, the strengths and weaknesses of each dancer. I’ve never been a predator before, but in this business I’ll have to be, and when this is the only thing on the horizon for me, every single dancer will be my prey.

Home sweet home. I was given strict instruction to rest on my week off before beginning round two. I call and check in with Myra, and hearing how Luke went off the deep end has me rethinking every decision and word I said to him. I need him whole and happy, to move on with his life and be some lucky girl’s whole entire world. He deserves no less. Myra assures me that it’s been quiet since that one incident, and the conflict I feel between relief and sadness shocks me. I feel relief that he has respected my wishes, yet sadness he isn’t searching for me, demanding answers, fighting for me. The attorney chuckles at me. “Phoebe, he hasn’t given up that easily. I think he’s just lost, almost hopeless. He will never give up on you. Maybe you could give him a reprieve from destroying his future.”

“How do I do that?”

“Reach out to him.”

“I can’t hear his voice, Myra. I need this time to put myself together. My parents, the baby, the leukemia returning . . . it’s all too much, too soon.”

“Write him a letter, Phoebe. It may help you both. Give him some peace of mind and you some closure. Give yourself that, too. You need something else in your life besides your damn dance shoes. ”

Weighing my options, pondering my thoughts, I decide a letter is in order. I don’t want him suffering; I don’t want him broken. I
need
him to live.

Lucas,

It seems so weird to write you a letter. I have so many other options to reach you, but those all seem more personal than a letter. As of right now, we both need the distance. Myra told me about you destroying his office. I don’t know how to reach you, make you understand my thoughts and feelings. Nothing has changed since I left. We wrote our story. It had a beginning, one I will forever remember. We had the middle, many ups and downs, but one hell of a ride. We had our ending, it was sad and bittersweet, but it ended. History cannot be rewritten and no matter how much I love you, I have to let you go. That love hurts, and it’s a dead end street. I respect you too much for that.

I wanted to let you know I completed cycle one of my chemo and it went as well as could be expected. I will continue to get treatment and one day, hopefully, we will meet again as two wholes, instead of a part of one another.

All my love,

Phoebe

I battle telling him I love him, but that will make it harder, and he needs a clean break. Because no matter what, I do love him. But right now I resent him and all he represents. It’s selfish and petty, but it’s the truth. I seal the letter to send to Myra. He will have to deliver it to Luke so he doesn’t find out where I am. I walked away once from him, I know I can’t do it again.

Chapter 15

Luke

Her version of a Dear John letter sucks. I immediately demand Myra tell me where she is, but he isn’t budging. I can’t believe she would rather go through this alone; does she hate me that much? I made the only decision I could. I know there are no guarantees in life; I can’t guarantee she will survive this time, but I can guarantee I risked losing her and the baby if I chose to postpone her treatment. This way, I still have her . . . for now. I could walk out of my door tomorrow and it be my last day on Earth, but I would die knowing I always put her first . . . always. She couldn’t say the same. If she’d stop for one second and think logically, she would see I’m right and her actions are what are causing me the pain I’m going through. She respects me too much, that’s the biggest lie of them all, because if she respected me at all she would take off her rose-colored glasses and see I had no options, no choices. Our story isn’t complete; she cut that bitch off mid-sentence and left me in a cliffhanger status. I’m so angry at her and have no way of telling her, making her face me, venting my frustration on her.

I’ve thought about hiring a private investigator, but I stop myself each time. I
do
respect her, and if she doesn’t want me in her life, I have to give her that choice. I promised her parents and myself if the day came she wanted us over, I would let her walk away. I foolishly made that declaration when I didn’t have a clue what it would do to me, what having her meant to me. I dream about going to her, forcing her to listen to me, forcing her to love me, and then I wake up and realize I can’t take her choices away. I did that once, that’s why we’re at this point in our life. I continue to do the one thing I can . . . let her go. I pick up a pen and paper and write my response. Once I am done with the letter I place it in a box, thinking it will be one of many I write to her. If she ever comes home, I’ll give them to her. If I can share my days, my struggles with her this way, then we aren’t really apart.

Twinkle,

Today when I woke up, you weren’t here. Same as yesterday and the day before. The past two months have been the same, reminiscent of Groundhog Day. Tomorrow I keep hoping will be the day I open my eyes and realize it’s all been a nightmare. Instead, I continue to live this nightmare. I had the dream, and I lost it. I can’t apologize enough for causing you pain, I can argue every statistic, fact, opinion, and point until I have no air, but you will never see my side. If you were told you MIGHT be able to have a piece of me, of us, but you would lose me, could you chance that? Either way, our baby may not have survived, but I gave you the best chance possible. I have to live with that loss, but I don’t have my best friend, the love of my life here to share that burden with, So, I lost twice.