Fanfare (32 page)

Life most certainly goes on.

I went to work each day, and the predictable pattern of my existence slowly re-established itself, as though my time falling in love with a movie star had merely been an extended dream of epic proportions. I returned to the haze of before with penitent resignation.

I missed Tom so much it crushed down onto my chest with the weight of a million unspoken words. Weak and feeling alone in a hell of my own making (thanks again, Hana), I had lunch twice with Ryan the week following our dinner at Wendy’s. After much prodding, I also went with him to see a documentary on evolutionary psychology at a nearby arthouse theatre. He tried hard to make me laugh, and I pretended that it worked so I wouldn’t have to deal with worrying about his feelings on top of everything else.

That Friday, I went to the grocery store with the intention of buying frozen yogurt and renting a chick-flick from Redbox in the fashion of a normal girl who recently broke up with her boyfriend. In line with my yogurt, I saw a picture on the cover of Star magazine that made me drop my little carton and flee with deranged urgency.

Thomas Abramson had been caught exiting a bar in London. The magazine insinuated that he left with a beautiful blonde in tow.

I didn’t even process the blurry picture of the accompanying woman.

His eyes are destroying me.

I went to bed early that night, curled in a ball of my own misery. The image of his haunted, grey green eyes . . .

My nightmare was harshly devoid of any warmth for the third time in a row. The next morning I decided something had to change. I couldn’t continue living in this vacuum. As soon as I brushed my teeth, I pressed viciously onto the keys of my cell phone.

Me (9:32 am): I miss u so much it hurts.

I waited with bated breath for a response.

Hana (9:33 am): u woke me up

I exhaled with relief.

Me (9:33 am): My bad. Can u ever forgive me?

Hana (9:33 am): conditionally

Me (9:33 am): ?

Hana (9:33 am): only if u forgive me too J

For the first time in weeks, I smiled in earnest.

Life most certainly goes on.

Chapter Twenty-Two

I sat patiently outside of the hospital room holding a large covered dish in a towel on my lap. Next to me was a brown paper bag filled with drinks, fruit, and paper products. The smell of antiseptic filled my nostrils, and the glare of the fluorescent lighting triggered the beginning sensations of a headache. Nurses and orderlies blurred past me with their rubber-soled shoes squeaking against the white tile.

I hated hospitals. Come to think of it, I was certain this sentiment was one I shared with the vast majority of the population. The last time I had been in this hospital had been the morning my father died. I probably should have thought of that fact prior to volunteering for this task. Oh well. Good deeds are less powerful when they are driven by thoughts of convenience.

This afternoon, my co-worker Jennifer had mentioned a friend of hers who volunteered for Wake County Human Services every holiday season. Her name was Claire. Claire had been a student working on her Master’s Degree in Elementary Education when she began to complain about frequent, fierce migraines and distorted vision. Soon afterward, she was diagnosed with brain cancer. Her family had struggled to come up with the funds to pay for Claire’s treatment—she didn’t have health insurance. Two weeks ago, the doctors announced the disease had metastasized, and now she floated in and out of consciousness. There was little hope that she would make it.

Jennifer brought up Claire’s sad turn of events because it was her turn to bring dinner to Claire’s family at the hospital. Unfortunately, Jennifer’s son had been taken out of school that day with a bad stomach virus, and she was not certain she would have the time to prepare a meal to take to the hospital while nursing a sick child at home.

Moved by the situation, I had quickly volunteered to go in her stead. After leaving the office early at four o’clock, I put together some vegetable lasagna and drove over to the hospital to wait for Claire’s parents to arrive from work. How sad that they couldn’t sit by her side every second of every day . . . I felt fortunate that my father’s illness had not burdened us with the insurmountable debt that it had Claire’s family. We could afford at least one of us being there with him at all times.

Now, inundated by the sounds and smells that brought back the memory of a difficult time in my life, all I wanted was to give them the food and get the hell out of there. I closed my eyes and let the sadness wash through me in a moment of pithy self-indulgence. I could still conjure up the image of that morning with almost perfect attention to detail.

The opening of the door nearby startled me from my reverie.

“You know, you can go in there. Greg is waiting with her,” the nurse said to me.

“Greg?”

“We call him ‘The Barnacle’ because he won’t leave. He’s Claire’s fiancé. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind your company.”

“Uh, okay,” I stammered as I collected my things.

“Have you never been here before?”

I shook my head. “No, I came because Jennifer’s son is sick.”

“Oh. Well, brace yourself. This one’s a real tearjerker,” she replied solemnly.

Isn’t cancer usually a tearjerker? Puzzled by her statement, I merely smiled politely, pushed the door open, and walked into Claire’s hospital room. The sight before me nearly made me drop the lasagna.

Strings that spanned from floor to ceiling swayed lazily in the breeze emitting from the air ducts and machinery in the room. Suspended on these strings were what appeared to be countless bits of colorful folded paper—some kind of origami. As I peered more closely at these strange decorations, I saw that they were cranes.

“There must be hundreds of them!” I gasped.

“There are six hundred and forty-seven,” said a good-natured voice belonging to a dark-skinned man seated in the corner with a tiny table on his lap. He appeared to be around my age, and he looked tired, but happy. His hands held a half-completed crane on the flat surface before him, and a stack of origami paper waited for his deft ministrations.

“I’m so sorry to bother you,” I sputtered as I peered around for a place to put the lasagna.

“Let me help you with that!” Greg stood and walked over to me. “You’re definitely not bothering me! That smells wonderful.” He took the lasagna navigated his way through the crane streamers, and set it on the counter by the small sink after.

“There’s some fruit and utensils in this bag. I hope I brought enough,” I explained.

“Thank you so much. I’m Greg.” He put out his hand, and I shook it warmly.

“Cris. I’m Jennifer’s friend. Her son is sick, so I said I would bring dinner. I didn’t mean to interrupt . . . the nurse told me I could come in,” I stated with chagrin.

“Please, don’t worry about it. I’m sure Claire’s parents will be here any moment. If you don’t mind waiting, I’m sure they would love to meet you.” He gestured towards the chair next to him, and I sat.

I watched as he sat back down to finish folding the crane he had discarded a moment ago. I couldn’t help it. Curiosity was killing the cat. He glanced over at me and smiled in understanding at my inquisitive expression.

“You can ask me. It’s okay,” he stated kindly.

I blushed in embarrassment. “It’s none of my business!”

“No, it’s totally fine. Most people can’t figure out what the hell I’m doing, so I’ve had to explain myself quite a few times. Once more won’t hurt.”

“Really, you don’t have to explain yourself.”

He chuckled. “I’m folding a thousand cranes.”

I waited patiently for him to continue.

“Whenever Claire was first diagnosed, I didn’t know what to do. I felt so . . . helpless. I couldn’t make her pain go away, and it drove me crazy just sitting here doing nothing. I went online and tried to find a way to help. As silly as it sounds, I stumbled onto an article about a little boy with leukemia whose classmates folded a thousand cranes for him. The lore goes like this: if you fold a thousand cranes, your dearest wish will come true.”

He shrugged. “So, I bought a book on origami . . . and started folding.”

He grinned to himself as he put the finishing touches on the blue crane in his hands. When it was perfect, he looked over at the sleeping figure of the bald-headed girl lying on the bed with tubes and needles snaking from her skin. His brown eyes were so full of love, a rising tide of emotion gathered in me. There was no need for him to tell me what his one wish would be.

I cleared my throat so I could temporarily alleviate the pressure building in it. “Can I help you?” I whispered hoarsely.

He turned to me. “I want to do this myself, but thank you so much for offering.”

Not knowing what else to do, I took his hand and squeezed it tightly in mine. He peered more intently at me, squeezed back, and picked up another piece of paper to start the process for the six hundred and forty-ninth time.

“Do you mind if I ask you a personal question?” he queried.

“Not at all.”

“Why do you look so sad?” His voice was incredibly gentle.

I stayed silent, momentarily taken aback by the fact that a man watching his love waste away before his eyes had the desire to care about others around him.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I couldn’t help it.”

“No. You don’t have to apologize.” I was normally an extremely private person, but since Greg had shared something intensely personal with me, I felt as though I needed to answer his question.

“I don’t know what happened to me. I think I might have ruined my life.”

His eyebrows furrowed, but he didn’t look up from folding his crane. “I seriously doubt that. As long as you can find something that makes you happy, your life will never be ruined. You just need to fight for what makes you happy.”

“How . . . how do you find the strength to fight for what makes you happy?” I asked in a tight voice.

At this, he put down his work and turned to me. “First, you have to know what it is. Then, you need to believe that you deserve it.”

I stared back at him in tortured silence.

“What makes you happy?” he asked.

Tom. It was the first thing that popped into my head. He was the first thing my heart sought. His face, his laughter, his voice, his humor . . . his loyalty. His love.

He smiled again. “You look like you know what makes you happy.”

When I didn’t answer, he merely said, “Now believe you deserve it.”

I stared down at my hands as my tears accumulated.

“I never thought I would be the type of guy to sit here folding little paper birds, but I can’t tell you how happy I am when I’m here . . . how happy I feel to know that I can do something for her. Every time she opens her eyes and sees the cranes, she smiles, and I can’t remember feeling happier. She deserves to be happy. I deserve to be happy,” he stated very quietly.

The tears slid down my nose, and I couldn’t look up at him.

“You’re a really good person, Cris. You brought dinner to a complete stranger’s family just because you wanted to help. I know it when I look at you. You deserve to have whatever makes you happy. Just believe it.”

Overcome with emotion, I grabbed my purse and stood up quickly. “I’m sorry . . . I . . . do you mind if I just go?”

He stared up at me with calm patience. “Of course. I’ll tell them you had someplace to go.”

“Thank you so much.” I raced to the door awkwardly. As I touched the handle, I thought of something and spun to ask a final question. “Greg?”

He looked up. “Yes?”

“What happened to the boy with leukemia?”

He smiled serenely. “I have no idea.” Then he picked up his crane and resumed folding.

Wasn’t he curious? How did he know his efforts were going to work? Why was he so damn calm about everything?

The fact I didn’t understand how he could be so happy in such a miserable situation tore at my heartstrings . . .

. . . and I envied him so much.

I ran all the way to my car and drove aimlessly as my mind replayed my conversation with Greg.

What makes you happy?

As I recalled my heart’s deepest desire, the loss of it renewed the gnawing sense of grief I had managed to keep at bay for the last few weeks. Both my heart and mind came to the same conclusion without a moment’s consideration, but my cowardice had ruthlessly precluded them.

At that moment, there was nothing I wanted more than to see Tom. I had to stop punishing myself. I had to move on. I had to find something that made me happy. Once upon a time, Ryan had made me happy. Could he make me happy again?

I turned my car in the direction of Ryan’s home. Desperate for a measure of the happiness that brought Greg such peace and contentment, I raced to the door and rang the doorbell.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, clearly taken aback and pleased by my unannounced visit.

“I just wanted to talk,” I replied breathlessly as I strode into his living room and plopped onto the sofa. I was surprised by the fact I didn’t feel even the slightest ache at being in the home I had called my own for a few bliss-filled months. I had sworn never to set foot in this house again. Less than ten feet away from me was the place that inspired my recurring nightmare.

“What did you want to talk about?” he replied as he sat down in the armchair across from me.

I glanced about the room. Every piece of furniture in it I had helped to select, right down to the silly lamp with monkeys on its base—an inside joke with some long-forgotten significance. I glanced at the foyer near the front door and saw that the wall sconce had been removed and sat on the entry table with its screws nearby. A package of bulbs lay on the floor. The light had burned out.

“I just took dinner to a family at the hospital. Their daughter is dying of brain cancer,” I stated matter-of-factly.

“That was nice of you,” he replied.

“Her fiancé Greg was there.”

“How’s he holding up?” he asked.

“He’s . . . great. He’s . . . really happy.”

“Sounds like an asshole,” Ryan remarked with a puzzled expression.