Goodbye to You (5 page)

I don’t want to place the burden of care for me on anyone. Jen didn’t know about the mutation before her diagnosis. The surgery, PBM (or prophylactic bilateral mastectomy) is a radical step, but healing from the operation is easier than the months-long fallout from “no-guarantees” treatment.

I’m an awful patient and don’t want to put anyone through the same shit I went through with Mama.

And I do mean shit. Mama’s side effects to the treatment went beyond nausea and vomiting and hair loss.

I shake off the negativity and stand by the choices I’ve made. I’m confident about the PBM, no matter what other people might say. A movie star in her thirties had the same procedure a few months ago, and while most applauded her decision, Twitter exploded with idiotic comments.

I called to check in this morning, the same as every day since I came on vacation. Jen kept down dry toast, a monumental accomplishment.

Like me, she loves to eat—especially traditional Southern cooking—but the chemo messed with her appetite.

When she’s stronger, we’re headed to Mama Hattie’s restaurant for shrimp and grits.

We reach the corner of Whitehead and Olivia. A six-foot red brick wall surrounds Hemingway Home, and like other gardens throughout Old Town, the scent of exotic tropical plants infuses the air.

I’m giddy. I minored in English and loved my Modern American Lit class. We read stellar books, but I love
A Farewell to Arms
. Hemingway, who went by the nickname Papa, was a complex man, not likable much of the time, but a fascinating character and a hell of a writer.

And I want to play with the cats.

My childhood cat Candy had extra toes. The vet labeled Candy “polydactyl,” but my aunt called her a “Hemingway,” which I later found out was because Hemingway once owned a polydactyl. I read dozens of cats inhabit the property, some descended from Hemingway’s original cat, and sailors prized polydactyls for their ability to catch rodents.

I pull out my wallet to buy a ticket. Shay shakes his head. “My treat. Two, please.”

He pays and thanks the cashier.

“Next tour starts in ten minutes if you want to wait in the living room,” she informs us.

I beam at Shay, excitement bubbling in my chest. “Thank you!”

We turn to the house, a rectangular building with a porch wrapping around the entire second level. The roof is flat and tall; arched windows highlighted by mustard shutters help create a striking piece of architecture.

We enter the house, and it’s as hot as outside. No AC in here, so I fan myself and tug at my shirt where it’s sticking to my back. I open my bag and pull out a tissue, dabbing at my forehead and upper lip, happy I’d skipped the make-up. Shay hasn’t broken a sweat at all.

I want to hate him for looking cool and gorgeous, but the way he touches me, whispering and pointing out things, makes me feel something different from hate.

Desire. Churning in my stomach, swirling out to tickle my fingers and toes.

For someone who was shy last night, he’s relaxed today. I’d like to think I put him at ease because I’m comfortable with him.

The tour guide, Dan, comes in and directs our attention to paintings on the wall, then he describes the architectural history of the house.

We move from the living room to the dining area. Shay’s hand burns into my shoulder. I could use some ice or something to cool me down.

Pictures of Hemingway and his women line the walls of the dining room, solidifying Hemingway’s reputation as the King of Machismo, a womanizer with an abundance of nasty habits.

The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end, and I glance at Shay as he grins at me. He points to a picture of Hemingway with a giant marlin. “Ever been fishing?”

I shrug. “Yeah, but I never caught anything bigger than a foot long.”

“Smaller than the marlin.” We both laugh, and it’s so normal, like we’ve known each other forever instead of twelve hours.

He rests his chin on top of my head. I’m like one of those cartoon characters who gets hit in the head and sees birds and stars circling above.

After my first boyfriend had broken my heart in middle school, calling me hideous when I got my first zit, Mama tried to comfort me. She asked in all sincerity if I saw stars when we were together. I didn’t, and Mama said it was because he wasn’t
the one
. She saw stars the first time she laid eyes on Daddy. The same thing would happen to me when I found the one.

I’ve been seeing constellations, both literally and figuratively, since the moment I glimpsed Shay across the bar.

Boy, I am in trouble. I squeeze my eyelids shut and take a deep breath, trying to calm my thudding heart. I’d never believed in love at first sight. Lust at first sight, yeah, but never love.

This may be what it’s like to experience both at the same time.

Dan leads us up a narrow set of squeaky stairs to the second floor. We pause at the landing at the top of the stairs to peruse the book collection housed behind a layer of Plexiglas. Overzealous tourists had likely damaged the old books before the museum owners installed the clear shield.

Like the rest of the house, exotic furnishings and artwork fill the bedroom, but what Thea is most attracted to sprawls out on the wrap-around verandah: the cats.

I’d heard the tour. Mom loves to visit, and a close friend of hers once worked here as a guide. Thea grins when our guide introduces us to the nearby cats: Marlene Dietrich, Rita Hayworth, and Greta Garbo, named after stars from the Golden Age of Hollywood.

I keep a close eye on Thea, afraid she might try to smuggle out one of the smaller cats in her gigantic bag.

Greta Garbo is smitten with Thea too. I can’t blame the little tuxedo cat. If Thea invited me to rest my head on her lap, I wouldn’t be able to resist.

We’d make an interesting sight.

Our group shuffles ahead, and I motion to Thea, the curls loosened from her ponytail bobbing as she says goodbye to Greta.

She slides beside me in the gallery and my fingers ease in between hers. My heart thumps against my sternum. A two-ton weight constricts my chest.

The fragrance of gardenias and red ginger float from the gardens below, but they can’t compare to Thea. I could drown in the delicious fruitiness enveloping her.

My head reels and my heart shifts.

Is this love?

The logical side of my brain tells me “no way, man!” You can’t love someone after one day. Can you?

But it’s not simple lust.

We’re at least wedged somewhere between the two.

I’m not one for casual sex—I’ve had one girlfriend and dated some in college, but spent most of my time studying. Med school has been my top priority for a decade.

Funny how I’d thought of school so little since last night.

I stare at Thea while she examines the old photos.

“What? Stop staring!”

I run the pad of my thumb across her palm, which must be sensitive because she trembles.

I’ve experienced those same little quakes since I first spotted her, and they’ve escalated to a nine-point-zero on the Richter scale.

We head downstairs and out to the patio.

“Oooh! I came across a story about the pool when I was researching a paper in my American lit class sophomore year.” Thea’s gaze drops to the ground and finds the penny embedded there. She snaps a picture of the coin, then grins back at me. “Do
you
know the story?”

The same question I’d asked her last night concerning the constellations. “Why don’t you tell me?” Her face lights up, and her eyes crinkle at the corners.

“Well, the pool was expensive, even by today’s standards. In a fit of rage about the cost, Hemingway threw the coin and told his wife to take his last penny because she’d spent everything else.”

She motions at the ground like she’s flinging something and her face screws up in mock anger. If I weren’t already smitten, I would be now.

“I like the way you tell it.” I imitate her gestures, and she playfully taps my arm with her small fist. I deflect a second tap and grab her hand, holding it while we stroll around the rest of the grounds.

Too soon, she lets go of my hand so she can snap more photos.

I gesture at the camera. “That’s an impressive piece of equipment,” I note.

“That’s what she said.”

I laugh, but her sultry tone leaves me lightheaded.

She holds the heavy camera out, examining the black body, and shrugs. “This? A birthday present from my daddy. I asked for it because . . .”

Her pause tells me she’s searching for the right words.

“Memories like these are too precious to chance with a low-quality cell phone camera.”

She aims the lens at me and clicks the shutter button.

I hate getting my picture taken and try to throw my arms in the air. She peeks at the screen on the camera and grins, showing me a full-face shot, no hands in the way—and I’m laughing.

I look relaxed, and something else.

Heavy doubts still hang like dark clouds, ones I’m afraid will break and rain the family curse of mental illness over me, like my brother and birth mother.

In these pictures, though, I look the opposite of depressed.

Happy.

I haven’t been happy for a long time.

And I like it.