Dany
Karl drives down Rose Street, ferrying me to my new home. My bags are in the trunk. I fold my hands in front of me and try to calm my nerves. What will it be like living in the same house as Mr. Jones? Jack? My hands shake and I clasp them tighter.
I was fenced in and agreed because…so many reasons.
My mom’s hints are becoming blatant requests. Shawn clearly needs more time. Plus, there are no other rentals. I looked. So…I’m moving in.
Maybe on further acquaintance the magnetism I feel toward Jack will fade.
I wonder, what will it be like when he sees me come home from chemo? It’s not pretty, and I have a feeling it’s going to get worse. Ugly, even.
Karl turns the car. The station is tuned to classical baroque. I hate baroque. It’s so ornate and stuffy and restrictedly metered. It’s suffocating and confined. I imagine Karl thinks I like baroque since for six years running I played it at my piano recitals. I shudder at the thought.
“Would you turn the station please?” I ask.
“Miss?”
“Never mind. Silly thought.” I look down at my hands again.
We’ve only been in the car for twenty minutes. Stanton’s downtown isn’t a far drive from Rolling Acres.
I’d like to say that my parents were upset to see me go. Relieved is more likely. Although my father probably didn’t realize I’d left. He’s in Chicago at a business meeting. My mother was appropriately reserved. I’m so glad you found a place, she’d said. You know how your father needs an uncomplicated home life. You staying here would be too much stress for him.
Of course, I said. I understand.
I did. I do.
I noticed that since the diagnosis, some people, my parents included, look at me differently. With, let’s call it, fear. As if what I have is contagious, and if they get too close they’ll catch it. Not cancer. They aren’t worried cancer is contagious. They don’t want to catch misfortune. Unluckiness. Whatever bad karma I have that made a twenty-four-year-old woman get breast cancer. It’s like, if they keep me at arm’s length, they won’t catch misfortune too.
My coworkers quizzed me about my eating habits. Family history. Alcohol use. Exercise. Stress management. Do I meditate? Vitamins? How about water from the tap versus bottled? What about BPA, do I use BPA-free bottles? How often do I dye my hair?
Perhaps they think, if they can pinpoint what I did wrong, why I deserved to get cancer, then they can avoid it.
Because surely I did something wrong, didn’t I?
Didn’t I?
I squeeze my eyes shut.
Guilt, says Ms. Dribett’s voice in my mind, a stage of grief.
“Almost there, Miss,” says Karl.
“Thank you.”
My mother assured me that Karl would come round to take me to and from my chemotherapy appointments.
I study him in the mirror as he pulls up to the curb in front of the house.
He opens the door for me and I step out onto the sidewalk.
“I’ll get your bags, Miss.”
“Thank you.”
We walk up to the porch. I ignore the peeling paint and the weeds. This is my home now. Weeds and all.
Karl presses the doorbell.
His uniform—black leather gloves and a wool pea coat—fills me with a kind of strength. His hair is starting to silver. I look at him from the corner of my eyes.
Back in junior high, when I was grossly unpopular, Karl’s crisp goodbye as he dropped me at school and his perfunctory hellos when he picked me up were often the only kind words I heard for days at a time. Hello, Miss. Goodbye, Miss. I doubt he knows how much his constancy meant to me.
Means to me.
I smile at him.
He rings the bell again.
I clear my throat.
“Yes, Miss?”
I shift on my feet and look down at the rough planks of the porch. I try to articulate what I’m feeling.
“I was thinking…you’ve driven me to and from all the important moments of my life. You’ve seen me grow up,” I pause. An awful thought strikes me. “I don’t know anything about you.”
Suddenly, a shame-filled heat washes over me.
I look into his familiar face. His eyes are warm and understanding.
“Miss. You’re a good person,” he says.
I shake my head and swallow back tears. I don’t feel like one. I’ve never even wondered about his life, and I’ve known him nearly twenty years.
Yet, he’s always treated me with courtesy, even now. He doesn’t seem to be afraid of me since the diagnosis. He hasn’t avoided looking at me. I mean, really looking at me. Sometimes, lately, even I’m afraid to really look at myself.
“Have you ever cared about someone who’s been really sick?” I ask. It’s hard for me to ask the question.
Karl tilts his head and considers me.
“Yes, Miss,” he says solemnly.
He doesn’t say any more, but I have the feeling that he’s speaking about me.
“Thank you,” I say.
The door swings open. Jack is there.
An awareness of him settles over me. He fills the doorway and I look up from his long legs to his wide shoulders.
Jack looks between Karl and me.
“Right on time,” he says. It breaks the tension. He grabs the bags and pulls them inside. I’m relieved to see the front room is free of construction and the walls are painted a soft robin’s egg blue. The floors are newly sanded and the room is bare. He’s been busy.
Jack places the bags down.
“Is that everything?” he asks.
“Yes, that’s all,” I say.
“I’ll show you up then.”
I turn to Karl. “Thank you. Thanks again. I’ll see you at three?”
Karl nods. “Goodbye, Miss.”
I smile as Jack shuts the door after him.
There’s a long silence as we feel each other out. I’m going to be living with this man. Living with him.
Outside, the car engine starts and Karl pulls away.
“Not much for conversation, is he?” asks Jack.
“My favorite kind of man,” I say pointedly.
Jack laughs. I follow him as he carries my bags up the stairs. I absolutely, one hundred percent, avoid looking at his backside.
The magnetism is there, stronger than ever.
Fade, darn you, fade.