He Missed Every Chemo For Her Chapter 08

He Missed Every Chemo For Her Chapter 08

“Nora,” Richard Marsh said. “I’ve been standing here for two hours. My son doesn’t know I’m in Denmark.”

I let him upstairs because he was seventy–one and blue in the face, and because he had been the only person at that wedding who cried harder than I did.

He held the tea I made him and didn’t drink it.

“I found out what happened to you in a comment section,” he said. “That’s how I found out my daughter–in–law’s heart

stopped.”

“I’m not your daughter–in–law. He never filed the license.”

“I know that too. Now.” He set the cup down. “I raised him. So some of this is mine.”

“It isn’t.”

“He called me from your kitchen the night you left. Sobbing so hard I couldn’t understand him. Do you know what I kept thinking, Nora? Not poor Grant. I kept thinking about you sitting in a chair with poison going into your arm for eight months, texting my son it’s fine, don’t worry.” His voice went rough. “I don’t want you to take him back. I came

here to tell you that.”

I stared at him.

“He isn’t sleeping. He’s lost thirty pounds. He goes to that diner every night like a man visiting a grave.” Richard’s mouth twisted. “And none of that is your problem. That’s what I came to say. He spent five years teaching you that your needs came last. If you took him back tomorrow, he’d learn the wrong lesson, and in three years there’d be

another Sadie and another empty chair. So don’t.”

I didn’t know what to say. So I said, “Thank you.”

He nodded and stood. At the door, he stopped.

“He’s already in the city. Landed this morning. He doesn’t know I know.” He put his hat on. “Nora–when he finds you,

be as cruel as you have to be. It’s the kindest thing left.”

Grant found me two days later.

I came out of the Institute at nine at night into a blizzard, and there he was at the bottom of the steps, under a light,

snow gathering in his hair.

He was–God.

He was unrecognizable. Sunken eyes, sharp cheekbones, cracked lips, a coat that hung on him like a sail He looked like a man who’d been eating his own body for months.

“Nora.”

I stopped four feet away. “Why are you here?”

“I couldn’t wait anymore.”

“Wait for what?”

“For you to come home.” His voice was gravel. “You don’t answer. So I came.”

He held out white roses. Snow on the petals.

“For three months,” he said, “I’ve thought about you every second of every day.”

I didn’t move.

“I keep thinking about Grand Rounds. You came in and destroyed my case in four minutes and I stood there thinking,

that’s the woman I’m going to marry.” His breath fogged. “I think about the diner. You said it was the best food you’d

ever eaten. I promised myself I’d feed you the best meals in the world.

“I think about our wedding. You in your mother’s veil. My hands were sweating so bad I was scared you’d let go.”

His voice cracked open.

“And then I think about a room I have never been inside. I’ve been a doctor at that hospital for six years and I have

never once walked into the infusion suite. I couldn’t tell you what color the chairs are.”

He looked up at me, eyes streaming, and it wasn’t performance. I’ve watched enough people fall apart to know the

difference.

“They’re grey,” I said. “Grey vinyl. The one by the window sticks when you recline it, so I stopped taking that one after

round three.”

He made a sound like his chest had caved in.

“Grant,” I said. “You still don’t understand what happened.”

“I do-”

“You think this is about Sadie.”

“It isn’t?”

“No” Snow was going down my collar. I didn’t care. “It’s about the fact that in five years, when it came down to two names on a list, mine was never the one you chose. Round one, panic attack. Round two, you left me on the highway Round nine, she couldn’t figure out the discharge software. Round twelve-“I stopped. “Round twelve, my heart stopped for forty–one seconds and you were buying cocktails.”

“Nora-

“You didn’t love me less than her. I actually believe that. You just knew I’d forgive you, and she wouldn’t.” I looked him dead in the face. “So you spent my forgiveness like it was money you’d never run out of. And then, one day, in a grey

vinyl chair, I ran out.”

He dropped to his knees in the snow.

Right there, on a Copenhagen street, in front of the night porter and a woman walking a dachshund.

“Then let me start over,” he said. “I’ll wait. I’ll stand here every day.”

“That’s not love, Grant. That’s a hostage negotiation.”

I stepped around him and went inside.

At the door, I looked back once.

He was still on his knees, holding roses, not moving.

He was still there in the morning.