I rubbed a hand over my eyes. “Good morning.”
“You slept well.”
“You’ve been here the whole night?”
“Every minute of it,” she said. “But I wasn’t awake the whole night. I fell asleep around one, so I got some rest.”
“You didn’t need to do that,” I said.
“I know. I wanted to.”
“Thank you.” I looked around the room. “Where’s my father?”
“He went back to his hotel. He said he’d check out, then come over here to get you. He’ll be here before nine.”
“Where’s Falene?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t seen her since she left yesterday afternoon.” She brushed a long strand of hair back from her face. “How are you feeling?”
“A little better than yesterday.”
“That’s encouraging,” she said.
It wasn’t, of course. The tumor wasn’t going away until it was cut out of me.
Nicole reached over the bedrail and lifted the St. Christopher that lay on my chest. “You’re still wearing the medallion I gave you.”
“I never took it off.”
She smiled as she ran her thumb over the token. She looked into my eyes. “Do you ever think about the time we spent together?”
“Of course.”
“What do you think about it?”
“That depends on if I’m thinking about Angel or Nicole.”
“Angel,” she said softly. “I almost forgot about her.”
“That’s a good thing,” I said.
She kissed me on the cheek. “That is a good thing. You saved my life.”
“I don’t—”
She put a finger on my lips. “You did. I’ll never be able to repay you for what you did. And I’ll never forget the time we spent together. It was the most loving and beautiful experience of my life.” Her eyes began welling up with tears. “And here you are again. If something had happened to you . . .” She pulled down the railing, then laid her head on my chest, her eyes meeting mine. “You have to be okay.”
I put my hand on her head, my fingers plying through her silky blond hair. “I’m going to be okay. You don’t have to worry.”
After a moment she raised her head. “Do you remember what you said to me the last time we spoke on the phone?”
I shook my head.
“You promised that I’d see you again. And here we are.”
“I hadn’t expected it to be quite this soon,” I said.
“I’m not complaining.” After a moment of silence she said, “The nurse said the doctor would be coming by to see you again before you leave.”
“When is that?”
“Your flight’s booked for a little after noon. I told them we’d be leaving around ten. Are you glad to be going back with your dad?”
“It will be interesting. It’s been more than a decade since I lived at home.” I took a deep breath. “I don’t know what he’s expecting. He made that comment yesterday about rebuilding my life. I wonder if he means now.”
“He’s just excited to have you home. Why wouldn’t he be?” She glanced up at the room’s clock. “Would you like me to ask the nurse to bring your breakfast?”
“I’d rather have another catheter put in.”
She grinned. “Can I get you something from the cafeteria?”
“Sure. How about waffles or pancakes. Whichever you think looks better. And a side of scrambled eggs.”
“Scrambled it is. Anything to drink?”
“Cranberry juice if they have it.”
“Pancakes, scrambled eggs, and cranberry juice.”
I raked my hair back with my hand. “I’ll get dressed while you’re gone.”
She stood. “I’ll hurry.”
I watched her as she walked out of the room. I knew she had feelings for me. I just didn’t know what to do with them. Nicole was beautiful and sweet and I knew her almost as intimately as I had ever known anyone. I guess that happens when you walk with someone to the edge of their life.
It’s an ancient Chinese custom that if you saved someone’s life, you were forever responsible for them. I understood that. I suppose, in a way, I felt that way about Nicole. I loved her. But I wasn’t in love with her. That’s not to say I couldn’t be. Maybe I just didn’t know. I hadn’t yet hung a vacancy sign on my heart.
And then there was Falene. My feelings for Falene were as complex as the changes in my world. Falene was more than beautiful and loyal: she was my one constant—the safe ground in the emotional tsunami in my life.
My feelings for both women were confusing and, perhaps, moot. I still didn’t know whether or not I was going to live.
I climbed out of bed and walked to the bathroom. It had been a while since I had looked at myself in the mirror and I looked about as rough as I had expected. My skin was dark with tan and dirt and my jaw was covered with a fresh beard. My hair was long and as tangled as a rat’s nest.
On a metal shelf above the bathroom sink was a personal hygiene kit with a plastic comb, a disposable razor and a small travel-size can of Barbasol shaving cream. I lathered up my face, then, stroke after stroke, shaved off my beard. I turned on the shower. I hadn’t showered since Hannibal, and the warm water felt marvelous as it washed away several days of grime, coalescing in a steady stream of dirty water on the floor pan. The shower had a retractable seat and I adjusted the shower head, then sat down and bowed my head beneath the stream, letting the water flow over me. Fifteen minutes later I got out and toweled off. I pulled on some fresh underwear and pants, then opened the bathroom door to let the steam out.
“I’m out here,” my father said.
He was sitting in the same chair he had occupied the day before, again wearing the same clothes as before.
“Morning,” I said.
“Good morning. How are you feeling?”
“Good,” I said.
“The nurse said the doctor was going to drop by before we left.”
“Nicole told me.”
“I didn’t see Nicole.”
“She went to get me some breakfast.” I toweled off my hair, then combed it back and came out of the bathroom. I dug through my pack for a clean shirt.
“Our flight leaves at twelve twenty-seven,” my father said. “We should be at the airport at least an hour early, so we should leave here by ten-thirty. That leaves us fifty-seven minutes to get to the airport.”
My father was crazily precise about numbers. I had wondered before whether his obsession came from years of accounting or if he was just born that way and it led him to accounting. Cause or effect.
“How long ago did Nicole leave?” he asked.
I buttoned up my shirt. “About a half hour. She should be back soon.”
“She’s a great gal,” my father said. “I’ve enjoyed helping her with her finances.”
I was getting a pair of socks from my pack when a wave of nausea swept over me. I grabbed the plastic tub they’d given me to vomit in and leaned over the bed.
“You okay?”
It was a moment before I answered. “Yeah. Still nauseous.”
It was a couple minutes before the nausea passed and I set down the tub. “Have you heard from Falene this morning?”
“She left,” he said.
I looked up at him. “Left? Where?”
“She went home. She left last night.”
I looked at him in disbelief. “Without saying goodbye?”
“She asked me to say goodbye for her.”
“I don’t understand.”
Just then Nicole walked into the room carrying a plastic tray crowded with food. “You’re up,” she said brightly.
“Mostly,” I said.
I looked at the tray.
“I know it’s a lot. But the pancakes and waffles both looked good, so I got you both. I also got you a side of bacon. I thought you needed the protein.” She turned to my father. “Good morning, Mr. Christoffersen.”
&nbs
p; “Good morning, Nicole,” he replied.
Nicole set the tray down next to my bed. She poured the cranberry juice into a glass of ice, then handed it to me. “Here you go.”
“Thank you.”
She sat down. “Did the doctor come by?”
“Not yet,” I said. I sat down on the side of the bed.
“You look a little pale,” Nicole said.
“He just had another bout of nausea,” my father replied.
“I’m feeling better,” I said.
I poured syrup on the waffles and began to eat. I was halfway through breakfast when the doctor walked into the room.
“Good morning, everyone. How are you feeling, Alan?”
“A little dizzy.”
He nodded. “Like I said yesterday, you can expect that to continue until the tumor’s removed. We’ve contacted the cancer center at the UCLA hospital and they have you registered into their system. You have an appointment scheduled for tomorrow morning. I’ve sent over your files, including your MRI, so they are just awaiting your arrival.”
“That’s fast,” my father said.
He smiled. “I’ve got some pull. And I have more good news. I spoke with Dr. Schlozman last night and he’s agreed to take you on. You’re very fortunate to get him. If I had a brain tumor, he’s the one I’d go to. But I should warn you, he’s a little . . . interesting. He might take a little getting used to.”
“Arrogant?” I asked.
Dr. Kelson grinned. “No, not that. He’s just quirky. Don’t worry about it.”
“Thank you, Doctor,” I said.
“No problem. Do you have any questions?”
I shook my head. No one else spoke.
“All right, then have a safe flight home. Good luck, Mr. Christoffersen. I hope you’re back on the road soon.”
“Thank you,” I said. “So do I.”
“Let’s just get you better,” my father said. “We can worry about this walking jazz later.”
CHAPTER
Four
I’ve never before realized that it’s a privilege to be allowed to make up for the hurt we’ve done in our lives. This is most evident to me now that I have broken a heart and not been allowed to pick up the pieces.
Alan Christoffersen’s diary
A half hour later I checked out of the hospital. Nicole’s flight to Spokane was scheduled to leave three hours after our flight to Los Angeles, so we said goodbye in the hospital lobby and she went back to her hotel while my father and I took a taxi to the airport.
The St. Louis airport has notoriously slow security and I had another bout of nausea as I was going through the security line. I threw up on the floor outside the security stanchions, which created no small stir.
My father helped relieve some of my embarrassment by loudly announcing, “He has a brain tumor,” which had the remarkable effect of turning everyone instantly sympathetic. More than a dozen people wished me well.
After we had boarded the plane and settled into our seats, I took the airsickness bag from the pouch in front of me and opened it on my lap.
Even with everything I had to think about, Falene’s abrupt departure weighed heaviest on my mind. Once we were in the air, I asked my father, “Did Falene say anything before she left?”
My father reached into his carry-on bag and brought out an envelope. “She asked me to give you this. I wanted to wait until we were alone.”
I extracted from the envelope an ivory-colored card embossed with an iridescent foil seashell. Inside the card was a folded square of papers. My name was written on it in Falene’s handwriting. I unfolded the pages and began to read.
My dear Alan,
Sometimes a girl can be pretty deaf to the things she doesn’t want to hear. I should have heard your answer in your silence. I’ve asked you twice if I could be there when you arrived in Key West and you never answered me. I should have known that was my answer. If you had wanted me there, you would have answered with a loud “yes.” Forgive me for being so obtuse (I learned that word from you). But there’s a good reason I ignored the obvious. The truth was too painful. You see, I love you. I’m sorry that you had to learn it here, so far from me. I looked forward to the day when I could say it to your face. But I now know that day will never come.
I love you. I know this. I really, truly, deeply love you. I first realized that I had fallen in love with you about two months after I started working at the agency.
Of course, I wasn’t alone. I think all the women at your agency had a crush on you. Why wouldn’t they? You were handsome and funny and smart, but most of all, you had a good heart. Truthfully, you seemed too good to be true. You were also loyal to your wife, which made you even more desirable.
Up until I met you, I thought all men were users and abusers. Then you had to come along and ruin my perfect misandry. You are everything a man should be. Strong but gentle, smart but kind, serious but fun, with a great sense of humor. In my heart I fantasized about a world where you and I could be together. How happy I would be to call you mine!!
I know this will sound silly and juvenile, like a schoolgirl crush, but I realized that your name is in my name. You are the AL in FALENE. (As you can see, I’ve spent way too much time fantasizing about you!) But that’s all it was. Fantasy.
When McKale died, I was filled with horrible sadness and concern for you. I was afraid that you might hurt yourself. Seeing the pain you felt made my love and respect for you grow even more. Please forgive me, but the afternoon of the funeral, when I brought you home, I believed, or hoped, for the first time, that someday you might be mine. I didn’t feel worthy of you, but I thought that you, being who you are, might accept me.
When you told me you were going to walk away from Seattle, I was heartbroken. I was so glad that you asked me to help you, giving me a way to stay in your life. Then, when you disappeared in Spokane, I was terrified. I didn’t sleep for days. I spent nearly a hundred hours hunting you down. I’m not telling you this so you’ll thank me; I just want you to finally know the truth about the depth of my feelings.
But, like I said, a girl can be pretty deaf sometimes. I wanted to hear you say that you loved me and cared about me as more than just a friend. Yesterday, when I saw how close you are to beautiful Nicole, my heart broke. I realized that I had already lost my one chance of being yours. And there I was with nothing to offer. Not even my apartment in Seattle to go to anymore.
I didn’t tell you, but I took the job in New York. I needed to get out of Seattle. I failed to save my brother. I failed to save your agency. I failed to make you love me. I’ve failed at everything I’ve hoped for.
I’m sorry I didn’t finish the task you gave me. I gave all your banking information to your father. He’ll do a better job than I could anyway. I’m so sorry to not be at your side in your time of need, but it is now obvious to me that you don’t need me. I’m just noise in the concert of your life. And this time I need to be selfish. I have to be. The risk to my heart is too great. They say that the depth of love is revealed in its departure. How true that is. I’m afraid that I’m just learning how deep my love is for you, and it’s more than I can stand. I love you too much to just be a bystander in your life.
Well, I guess I’ve finally burned the bridge. I couldn’t help myself. Please forgive me for being so needy. Please think of me fondly and now and then remember your starry-eyed assistant who loves you more than anything or anyone else in this world.
I know you will reach Key West. I know you’ll make it and that you’ll be okay. That’s all I need. It’s not all I want, but it’s all I need——to know that you are okay and happy. Damn, I really love you.
Be safe, my dear friend. With all my love,
Falene
I put the letter down, mechanically folding the pages back together. Falene was right. The depth of love is revealed in its departure, because my heart ached. How could I have taken her so much for granted? I had been so obsessed with my pain that I ha
d been oblivious to hers. She had given me her heart and I had handled it carelessly. I had thrown away love.
CHAPTER
Five
Roses can grow in slums just as weeds can grow around mansions.
Alan Christoffersen’s diary
Even though we had met in Seattle, Falene and I were both raised in California. Same state, but different worlds. While I was raised in a relatively prosperous suburb of Pasadena, home of the Rose Bowl, Caltech, and Fuller Theological Seminary, Falene was born and raised north of me in Stockton, California, a city ranking among California’s top ten in crime and listed as number two in Forbes magazine’s list of America’s Most Miserable Cities.
Her home life was as broken as the city. Not that it was apparent from knowing her. The Falene I first met was kind and beautiful, but guarded. It took many months before she revealed any of what lay behind her psychological curtain.
Falene knew little about her father other than that the last time she saw him was right before her brother was born and that he was of Greek descent, something she was reminded of every time she looked in the mirror. Her mother was an alcoholic. Falene’s brother, Deron, was five years younger than her and her only sibling, though, in many respects, he was more like Falene’s child, as she had been his primary caregiver for most of his childhood. By the age of nine she was collecting shopping carts at a nearby Safeway for a dime apiece, to help buy food. It was all she could do to keep child welfare from splitting up her family.
How two people raised in the same environment can turn out so differently, I’ll never understand. According to Falene, Deron had started drinking by the age of ten, smoking pot by eleven and joined a Stockton street gang by thirteen, when he began both using and selling harder drugs.
Falene’s mother passed away from alcohol poisoning when Falene was eighteen. Two days after the funeral, Falene packed what she could in the back of her mother’s Dodge Dart, forced Deron into the passenger seat of the car, and didn’t stop driving until eight hundred miles later when they reached the outskirts of Seattle.