“It is ominous,” I say. “I think so, anyway.”
“You want to talk about it now or leave it until after dinner?”
“Are you sick?”
“So we’re opting for now.”
“I think it is possible you are unwell.”
The levity falls off him then and he looks at me, suddenly exposed. I feel a moment of regret. Did I really have to do it now? I suddenly long for the façade of lightness that existed yesterday.
“Sorry?” And it seems to me he says the word in such a Canadian way.
“Yes,” I say, ignoring the question.
He dips his eyes to his lap. Then raises them to a point just above and to the left of my face. I can see him searching for a reply, for something to say.
“How did you know?” he asks at length. He looks honestly concerned, like there might be some tell.
“I couldn’t. I didn’t. I found your stash.”
He thinks about what I mean for a minute, but I quickly see a light dawn. “It wasn’t out.”
“I dug.”
“Ah.” He drops his eyes again. I can’t imagine what he is thinking.
“How bad is it?” I ask when neither of us has said anything for a while. The remnants of cocktails are whisked away. Wine brought and approved and poured. We are sipping that, and largely ignoring the appetizers that arrive at the same time.
I see him consider my question, then appear to decide to give up and give. I have the feeling that whatever he tells me at this point will be the truth, though I don’t know him well enough to be certain.
“As bad as you can imagine,” he says. It’s not what I want to hear.
“You don’t look sick.” The words escape before I can stop myself.
He laughs. A brittle sound.
“I even say that to myself. To my mirror self. It’s foolish, right? Perfect health.”
“And yet …”
“Exactly. I’m told it won’t last, though.”
“The appearance of health?”
“Right. I’m told from here it will get ugly.”
“When?” I ask, but am not sure I really want to know.
“Weeks. Possibly months. Certainly no longer.”
“And so, you ordered a hit.” I am still and my voice is quiet. Not much more than a whisper. I see him lean forward; strain to hear. At my words, I can feel the tears stand in my eyes, but I will myself not to cry.
He looks at me sharply. Is he surprised? Or not surprised at all? I can’t tell, but a part of me hopes he is surprised. That he hasn’t known it was me all along.
“That’s right. It seemed the most humane thing for all concerned.”
“Under the circumstances.”
“That’s right,” he repeats. Slightly defensive now, but who could blame him?
“What were the specifications?” I ask, though I thought I knew the answer. “How did you imagine it would be?”
“Well, obviously, I want it to be fast. Other than that, I’d rather not know.”
“That makes sense.” That’s what I would want, too. To have it be a cessation of now. An unblurred transition. No time to ponder, reflect. No time to try and plead your way back. Just done and dusted.
The waiter arrives with our entrees. Having barely touched our appetizers, we wave the food away, soupçons of lardon and all. We sip some more at the wine and push the food already in front of us around on our plates.
“Where do I fit?” I ask when our quiet has resumed.
We look at each other deeply. Both knowing more than we are saying. Both unwilling to utter the words.
“Well, you were an unexpected element, weren’t you?”
I don’t think that is true, but I play along.
“Was I?”
“Well, yes,” he says, reaching across the table. Takes my hand. I feel the trill of the excitement at his touch that I am beginning to get used to.
“Maybe not entirely,” I say.
“Maybe not,” he agrees. “But certainly aspects.”
He runs two fingers up my arm and smiles, some of the dread off him now.
“I really am very sorry to learn all of this.” I hesitate. Add, “I can’t even tell you how sorry I am.”
“Thanks. And I guess I know.”
“I guess you do.” I hesitate. And then: “So … now?”
“I don’t want to know. Don’t want to see it coming.”
“But now is too soon,” I protest, trying to keep my voice calm. And my heart. What was this?
“I just don’t want to be one of those who goes out flailing.” He says this calmly. Matter-of-fact. “I can’t be.”
“But you’re so far from that. Look at you! It could be years.”
He shakes his head. “Not years, no. Do you think I would do this lightly? Think of the stakes of getting it wrong. I’ve given it all a lot of thought. Thought through all of the angles, keeping in mind my kids, my insurance, the business, everything. This is the best time.”
And suddenly I understand completely. “Things go better if you don’t die of the disease.”
He doesn’t answer me. Not directly. But he looks at me deeply and there is something in his eyes that tells me he appreciates that I have understood this on my own. That I didn’t make him say the words.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
SO THIS IS the thing that is. We know now where we stand. Both of us. We put it away for the time being. We have our dinner, though we don’t eat every bite. It is delicious in addition to being both pretentious and expensive. Afterwards, we walk hand in hand down Robson Street, stopping to watch street musicians and performers. He asks if I want my fortune told by an old woman who is reading tarot at a card table she has set up outside Banana Republic. I decline. I feel comfortable that there is nothing in the future that I need or want to know.
That night we make love with a new ferocity. We are clinging to something that can’t be held,
