I’ve assumed I’d die first because, frankly, I want to die first. Is that selfish? Jake’s spoiled my definition of life; it wouldn’t be the same without him. I know that because when he stays at his mom’s house on the nights her caretaker is off, I wake up in bed with an overwhelming loneliness. I’ve never been so sappy, almost pathetic, about anyone before. I chose all of my previous boyfriends because I knew I would be fine without them. Loving them didn’t carry any risk. I could lose them and go on. I did lose them and go on. When I chose Jake, I felt vulnerable to the possibility that he—the loss of him—could destroy me.
“You could get tested, if you want to know for sure,” Deb says.
Jake shakes his head, shakes off the notion of possibly coming to know such a fate. I know Jake. I know he won’t want to get tested. He’s an optimist, to an almost delusional degree. A positive test result could trigger an identity crisis.
“And it’s possible my children—my future children—could carry the gene?” Jake says.
“It’s possible,” Marco says.
“If you have it, your child would have a fifty percent chance,” Deb clarifies.
Shut up, shut up, shut up.
My ears start ringing, the way they did after loud concerts in college. I put both hands on my stomach, apologize silently to our tiny seed of a baby who might be doomed.
We sit there, in mournful silence, until Deb stands from the table and says, “I’ve got an idea! Let’s go out and look at the stars. It’s a clear night. It’ll be gorgeous, get our minds off all this serious stuff.”
We stay seated, not ready for this transition. Then Jake’s father reverses his wheelchair, rolling over a squeaky dog toy. Bruno jumps up.
“Great idea, babe,” he says.
That bothers me, the “babe.” It reminds me of the holiday card they sent us, featuring a photo of them French kissing. Jake had grimaced when he saw it. “I think I see tongue,” he’d said.
They make their way to the door. We stand, somewhat reluctantly, and follow. I expect Jake to whisper something to me, but he is quiet. He may not talk to me about any of this for days, a week even. He’s more patient than me. He’ll sort it out in his head first then come to me. I come to him when nothing is sorted, rely on him to help organize my frantic thoughts.
The night air is chilly. I hide my arms inside my sweater and lean against Jake. Marco and Deb stop in the middle of the long driveway. Deb lies flat on the asphalt and crosses one ankle over the other, gazing up.
“Come on, guys!” she says, waving us over.
“Check this out,” Jake’s father says. He pushes a button and starts reclining his wheelchair until he’s parallel to the ground, like he’s at the dentist for a teeth cleaning. “It’s like a portable lounge chair.” We nod, confirming this single pro in a sea of cons.
The stars are beautiful—brighter and more numerous than they ever are in the city. Jake’s hands are in his pockets, his neck tilted up. When the moonlight catches his eyes, I think they seem watery. Maybe it’s just the cold air.
“You don’t look just like him, you know,” I whisper.
Jake takes his hands out of his pockets and wraps his arms around me. I feel his hot breath on my ear as he exhales.
Deb asks us if we mind sleeping in the loft above the living room.
“I’m saving the guest room for a friend of ours who’s coming tomorrow,” she says. “I don’t want to wash the sheets again in the morning.”
I try to meet Jake’s eyes, to see if he thinks this is as rude as I think it is, but he won’t look at me.
“Sure, that’s fine,” he tells her.
The loft has a full bed, small compared to the king we have at home. The smoke from the stove fire rises to us. It’s hot. Our eyes and throats burn. Neither of us sleeps well.
In the morning, we’re awakened by voices from the master bedroom, arguing. Their door opens, and I hear Deb go into the kitchen, Marco rolling behind her.
“Look, I wish I could move myself. I wish you didn’t have to lift me. I’m sorry your back hurts. Just leave me in bed all day then,” he says in a loud whisper.
Deb shushes him and starts pulling out pans, more aggressively than necessary judging by all the clanking.
Jake sits up, yawns exaggeratedly, so as to let them know we’re awake. He hands me my zip-up sweatshirt, I pull on my jeans from yesterday, and we head downstairs. Deb is cracking eggs into a large bowl. We sit at barstools, and it dawns on me that we have a whole day to fill.
“I was thinking you could help me clean out the garage,” Jake’s father says to him, “and help me fix the lawn mower.”
“That would be great, Jake,” Deb says. “I can do the mowing, but I can’t fix the damn lawn mower.” She laughs, seemingly forgetting the spat from moments ago. She must have to do this a lot—forget, move on, allow him the last word because he’s dying and she’s not.
“Sure, whatever you need,” Jake says.
“That means you get to pull weeds with me,” Deb says to me, and I try to fake enthusiasm as well as Jake does.
We have a breakfast of omelets, and then Jake follows his father out to the garage. I watch the two of them from the big kitchen window—Jake with his hands stuffed in his pockets, his father zooming along ahead. I miss Jake immediately. Or maybe I’m just dreading the time spent with Deb.
She hands me a trowel. “The weeds are deep,” she says.
I follow her out back to the lawn, where Jake’s father wants his ashes scattered. It’s a nice place for such a thing. Will Jake and I have to discuss each other’s wishes at some point? I dread that conversation, or the reason for it.
Deb gets down on her knees, and I do the same. She starts at one end of the lawn; I start at the other. She’s right—the weeds are deep. I have to dig into the earth a good three inches before I can tear out the roots. There’s such satisfaction when I do though. This project requires no patience; gratification is instant. I can see, right before my eyes, the difference I’m making. I start my own little pile.
A half hour in, we haven’t said much to each other, with the exception of a few comments about the sun and how we’re getting tans. My fingertips are numb from the prickly weeds, and I’m too shy to ask Deb for a pair of gardening gloves. She has a pair for herself. In other circumstances, I might mention my numb fingertips and the grass stains on the kneecaps of my good jeans. But Deb has a dying man on her watch; she doesn’t need my bitching.
“So, are you two talking about getting hitched or what?” she says.
I look in her direction, squinting in the sun. I’m taken aback by the question, the personal nature of it, her lack of hesitation.
“No, why?”
“I just thought it would be nice,” she says. “I’m sure Marco would love to see Jake settled down before he passes away.”
She wants us to run down the aisle for the sake of Jake’s father, though Jake’s father has never done much of anything for the sake of his son. I resent her nerve, but then I consider that maybe she doesn’t know the whole truth about Marco. Maybe Marco has lied—to her, to himself—about his role as a father. This possibility makes me pity her a little. She thinks she knows him so intimately, so deeply. And here I am, this girl she’s just met, and I know something about the love of her life that she never will.