Nor had she cried since her last meeting with Dr. Brodigan. Instead, when she wasn’t staring out the window or taking her walks, she’d focused on the mundane. She’d slept and slept—averaging fourteen hours a night—and had ordered Christmas gifts online. She’d recorded but hadn’t yet posted another Cancer Video concerning her last appointment with Dr. Brodigan. She’d had smoothies delivered and tried to finish them as she sat in the living room. Recently she’d even tried to have lunch at Union Square Cafe. It had always been one of her favorite places to grab a delicious meal at the bar, but the visit ended up being a waste, since everything that crossed her lips still tasted wrong. Cancer, taking yet another joy from her life.
Now it was a week until Christmas, and with the afternoon sun beginning to wane, she felt the need to get out of the apartment. She dressed in multiple layers, assuming she would stroll aimlessly for a bit, but once she stepped outside, the mood to simply wander passed as quickly as it had come. Instead, she started toward the gallery. Though she wouldn’t do much work, it would be comforting to know that all was in order.
The gallery was several blocks away and she moved slowly, trying to avoid anyone who might bump into her. The wind was icy and by the time she pushed through the doors of the gallery a half hour before closing, she was shivering. It was unusually crowded; she’d expected that the holidays would diminish the number of visitors, but clearly she’d been wrong about that. Luckily, Mark seemed to have things under control.
As always when she entered, heads turned in her direction and she noted dawning looks of recognition on some faces. Sorry. Not today, folks, she suddenly thought, offering a quick wave before hurrying to her office. She shut the door behind her. Inside, there was a desk and an office chair, and one of the walls featured built-in bookcases piled high with photography books and keepsakes from her far-flung travels. Across from the desk was a small gray love seat, just big enough to curl up on if she needed to lie down. In the corner stood an ornately carved rocker with flowered cushions that Luanne had brought from her country house, lending a touch of warmth to the modern office.
After piling her gloves, hat, and jacket on the desk, Maggie readjusted her kerchief and collapsed into her office chair. Turning on the computer, she automatically checked the weekly sales figures, noting the spike in volume, but realized she wasn’t in the mood to study the numbers in detail. Instead, she opened another folder and began clicking through her favorite photos, finally pausing at a series of images she’d taken in Ulan Bator, Mongolia, last January. At the time she’d had no idea it would be the last international trip she would ever take. The temperature had been well below zero the entire time she was there, with biting winds that could freeze exposed skin in less than a minute; it had been an effort to keep her camera working because the components grew finicky in temperatures that low. She could remember repeatedly tucking the camera inside her jacket to warm it against her body, but the photographs were so important to her, she’d braved the elements for almost two hours.
She’d wanted to find ways to document the poisonous levels of air pollution and its visible effects on the population. In a city of a million and a half people, nearly every home and business burned coal throughout the winter, darkening the sky even in brightest daylight. It was a health crisis as well as an environmental one, and she’d wanted her images to spur people to action. She’d logged countless photographs of children covered in grime as a result of stepping outside to play. She’d caught an amazing black-and-white image of filthy cloth that had been used as drapery for an open window, dramatizing what was happening inside otherwise healthy lungs. She’d also sought out a stark panorama of the city and finally nailed the image she wanted: a brilliant blue sky that suddenly, immediately gave way to a pale, almost sickly yellow haze, as though God himself had drawn a perfectly straight line, dividing the sky in two. The effect was utterly arresting, especially after the hours she’d spent refining it in post.
As she stared at the image in the solace of her office, she knew she would never be able to do something like that again. She would likely never travel for work again; she might never even leave Manhattan, unless she gave in to her parents and returned to Seattle. Nor had anything in Mongolia changed. In addition to the photo essay that she’d contributed to the New Yorker, a number of media outlets, including Scientific American and the Atlantic, had also tried to raise awareness regarding the dangerous levels of pollution in Ulan Bator, but the air, if anything, had grown even worse in the last eleven months. It was, she thought, yet another failure in her life, just like her battle with cancer.
The thoughts shouldn’t have been connected, but in that instant, they were, and all at once she felt tears begin to form. She was dying, she was actually dying, and it dawned on her suddenly that she was about to experience her very last Christmas.
What should she be doing with these last precious weeks? And what did quality of life even mean when it came to the actuality of day-to-day living? She was already sleeping more than ever, but did quality mean getting more sleep to feel better, or less sleep so the days seemed longer? And what about her routines? Should she bother making an appointment to have her teeth cleaned? Should she pay off the minimum balance on her credit cards or go on a spending spree? Because what did it matter? What did anything really matter?
A hundred random thoughts and questions overran her; lost in all of it, she felt herself choke before letting go completely. She didn’t know how long the outburst lasted; time slipped away. When she was finally spent, she stood and swiped at her eyes. Glancing through the one-way window above her desk, she noticed that the gallery floor was empty, and that the front door had been locked. Strangely, she didn’t see Mark, even though the lights were still on. She wondered where he was until she heard a knock at the door. Even his knock was gentle.
She considered making an excuse until the evidence of her breakdown had subsided, but why bother? She’d long since stopped caring about her appearance; she knew she looked awful even at the best of times.
“Come on in,” she said. Pulling a Kleenex from the box on her desk, she blew her nose as Mark stepped through the door.
“Hey,” he said, his voice quiet.
“Hi.”
“Bad time?”
“It’s all right.”
“I thought you might like this,” he said, holding out a to-go cup. “It’s a banana-and-strawberry smoothie with vanilla ice cream. Maybe it’ll help.”
She recognized the label on the cup—the eatery was two doors down from the gallery—and wondered how he’d known how she was feeling. Perhaps he’d divined something when she’d made a beeline for her office, or maybe he’d simply remembered what Trinity had told him.
“Thank you,” she said, taking it.
“Are you okay?”
“I’ve been better.” She took a sip, thankful it was sweet enough to override her messed-up taste buds. “How was it today?”
“Busy, but not as bad as last Friday. We sold eight prints, including a number three of Rush.”
Each of her photographs was limited to twenty-five numbered prints; the lower the number, the higher the price. The photo Mark mentioned had been taken at rush hour in the Tokyo subway, the platform jammed with thousands of men dressed in what seemed to be identical black suits.