“We’re going to fight this,” I say again, with more conviction this time.
Tommy’s face falls. “This is why I didn’t tell you before I made my own mind up; I knew you’d try to convince me. But the treatment wouldn’t just be hard on me, it would be hard on all of us. And chances are it won’t work.”
“But there’s a chance it will.”
“It won’t. And I’m not going to put you or CeCe through what I went through with my mom. The false hope, the pain and suffering.” His voice cracks with emotion. “I won’t do that to you.”
“What am I supposed to say to that?”
“I don’t know,” Tommy says, soft as a whisper. He turns and looks at me, his eyes pleading. “That you’ll stay with me, that you’re not going anywhere?”
His desperation is palpable, and my heart is suddenly in my throat. How could he think for a second that I would leave?
I swing myself around so I’m facing him, one leg on each side, careful not to put too much weight on him. “Of course I’m not going anywhere,” I tell him. “I love you.”
I kiss his neck on the left and then the right. I kiss his cheeks, where silent tears have started to fall. I kiss his mouth hungrily, as if I can make it all better. He kisses me back, but it feels like an apology so I pull away.
“If you love me, you’ll fight to stay with me,” I plead.
“It’s not that simple.”
“Of course it is. If you love me, if you love our daughter, if you love our life, you’ll fight to keep living it. You are not your mother; medicine has gotten so much more advanced since she was sick.”
“Shhh.” He brings a finger to my lips. I hadn’t realized I’d raised my voice. “I’m not ready for CeCe to know. And we don’t have to solve everything tonight.”
“Like hell we don’t.” I slide off him and lean against the porch railing. I look into the Shulmans’ house across the street. Their lights are on and the drapes are open, so I can see Jenna and Corey in their living room, playing a game with their boys, Micah and Brett. Never in my life have I wanted so badly to trade lives with somebody, anybody else.
My legs buckle, but Tommy’s there to catch me. He holds me up, his hands wrapped around my waist. His touch, which usually calms me, has the opposite effect tonight. Neither of us says anything as we sit back down on the swing.
“Let’s go to bed,” he eventually says. “We can talk more tomorrow.”
“You don’t get to control this,” I tell him, my voice sharper than I intended. “And you’re the one who says we should never go to bed angry.”
“Please don’t be angry with me.”
“Please don’t give up on me. On you. On us.”
He sighs. “You don’t understand.”
“Then make me.” I grasp his hands, as if he could explain it through osmosis. “In what world wouldn’t you want as much time with us as you can get?”
“Even if I fight it, the doctor says I have six months, tops.”
“And if you don’t?”
“Two to three.”
I inhale sharply and hold my breath, afraid I might throw up. Neither scenario gives us enough time.
Tommy turns my face toward his so I’m looking him in the eye. “If chemo or radiation could give me a few more years with you and Ceese, I’d do it in a heartbeat. But we’re talking months either way. And I want them to be good ones.”
TWENTY MINUTES LATER, my tears have dried, leaving salty tracks on my cheeks, but I’m nowhere closer to understanding. Tommy is staring straight ahead, not speaking. I don’t want to fight; I just want him to.
“I don’t know how else I can say it to make you understand. It’s quality over quantity,” he says, slipping into his shrink voice. “I’d rather have fewer good days than more miserable ones, when I’d be too sick to make the best of them.”
“But what if—”
“There are no ‘what if’s.”
“You don’t know everything, Tommy Whistler.” I’m aware that my voice is getting louder again, but I can’t help it. “Doctors are wrong all the time; they might be wrong.”
I lean back into the swing, trying to catch my breath again. It’s like someone stole all the oxygen and I can’t breathe. I can’t do this. Tommy puts his arm around me,