Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 89978 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 450(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89978 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 450(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
She pauses her cutting for a second before resuming. “How did I save your life?”
“The day we met, you performed CPR.”
“Stop,” she says. “I’m not doing this. You’re not going to make me laugh—not this time. It’s no longer funny.”
“It will always be funny, baby. All those years of watching Grey’s Anatomy paid off.”
“Except you were breathing.”
I release her, but I don’t miss her tiny smile.
“It was the thought that counts. And our first kiss.”
“It was not our first kiss.” She eyes me (her expression at war with her emotions) as I ease onto the kitchen stool opposite her.
I try to hide my grimace, but I can’t. And that sucks because I want—I need—her to smile.
“When are you going to tell your parents?”
I shake my head. “I don’t know. After the second opinion, I suppose. And after we talk to Astrid.”
She slides the chunks of pineapple into a glass bowl. I pluck one out and pop it into my mouth.
“What about work? Can you quit an investment firm when you’re one of the co-owners?”
“I’ll take a sabbatical.”
“A sabbatical until when?”
“Until I’m ready to return to work, or until I’m …”
Her crestfallen expression digs into my chest like the tip of a sharp knife.
“Ready to retire.” I give her a toothy grin.
“Don’t joke.”
“Laughter is the best medicine. In fact, I think we should wake Astrid and spend all day watching funny movies.”
“I don’t feel like laughing.” She snaps the lid onto the glass bowl.
“Fine. Then, let’s watch movies with people who die of cancer and see how Astrid reacts so we can gauge the best approach to tell her. The Fault in Our Stars. Sweet November. The Bucket List. What else?” I scratch my chin.
“STOP!” She hurls the bowl of pineapple across the kitchen. It hits the edge of the counter and shatters. “Stop…” her words fight through labored breaths “…joking about your goddamn awful prognosis.”
“Mom?” For the second time in less than ten hours, Astrid walks in on Amelia losing control of her emotions.
Amelia presses her palms to the side of her head and blows out a shaky breath. “Astrid. You might need to spend the weekend with Grandma and Grandpa Milloy.”
Astrid shakes her head. “What’s wrong?”
“Come here.” I hold out my arms and lift her onto the counter. “Sweetie, I’m sick.”
“I’m sorry.” She frowns.
“Yeah, me too.”
She touches her neck. “My throat’s sore.”
“Oh, well, I bet mom can make you some tea with honey. I’m sick in a different way. Do you remember Kelsey’s mom being sick last year?”
Astrid nods. “Yes. She had cancer, but she’s better. Do you have cancer?” She narrows her eyes.
“I do. Mine is a different kind of cancer.”
“Are you going to lose your hair too?”
“No.”
“We don’t know yet, baby,” Amelia adds.
I glance over Astrid’s shoulder at my wife. Her arms are crossed, and she quickly averts her gaze.
“There’s a lot we don’t know yet.” I rest my hands on Astrid’s legs.
“Are you going to die?”
“I hope not, but cancer is a serious illness. And sometimes people die from cancer. All I know is that I’m going to do everything in my power not to die. And that means I’m going to take time off from work to take better care of myself and spend more time with you and Mom. But while my body works to feel better, I might have some rough days where I’m not doing as well. And that’s okay. You and Mom have each other. I want you to go out to dinner with Mom, go Christmas shopping, and do all the fun stuff so you can come home and tell me all about it. Can you do that?”
She rests her warm hands on mine. “What if you don’t get better?”
Amelia sniffles, but I don’t look at her. It’s taking everything I have to find the best way to answer Astrid. “My lovely girl, you are so smart. So I don’t want to tell you anything but the truth because I know you are brave enough for me to tell you this. Nobody knows how long they have to live. Every day is a gift. And when someone we love dies, it’s sad. It doesn’t matter if they are nine like you, thirty-four like me, or one hundred. But that sadness slowly disappears, and you find a new kind of happiness in your memories of them.”
“Like Gumbo?”
I chuckle at her reference to her dead goldfish. “Yes. Remember how sad you were when Gumbo died? But now you see fish and smile because they make you think of Gumbo. Well, if I die, whenever you see a handsome man with a little gray in his hair who eats an entire jar of black olives in one sitting, you’ll smile and think of me. And a little part of you will still miss me, but you’ll also be happy to know that I’m taking care of Gumbo.”