I ring the doorbell and wait, feeling a parade of emotions warming up in my belly. When the door opens, a tall man that is thick and has an even thicker gray mustache looks down at me in confusion. He’s wearing a pair of old stone-washed jeans and a black NY Jets sweatshirt. He’s nothing like what I expected.
“I’m sorry, I was looking for Dr. Clarke.”
“Kitty,” he calls over his shoulder.
Kitty appears beside him, her narrow frame looking thinner. I try not to question if it’s because of her illness or just the silk robe that looks a few sizes too big. She has a turquoise bandana tied around her head that I now know is bald, and her small hands are wrapped around a large cup of coffee. Her eyes grow with concern as soon as she sees me, and I know that it isn’t for her appearance—it’s for me and what this trip did.
I shake my head silently, working against the parade that’s started to play. I catch Kitty hand her husband her cup through my tear-bleary eyes and then feel her arms around me.
“I need to know what’s going to happen. I need to know what’s wrong. Maybe we can fix this. There are so many alternative treatments and new trial drugs.” My voice becomes more garbled with each word, and I have to stop for a second because my throat’s become so tight I can’t even breathe. “We can fix this.”
Kitty pulls me through the front door, and we stand just inside in a tangle of arms and tears until my breathing begins to turn normal. She pulls away from me with her cheeks as red and tear stained as I’m sure my own are and squeezes my hand in hers.
She waves me to their kitchen which is littered with dishes from their breakfast.
“I’m sorry, Kitty, I should have called. I just…”
“Harper, you don’t need to apologize. I’ve been worried about you. I’m glad that you’re here. I’m sorry for what I said—”
This time I interrupt her by shaking my head. “No. I know why you said it. I understand what you’re saying now. I have to be able to take risks and live my life because there are no guarantees. I get it now. For so long I feel like I’ve been afraid of getting old because I don’t know what’s going to happen. I’m always so worried that I’m going to fail or not live up to my potential…” I look at her and my eyes well with tears again, begging her for forgiveness, “Now I’m afraid that I won’t have the chance to get old. That I won’t get enough time for failures and regrets.”
Her hand squeezes mine again, and I focus on why I came. “I need to know what’s wrong. I know that it’s none of my business and that we’re supposed to have a professional relationship, but…” My eyes travel across the rounded edge of the table beside me and then back to Kitty. “You’re a lot more than just my counselor.”
Kitty and I sit at the kitchen table and she explains her diagnosis of breast cancer with me. She skates over her treatment plan and ends with the prognosis which was dealt with grim results.
“There are all kinds of theories and trials. We can try some diet changes. My dad was friends with an oncologist that was studying this Swedish scientist that was having breakthroughs with dietary adjustments. Vitamin C in large doses is crazy. They can put it in you intravenously and it swarms the cancer. I’ve seen it happen through studies.” My head shakes as I try to sift through the onslaught of ideas that are storming through my brain.
“Harper, you can’t fix everything. That’s not your responsibility.”
“I’m not trying to fix everything. I’m trying to fix this. Please, let me.”
“S’il vous plaît essayer.”
My body stiffens, feeling as though a ghost has just appeared. It takes me several blinks to see Kitty’s husband clearly and longer than it should to translate his gruff voice racing in French, pleading with Kitty to listen to me and to try.
After a long pause I add, “S’il vous plaît essayer.”
Kitty’s eyes and her husband’s turn to me with surprise as I plead with her to try. “My dad spoke French fluently,” I quietly explain.
After a while, Kitty agrees to allow me to reach out to different doctors and is willing to discuss an alternative route of treatment.
I spend the day at her house, calling up old associates and friends of my father’s and working through his network to direct me to several specialists that agree to help because of knowing my dad. Her husband, Jeff, and I speak in French without either of us ever agreeing to do so, and it feels good to pull it out, and stretch it across my tongue.
“Beware lest you lose the substance by grasping at the shadow.”
–Aesop
Fitz rubs my shoulders and I take a deep breath while scrolling down to Kendall’s name. I’ve already called my mom and the rest of my sisters and apologized to them for leaving without so much as a warning, but I’ve saved Kendall for last, knowing that I’ve likely hurt her the most.
“Are you okay?” she asks after the second ring.
“I’m doing better. How are you?”
“I understand why you left, Ace. Max told me what happened.”
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have left like that. I know I told you all to stop walking on egg shells and that I had grown, and wouldn’t do it again, I just needed to leave.”
“I know, and I’m not mad at you, I promise. I just miss you.”
“I miss you too,” I admit with a shaky breath. “I think right now I just need to focus on finding me. Realizing who I am and becoming comfortable with that.”
Fitz gives me a comforting squeeze and then moves to the kitchen.
“I just wish you could do that here. But I understand and I support you. I love you, and I will support you regardless of your choices, but I want you to know something about Max.”
“Okay…”
“He and Erin broke up. He told me he ended things with her the day that Fitz arrived, but had wanted to do it for a while. Jameson says he thinks he never even wanted to be with her and I know he’s right. I just want to make sure that you know.”
“Is he okay?”
“Yeah, I think he’s pretty relieved actually.” I let out a breath and roll my eyes to argue with her, but she beats me to it. “You shouldn’t hate him for her. I think when you left all of his insecurities about not being loved came crashing back, and I think he was desperate. He needed to be wanted, when really, he wanted to be needed.”
“I don’t hate him. I sometimes wish that I could.” I can feel Fitz’s curiosity from across the room where he’s now measuring my living room. Although he isn’t actually looking at me, he hasn’t moved a muscle since my admittance. “I need some dad advice. He was always so good at this stuff, you know?”
“You still have your letter, you should read it. Maybe it will help?”
“Maybe.” We both know my answer is a dismissal.
“I’m going to look at tickets tomorrow. I’ve got some time off in September, and this time, I’ll make the trek out to see you.”
“I’d like that,” I admit with a smile.
“I love you too, Ace.”
“I love you too.”
Fitz makes his way over to where I’m sitting on the floor and kneels beside me, wrapping an arm around my shoulders, he holds me. It’s like he knows it’s exactly what I need.
I begin my normal regime of seeing Kitty again on Wednesday afternoon. I spend the entire hour talking. She doesn’t have to prompt me for emotions or ask me how things make me feel, or why. I just talk. And talk. And talk. I start off by telling her about seeing my dad and how my mom and I have essentially smoothed things over. I tell her about Sarah’s miscarriage and how that triggered me from both the loss and being in the hospital. I tell her about Nate and what actually occurred that night. I talk through tears that I don’t make even the slightest attempt to hold back, realizing that my tears aren’t making me vulnerable or weak—they’re making me strong because I’m crying them knowing that things can, and will get better.