You pretend to create and observe, when you really detach from feeling alive.
Idly, the filmmaker wonders where those words came from, what brought them to mind. Jesus. How long ago was that? Five years, six? It seems like a lifetime. And it has been, really – long enough for him to witness the death of Roger, Collins, and finally Mimi.
And then there was the birth of Maureen and Joanne's baby girl, Myeisha. Mo had wrinkled her nose a bit at Joanne's suggestion, at first ("I love that it's your heritage, Pookie, but you do know she'll have my genetic makeup, right?"). But when Joanne explained that the name meant "one who is loved greatly," Maureen had grown teary-eyed and capitulated. They had planned for years to have this baby, and as their friends had sickened one by one, the single regret voiced was a wish to have seen her, held her. In a way, Myeisha belonged to all of them; even before she was conceived, she was laden with their love and their hopes, that her life would be perfect in all of the ways that theirs had not been.
Death and birth. It really has been a lifetime. And now we come full circle again.
Mark's gaze slides restively across the room. It's all standard hospital issue – the plastic, the metal, the white sterility – leaving not much room for the personality of the occupant. He wishes again, halfheartedly, that he could be at home in the loft. But then, hospice care requires a caregiver, and he couldn't have asked that of Joanne or Maureen. They both have their own lives to lead – and hell, they're helping to cover his hospital charges as it is. For one of them to put everything on hold, to be at his beck and call just so that he could die at home – no. Too much. This is his own gift of love to them.
It had been hard, though, in the beginning, not to ask. Especially in the face of their disbelief, their shock. He can remember that brunch in the Life Café, the three of them such a pitiful remnant of their once vivacious group.
"You have what!" Typical Mo, first to recover her voice. Joanne sat stock-still, one hand to her mouth, the other white-knuckled on her coffee mug. Her eyes, enormous and already suspiciously glistening.
"Hepatocellular carcinoma," Mark repeated carefully. "Liver cancer. Stage three-B, specifically. It seems—" He dropped his eyes to his own mug, swirling it against the tabletop, and swallowed hard. "It seems that there's a chemical you use in film preservation – perc, perchlorethylene – that turns out to be not as safe as everyone thought it was. I've used the shit for years. Cleans reels a hell of a lot better than rubbing alcohol."
A minute passed as they digested it. Then Joanne's hand covered his, stilling the restless motion of his cup. Her voice was soft, rough: "What happens now?"
He looked up at her. "Chemo. And radiation. But..." Suddenly the tears were there, leaking from his eyes, closing his throat and reducing him to an embarrassing, frightened squeak – "they said it's gone untreated for so long – they can't operate, it's too advanced, and without surgery the chances are..."
"Mark. Oh, Mark, baby. Marky." Maureen flung her arms around him, and for once it didn't bring on the old jolt of longing. Joanne gripped his hand, silent but no less expressive. "It's not fair," Maureen continued in a strangled voice, "it's not fair, it's just not—"
With an effort, he cleared his throat, scrubbing his face jerkily and even managing a lopsided grin. "You're right," he told her. "And here I thought I was staying safe by staying clean..."
As the doctors expected, the disease hadn't responded well to treatment – the cancer was well entrenched, and metastases were discovered not long after. Still, he'd been able to beat their grim prognosis, hanging on for a good year and a half longer before increasing weakness and decreasing appetite told him that he was nearing the end.
And in that year and a half, he had set out to disprove Roger's words in every way possible. He never stopped filming, of course – that would have been a worse death than the physical one. But he no longer contented himself to sit to the side and watch through his camera lens. His final box of film reels contained as much Mark Cohen as anyone else. Sometimes he was directly in the frame, laughing, shouting directions at Maureen or Joanne, or playing with baby Myeisha.
More often, he was present in the shots that he collected, the love with which he cut them together. One of his favorite sequences was a closeup of an improbable daisy growing through a concrete retaining wall, fading to a sky shot that was all pearly silver clouds and pale golden sun flare. This was entirely different from his documentaries, where he filmed all that he saw and edited a single theme out of it. This was his true creative work, his legacy to leave behind: a tribute and loving farewell to everything that he treasured in his world. He added shots of Roger, Mimi, Collins, and Angel, unearthed from old footage of the good times in the loft. He created, and observed, and – because he knew he was no longer one of the ones to survive – he threw himself into recording, and living.
And Roger will just have to be satisfied with that. Mark stares at his hands, holding them to the fluorescent light. God. He's always been a skinny pale kid, but this is just ridiculous – he practically disappears against the blankets. He wishes he still had his camera, though there's not much of anything to film in here.
There's a soft knock at the door, and Joanne's face appears, smiling at him. "Hey," she calls, and he grins back and waves her in. Maureen follows, carrying Myeisha, who is all big eyes and thumb jammed into her mouth. "We're on our way to work and daycare," says Joanne, "but we thought we'd stop by and say hi."
Not '—and see how you're doing.' Joanne is sensitive but straightforward, and Mark appreciates her honesty. It's obvious how he's doing. Maureen sets Myeisha on the edge of the bed, and Mark holds out his arms with a smile. "What's this? No hug for Uncle Mark?"
The poor thing. This must be terrifying to her. He unhooks the oxygen cannula from his nose and wishes that he could remove the IV line from his arm for a while. With gentle encouragement from Joanne and Maureen, Myeisha snuggles at last into her uncle's arms, sighing around the thumb still in her mouth. Mark's throat tightens as he cradles the little girl. She is one of the loves of his life, along with her mothers, and he is so grateful to have known her, especially when the others never had the chance.
Too soon, Maureen lays her hand on Myeisha's back, rubbing gently. "Time to go, baby," she sing-songs, "or we'll be late to daycare." She picks up her daughter, then leans to kiss Mark's forehead. "Goodbye, Pookie," she whispers. "I love you." Always the same goodbye, in case it is the last one.
Feeling the tears welling again, Mark only nods in response. Maureen smiles, sniffles, and walks out of the room with Myeisha, giving Joanne a kiss as she passes.
Joanne stays, since her workday starts later. For a few minutes, she busies herself with arranging Mark's pillows, straightening his blankets, refilling the cup of ice chips on his table. Then she returns to the bedside and clasps his hand. "Is there anything you need...Pookie?"
He breathes a laugh. "Don't give that to me. I hate it probably as much as you do."
She grins unrepentantly. Who would have thought, years ago, that through Maureen they would grow into dearest friends? It made no sense...but then, it didn't have to. It was simply true.
For some reason, Roger's words still hang over Mark's head. "Actually, Joanne – in my closet at the loft, in the back corner, there's a box."
"There's a hundred boxes, Mark – how far back does your archive go?"
"No." He sweeps away the others, the work of a lifetime, with a wave of his hand. "This is a special box. I marked it." He pauses, repeats, "I Marked it." Shaking his head, he continues, "Anyway. This one is special. You can watch the other films or not, if you want, but this one is how I want you and Maureen to remember me, and Myeisha, too, when she's old enough."
Joanne presses her lips together, then squeezes his hand tightly. He returns the pressure, grasping her fingers with a strange urgency. "Joanne. Remember me for my passion."
...you really detach from feeling alive...
"The paradise that I imagined."
...flowers and a sky full of fire...and a child held against my heart...
Joanne is crying. "I will, Mark. I will."
He smiles through his tears. "Joanne. I love you."
She kneels next to him and kisses his hand. "I love you, Mark."
Later, when she has gone, he lies back against his pillows, smiling gently beyond midair. It is never enough. But he is content.
Hallelujah. Hallelujah.
Author's note: According to my (brief) research, perchlorethylene is a solvent that can be used to clean fungus and mold off of old cinefilm. Research has tentatively identified it as a carcinogen, capable of causing leukemia and cancers of the liver and urinary tract. Its use dropped sharply, ironically (in regards to this story), between 1989 and 1991, due to solvent recycling and reduced demand for CFCs.
Several lyrics are lifted from "Larissa's Lagoon," by Idina Menzel, per the challenge rules.