It just ain't living.
I just hope you know.
That if you say goodbye today.
I'd ask you to be true.
Cause the hardest part of this is leaving you.
My Chemical Romance, "Cancer"
One evening in early November, Collins' fever rose to about one hundred and three. He couldn't be roused from his sleep. Panicked, Luc called Anti, who rushed over to examine him.
He was still breathing, Anti declared, but the fluid around his lungs was thick and the medication was only doing so much. Anti administered him a dosage of morphine to keep him comfortable and offered to stay a few hours to monitor him.
"How much longer?" Luc asked her.
"If he pulls through, he could live another few months," Anti replied. "If not, well…it'll only be a matter of time."
"Should I call his family?"
"That might be a good idea," she said with a small nod. She spoke in hushed tones and settled into the chair nearest to Collins' bed. She dipped into her Coach bag and pulled out a paperback novel. "What kind of family does he have?"
"Oh, not much, I'm afraid," Luc replied, going to the desk that Collins could no longer work at. The TV was perched on it, turned off now. He rummaged through the drawers, looking for the book of addresses and numbers. "He's got one older sister, married with two kids, in New Jersey. His parents are gone. His father was killed in a car accident when he was eight; and his mother died of heart disease…oh, about ten years ago. But his grandmother's still kicking—pushing ninety."
"Wow. Good for her."
"Oh, Eugenia's a firecracker. She practically helped raise Tom and his sister after their father died. I've met her several times. Tom adores her. She lives upstate. Ah, here it is." Luc held up the little red leather-bound book. He looked down at it in his hands. "I wish I wasn't the one that had to do this." He paused and glanced up at Anti. "I'm sorry. That must have sounded awful."
"Not at all," Anti said knowingly. "I know exactly what you mean."
Collins's older sister Sofiya reminded Mark of some sort of Saharan wildlife—perhaps a giraffe or a gazelle. She was willowy, and had an elegantly long neck, graceful long legs with a supple stride. She wore her hair in tight, well-maintained dreadlocks that went halfway down her back. Her almond-shaped eyes were amber and her hands, Mark noticed when he shook them, were strong and soft at the same time, and his skin tingled when they touched. It came as no surprise to him when he found out later that she was a massage therapist. She knew how to touch people. When she arrived at the apartment for the first time, she wore a cherry-red trench coat and a pink knitted scarf around her neck.
"It's wonderful to finally meet you, Mark," she said once introductions had been made. Mark had answered the door upon her arrival. Roger, for once, was not there, and neither were Joanne and Maureen. "Tom spoke very highly of you and your work."
Mark blushed inwardly. "It's very nice to meet you, too," he said. "It seems so odd to meet after all this time; I've known Collins for over ten years."
Sofiya nodded as she unwound the scarf from around her neck and shook her head, her dreadlocks whipping her shoulders. "I never thought I would lose Tom. We used to be so close," she said with a sigh.
Luc emerged from the bedroom when he heard voices. "Oh, Sofiya. You're here."
Sofiya went over and embraced him. "Luc, my God…have you slept?" she cupped his face in her hands, a motherly gesture. Luc averted his gaze and Sofiya kissed his forehead. "I'm going to go put a pot of coffee on."
"Take off your coat first," Luc said, grasping her wrists in a friendly manner. "I can't tell you what it means to me that you're here, Sofiya."
"Don't worry about a thing," she assured him. "I'll take care of everything." She pulled away from their embrace and slipped off her trench coat, draping it over a nearby armchair. She balled up the scarf and stuffed it into one of the pockets. She wore a pair of jeans and a fashionably oversized olive green sweater. On her feet were black boots. She went into the kitchen, promptly taking over. Luc sank into an armchair.
"You okay?" Mark asked him, a hand on his shoulder.
"Do you want the truth, or a really pretty lie?"
Mark gave a wry chuckle. "Sorry. It's just that you look exhausted. You should go take a nap."
"Yes," Sofiya said, returning to the living room. She sat on the couch, a gentle hand on Luc's knee. "Take a nap, Luc. I told you, I'll take care of everything."
"You don't have to, Sofiya."
"I'm just sorry you didn't call me sooner. I could have taken this workload off your shoulders."
"It doesn't bother me."
"It bothers me," she insisted. "Go on. Take a nap. I'll make dinner later. Arthur and the kids aren't expecting me anytime soon."
Luc looked from Sofiya to Mark, who shrugged. Luc sighed and pulled himself up out of the armchair. "All right. If you insist."
Sofiya and Mark watched him leave. When they heard the bedroom door close, Sofiya sighed audibly. "Well. So it begins."
Over the next few weeks, they all took shifts with Anti, sitting with Collins. Sofiya had moved in temporarily, taking over the spare bedroom. She kept the coffee flowing, and made sure everyone was well-fed. Maureen and Joanne were there as often as they could be, without Hunter or Nina. They stayed in the care of their nanny, recently hired by Joanne. Roger was a wreck, not wanting to be there. He sat on the fire escape, awaiting his shift, observing the world. When he got cold, he came inside and sat on the floor, playing endless games of Solitaire or Free Cell. Mark didn't sleep, even though he knew he should. He busied himself with reading, but he would read the same page five times before realizing it. Anti crocheted. As sad as it was true, this was business as usual for her, watching distraught friends and family members keep a vigil over their ailing loved one, the hushed words, the sleepless nights.
Nearly a week before Thanksgiving, Anti gave a grim report. Collins's vitals were low. His pulse was weak and his breathing was shallow. She was keeping him on a morphine drip to keep him comfortable. Fearing that it wouldn't be much longer, everyone cancelled their holiday plans, and Thanksgiving was spent in Chelsea. Joanne's parents took Nina and Hunter for a long weekend in Aspen. Sofiya and Luc, in an attempt to make this holiday a joyous one, cooked dinner, and they all ate too much out of courtesy. Roger spent the majority of the night on the rooftop, huddled in his leather jacket, chain-smoking. Sofiya's husband Arthur, and their children, Penelope and Spencer, arrived to say hello. They had planned to go to Arthur's parents' house to celebrate, but Sofiya bowed out. Arthur and the children didn't stay too long—they were clearly uncomfortable.
And then came the night when, while Luc and Roger were by Collins's bedside, Mark had finally permitted himself to catch a few hours' sleep. He rested his elbow on the arm of the couch, his head propped up on his hand. Maureen slept with her head on his shoulder. Under her arm was Joanne, who had her arm wrapped around Maureen's waist, her head on her chest. Sofiya was curled up on the yellow armchair, covered in a purple knitted afghan.
When Roger emerged from Collins's room, he observed how still they all were, how silent, like statues. He didn't want to wake them, but he didn't want to be alone. He nudged Mark, gently shaking his arm. Mark grunted and his eyes fluttered open.
"What's up?" Mark whispered as Roger knelt beside the couch. "Everything okay?" He glanced to his left and saw Maureen and Joanne sleeping beside him.
"For now," Roger replied. "I just need some company."
"Does this require me to get up?"
"Not at the moment. You want me to get you anything? Coffee?"
"At this rate, I'll be pissing coffee for a year, I've been drinking so much."
Roger chuckled softly at Mark's attempt at being crude. "You sure you don't want to get up? Stretch your legs?"
"How?" Mark nodded towards the girls, still asleep, probably blissful at the fact that they weren't being awoken by a restless toddler. They had arranged for their nanny to stay overnight at their apartment.
"Hmm," Roger mused. He grabbed a few pillows from the opposite end of the couch, and handed them to Mark. "Put these under Maureen, so that she'll stay propped up. Then get out from under her so she doesn't just fall."
Mark carefully eased himself out from under the weight of the girls, adjusting the pillows. They barely stirred as Mark moved. He stood, his knees cracking. Christ, I'm old. "So, how's it going?" he asked Roger, who shrugged.
Sofiya stirred in the armchair, yawning. She stretched and threw the blanket aside.
"Did we wake you?" Mark asked.
"No, no," Sofiya insisted. "I was beginning to get a cramp. Anyone want coffee?"
"No," Mark and Roger replied simultaneously.
Sofiya stood, cracked her back, and headed into the kitchen. The blue skirt she wore moved like water whipping about her limbs. She wore a white angora sweater with it. "I think I'll make myself some tea."
Roger took a seat in the armchair Sofiya had previously occupied, and Mark perched on the arm of the sofa. He glanced at the clock—nearly three in the morning.
"Some slumber party," Roger sighed.
"It's almost like the old days. You and me and Collins."
"And Maureen, for a few months anyway, until she dumped you."
"And Benny before that."
"Benny. Pssht. That fuck."
"He and Allison divorced, you know. Years ago. He's remarried now."
"No shit? How'd you find out?"
"Joanne told me. She ran into him way back."
Sofiya returned, a mug of tea in her hands. She sat on the coffee table, facing Roger in the armchair.
"Did you want your seat back?" he asked her.
"No. I want to see your hand," she said, placing the mug beside her.
"Me?" Roger asked. "Uh, which hand?"
"The dominant hand, usually the one you write with."
Roger glanced at Mark and held out his right hand to Sofiya. She cupped it in both of hers. She ran her on fingers over his palm and he shivered a little. She had a healer's touch. "Air," she declared at first glance. "Your element is air. You have very long fingers, with low set thumbs."
"Is that good?" Roger asked.
"It's neither good nor bad. I'm just establishing your element before I go further. Your mound of Apollo, which is here," she pressed the base of his ring finger, "is very strong. Confidence, creativity, impulsiveness and extroversion."
"That's Roger," Mark commented.
"Shut up," Roger muttered. Sofiya studied his hand, running her fingers along the lines of his palm.
"Ooh. Your heart line is very broken. It must have been a rough road," she observed. "But here…here, it gets very strong. That's a good sign. It means that something is coming for you. Or, rather, someone." Roger's heart fluttered. Sofiya continued, "Your headline tells me you're strongly right-brained, but I knew that. You also have, right here, what are known as Mercury lines; they denote persistent health issues. I knew about that, too. My brother told me, years ago. Your Union lines here: strong, close relationships. You also have Travel lines. A lot of them. You've traveled many roads." She ran the pad of her thumb along another crease on his palm. "Your life line is deep. It's the deepest of all your lines."
"Does that mean I'm going to have a long life?"
Sofiya shook her head. "That's a fallacy. It does, however, tell me that you are strong. You don't let your physical health slow you down. You don't fear death—you fear loneliness." She curled his fingers inwards, making him form a fist. "You have nothing to worry about."
The bedroom door creaked open and Anti stepped out, followed by Luc. Sofiya stood and approached him, putting her hands on her shoulders. Luc did the same to her, and then heaved a great, shuddery sigh,
"It's over."